Chapter Twenty-One

  Ambrose stood amidst the wreckage of his fight with the SpecOps team, his breath steady despite the chaos around him. The wide hallway, once pristine, was now littered with broken bodies, weapons, and the faint glow of dying runes. Smoke and the metallic scent of blood filled the air.

  He wasn't impressed.

  The SpecOps operatives were dressed in sleek, all-black tactical gear, their uniforms adorned with softly pulsing runes that hinted at their System integration. But while they moved with precision and discipline, they lacked the raw power necessary to truly challenge him.

  They had tried, though. He'd give them that.

  Ambrose's initial arrival in the hallway had been met with a coordinated barrage of energy blasts aimed squarely at his center mass. If he hadn't been prepared, the assault might have brought him down. The sheer force of the attack would have been enough to kill anyone of a lower grade instantly.

  But Ambrose was ready.

  Lightning surged from Akaroth in a crackling wave, ripping through the air like an electromagnetic pulse. The energy bolts detonated mid-flight, bursting into sickly hues of yellow, blue, and purple. The explosions illuminated the hallway in strobing flashes, casting grotesque shadows against the walls. The sound was deafening, a cacophony of thunder that shook dust from the ceiling tiles.

  He wasted no time, reaching for his word of power. He didn't target the operatives directly—he had no need to. Instead, he focused on the runes etched into their weapons, their lifeblood of power. With his intent locked in place, he spoke the word.

  "Break."

  The word carried his will through the air, and the effect was immediate. A single pop resounded, and the runes shattered, cascading sparks as the weapons became little more than inert hunks of metal. The sound was like glass breaking, multiplied across every weapon in the hallway. The operatives stared in shock at their suddenly dead weapons, the panic in their eyes visible even through their tactical visors.

  The SpecOps team didn't hesitate. Their training shone through as they discarded their useless firearms in favor of melee weapons: swords, maces, and staffs, each glowing with their own rune-enhanced power. Metal scraped against holsters and sheaths as secondary weapons were drawn, the team reforming into a defensive formation with practiced efficiency.

  Ambrose didn't bother using his word again. Overusing it would strain him unnecessarily. Instead, he called forth Akaroth, the dragon axe roaring into existence.

  Numbers had always mattered in combat. Pre-System, an individual, no matter how skilled, could be overwhelmed by sheer volume. But the System had rewritten those rules. Now, with the right stats, skills, or icon, a single individual could indeed mow through an army.

  Ambrose had all three, though his icon and spirit were currently locked away. He still had his stats, his combat prowess, and the infernal mana coursing through his veins. That was more than enough.

  He moved like a storm unleashed, his steps crackling with power as he closed the gap. Akaroth's edge cleaved through tactical armor with ease, cutting through flesh and metal alike. Blood sprayed in violent arcs, painting the walls and carpet in dark crimson. The first operative died before he could even swing his weapon, his torso split diagonally from shoulder to hip. His organs spilled onto the floor in a steaming pile.

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  Screams echoed through the hallway, blending with the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor. The operatives fought back valiantly, but they were outmatched. A few managed to land blows, their weapons striking his armor with enough force to send tremors through his body. But his mana and stats absorbed the damage, leaving him unharmed.

  One operative, a woman with a rune-etched katana, managed to slice across his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. Ambrose responded by opening a portal behind her and thrusting Akaroth through it. The axe emerged from her chest, her heart impaled on its edge. The light faded from her eyes as he withdrew the weapon, her body crumpling to the floor like a discarded puppet.

  Another operative hurled a glowing spear that hummed with electricity. Ambrose caught it mid-air, the electricity harmlessly absorbed by his World Eater cloak. With a casual flick of his wrist, he returned the spear to its owner, the weapon piercing the man's throat and pinning him to the wall.

  When the last operative fell, the hallway was silent, save for the crackle of his mana-infused flames. The bodies of the SpecOps team lay strewn across the corridor, some whole, others in pieces. Blood pooled beneath them, soaking into the carpet and forming grotesque patterns. The smell of death hung heavy in the air, mingling with the ozone scent of spent mana.

  But it wasn't over.

  At the far end of the hall stood a stocky man, his presence radiating calm authority. His tactical gear was similar to the others, but he carried himself differently, like someone used to standing against insurmountable odds. A rune-covered staff gleamed in his grip, and a matching gun was holstered at his side. His face was weathered, scarred from countless battles, but his eyes were clear and focused.

  Ambrose narrowed his eyes.

  "Let me through," he said, his voice a low growl. "All I want is to leave. You don't have to die here."

  The man's grip on his staff tightened, but his voice was steady.

  "It's my job to stop you. I do my job."

  Ambrose could respect that. Duty, responsibility, those were things he understood. But respect wouldn't save this man.

  He activated [Retribution's Gaze], analyzing his opponent.

  [Adolin Draveil - Level 228 Sorcerer]: A man in a city of corruption, Adolin prides himself on trying to be a light in a city of grays.

  The skill revealed more than just stats. Ambrose saw flashes of the man's life—his refusal to take bribes, his defense of the weak, his lonely stand against the tide of corruption that infected Virion. Unlike the other officers, Adolin was clean. His hands unstained by the filth that permeated the rest of the force.

  The staff in Adolin's hands began to glow with azure light, and he spun it, unleashing a miniature comet of glittering power. It hurtled toward Ambrose like a star falling from the heavens. The air around it warped from the heat, distorting the view of the corridor behind it.

  Akaroth met it head-on, the dragon axe splitting the comet in two. The resulting explosion rocked the hallway, sending a concussive wave rippling outward. Windows shattered, glass raining down in crystalline shards. The walls cracked, plaster dust filling the air.

  Adolin was already moving, his staff spinning with deadly precision. Runes lit up along its length, each swing carrying devastating force. Ambrose ducked and weaved, his stats giving him the speed and awareness to avoid the strikes. The World Eater cloak absorbed the residual power, dulling the impact of near-misses.

  The fight was fast and brutal, the air thick with the clash of power. Each exchange sent shockwaves through the building, rattling fixtures and cracking foundations. Ambrose saw his opening and took it, Akaroth slicing cleanly through Adolin's forearm. Blood splattered the ground, the edges of the wound sizzling from the axe's lightning charge.

  Adolin staggered back with a howl of pain, his staff clattering to the ground. His severed arm twitched on the floor, fingers still curled around a portion of the staff.

  "Last chance," Ambrose said, his voice like iron. "Walk away. I'd rather not kill you, but I will."

  Adolin's jaw tightened, his teeth grating as he retrieved his staff with his remaining hand. Yellow light surged along his arm, the wound closing as if it had never been. New flesh grew rapidly over the stump, forming a new hand, then a forearm, complete with armor. The regeneration was complete in seconds, a testament to his skill.

  Before Ambrose could react, a tidal wave of spiritual power slammed into him. It was like a hammer to the soul, crushing him to his knees. His muscles screamed in protest, his vision blurring as he struggled to lift his head. The pressure was immense, as if the weight of a mountain had been placed upon his shoulders.

  Adolin's staff burned with silent sapphire flames, his spiritual skill pressing down with relentless force. The floor beneath Ambrose cracked, unable to withstand the pressure being exerted through him.

  Ambrose's own spirit was locked away, inaccessible. Without it, he had no way to counter Adolin's power.

  I was careless, he thought, his mind racing. He had underestimated his opponent, assuming his own power was unmatched in this city. He had let his confidence blind him to the possibility of someone else wielding a spiritual skill.

  Now, he was paying for it.

  The crushing weight of Adolin's spirit pressed down on him, leaving him helpless. For the first time in a long while, Ambrose had no path forward.

  All he could do was wait for the killing blow.