In the narrow and long hallway, a man dressed as a guard stands.
He looks utterly exhausted, clearly at the end of a long shift.
Every day, he stands in the same spot, performing the same monotonous tasks over and over, until he begins to wish for something exciting to break the routine.
But as the old saying goes: "Be careful what you wish for."
"Ding."
The elevator chimes, grabbing the guard's attention as he waits to see who will emerge.
His eyes widen in surprise when he sees a man in a black suit, his face concealed by a silver demon mask.
Who else could it be? Of course, only fighters wear masks like that.
Even the higher-ups aren't interested in hiding their identities, especially after Mr. Sora explicitly warned the guards about the fighters.
There's no choice but to try to stop me.
Every war has its casualties, doesn't it?
I move forward, stopping when the guard blocks my path.
"You're not allowed here. It's best if you turn back—"
The guard doesn't see my attack coming. He doesn't even realize what hit him.
All he knows is that, suddenly, he can't breathe.
He clutches his throat, desperately trying to grasp even a single breath of air, but it's futile.
He bends over in the hope that his condition will improve, but to his surprise, I grab his head with my bare hand and introduce him to my knee, which firmly meets his nose.
"Thud."
"Aaaaaah!"
A scream escapes his throat as he crumples to the ground, one hand supporting his body while the other clutches his nose.
It seems his nose is rather enthusiastic about meeting my knee—I can tell because it's now bleeding profusely from the excitement.
Shock and disbelief fill the guard's face as he tries to comprehend what just happened and how.
"Lead me to your boss's office."
My voice snaps him out of his daze.
He shoots me a look that seems to say, How dare you?
It gives me the impression that he didn't quite understand the seriousness of the situation.
To help clarify, I grab him by the back of his head, forcing him upright, and land a hard slap.
"Smack."
I shove him forward down the hallway.
"What are you looking at? Move!"
He has no choice but to follow the order.
Suddenly, an idea seems to strike him.
He starts stumbling toward every door lining the hallway, shouting as he nears each one.
"Attack! We're under attack! Everyone, get out here!"
His voice, like a siren, triggers a chain reaction. Almost every door bursts open as guards stream out, one after another, spotting me walking toward them.
They're about to advance when the first guard—the one with the overly enthusiastic nose—stops them.
"Wait! Grab your weapons first!"
The guards glance at him with looks that say, Really, man? It's just one guy.
Naturally, someone has to be the first casualty before they realize how serious the situation is.
The nearest guard, a hulking man brimming with confidence, steps forward.
As soon as he reaches me, he raises his arm to throw a punch.
I sidestep his attack with ease, moving lightly, effortlessly. He tries to convince himself it was a stroke of bad luck and takes another swing, only to find the same result.
Frustration takes hold as he tries again and again, but it's useless.
I let him keep at it for a reason: the sight of him brimming with confidence is entertaining. Won't it be even more amusing when that confidence shatters?
Once the thought crosses my mind, the bloodlust in me urges me to put an end to his foolishness.
One of his punches doesn't return as he expects—he realizes I've caught his wrist.
He tries to free himself with his other hand, but he's either too slow, or I'm too fast. Who knows?
I strike his trapped arm with my elbow.
"Crack."
"Aaaaah!"
His scream sends shivers down his comrades' spines as they watch him collapse, his arm clearly broken.
With his will to fight completely drained and surrendering to the pain, I decide to show him mercy.
Grabbing his long hair, I lift him with surprising ease, as though he's a mere child, and begin to box his face with my fists.
"Thud."
"Thud."
"Thud."
With each punch, his blood splatters onto my mask and clothes.
I don't stop until he goes completely silent, a clear sign that he's lost consciousness.
He drops to the ground the moment I release his hair.
Straightening, I face the other guards, who have one foot in the hallway and the other still in their rooms.
Seeing what just happened, they finally heed the advice of the overly enthusiastic-nosed guard and retreat into their rooms.
I wait, listening to their footsteps scatter as they re-enter their quarters, only for them to return moments later—this time armed with weapons of all kinds.
I stretch out my arms as if preparing to embrace them.
"Come on, I don't have all day to play with you."
Two of the nearest guards charge first.
One wields a dagger, the other a relatively long sword, one coming at me from the right, the other from the left.
The first aims for my neck, while the second targets my legs.
If I dodge the one aiming for my neck, I'll leave my legs unprotected, and vice versa.
That's their plan. It looks like I'll have to sacrifice one, but who am I? The man who knows everything.
I step forward, leaving them puzzled about what I'm doing.
They realize their strategy creates a gap for me to slip through, but they don't care.
They let me pass, thinking the hallway is filled with guards anyway. What would I gain from evading them? I'd only trap myself further.
Fools.
As soon as I bypass them, one guard attempts to strike me, only to find that I strike first.
He tries to avoid clashing with me because his weapon, a whip, requires space to be effective. His friend notices the issue and moves to assist.
He tries to trip me up with rapid, monkey-like punches. But unlike a monkey, this guard is armed with spiked gloves, making his strikes deadly.
Meanwhile, the previous two guards—the dagger wielder and the swordsman—move to surround me again.
As I dodge the spiked punches, the swordsman swings his weapon horizontally, exploiting the blind spots on my back.
Seizing the opportunity, the dagger wielder aims for my legs again—seems he has a thing for legs.
I grab one of the spiked gloves and pull it toward me, twisting slightly to avoid the sword, which ends up colliding with the glove instead.
"Clang."
The clash of metal sends a strange sensation through me.
Damn it, not now.
I quickly stomp my foot to steady myself and seize the dagger aiming for my leg.
I take advantage of their momentary confusion at the unexpected outcome.
A powerful kick sends the dagger wielder hurtling backward into the wall, his weapon left behind on the floor.
Both the swordsman and the spiked glove fighter snap out of their daze and retreat. I crouch to grab the dagger in the same motion, and without hesitation, lunge at the swordsman.
The spiked glove fighter notices my move and stops retreating to rush at me from behind, only to find me halting abruptly.
The swordsman catches on to my trick and tries to stop to aid his comrade, but it's too late.
Because of my sudden stop, the spiked glove fighter attempts a desperate punch to my head, hoping his speed will save him.
I duck under his strike, the dagger in my hand reversed, and in a half-circle motion, I draw a horizontal slash across his abdomen.
As if that's not enough, I deliver a kick, sending him flying toward the group of guards who, frozen by the speed of the fight and the cramped hallway, didn't know how to act.
As they scramble to catch their wounded comrade crashing into them, I take the opportunity to face the swordsman head-on.
Quickly, he attacks me with horizontal and vertical slashes of his sword, hoping one of them will land while buying enough time for one of his comrades to reach him.
As if I don't know his intentions.
I parried all his strikes with the dagger and took a few steps back, which made him feel more at ease.
But then, a question forms in his mind: Why is he retreating? The other guards are behind him.
The answer comes to him in the form of a flying dagger aimed straight at his head.
I throw the dagger with such force that it pierces through the air, hitting its target with precision. At the same time, I launch my next assault on him.
If that dagger had hit me, I'd be a dead man. With this thought racing through his mind, he raises his sword to block the attack, positioning it defensively in front of his face.
"Clang."
The force of the throw makes the sword tremble.
As soon as the blade steadies, he snaps out of his relief at having saved his life, glancing at where I should be—only to find me gone.
A sense of dread overtakes him, followed swiftly by the pain of a punch landing hard on his stomach.
The blow is so strong that he drops his sword and begins coughing violently.
No one ever taught him that a sword is the warrior's honor—abandon it, and you abandon your honor.
As the other guards recover and begin advancing toward me, they stop again, frozen in terror at the scene unfolding before them—something they're not accustomed to.
The swordsman is sprawled on the ground, taking punch after punch from me.
When I finish, I stand upright, blood splattered all over me.
As if the mask isn't terrifying enough, the blood covering it and my suit gives the impression of a demon descending to earth, ready to drag everyone to hell.
I lean down, grabbing the sword and giving it a few test swings in the air.
"A decent sword. I think it'll be perfect for chopping off some unnecessary limbs."
I take heavy steps toward them, locking eyes with each of them, staring deep into their souls.
They have no hope of winning, but of course, they won't surrender easily.
Even though they know they've lost, they still choose to take their chances.
One by one, they charge at me, screaming as they swing their weapons.
But all their efforts fail.
A sidestep dodges their attacks, and with a simple slash of the sword, their limbs fall, their blood spilling as their cries echo through the hall.
What do you want to see on the floor?
arms? You'll find them.
Legs? They're there too.
Look closely enough, and you might even spot ears scattered across the floor.
When all the guards are dealt with, I finally reach the overly enthusiastic-nosed guard.
The gruesome sight has left him standing frozen, his face an expressionless mask like that of a mummy.
I glance down and notice his soaked pants, wondering to myself: Is that what I think it is?
Who cares? A slap lands hard on his cheek, pulling him from the nightmare world into the hellish reality.
"Your boss's office. Unless you want to be next."
Unlike last time, when he still believed the guards might save him, this time he's cooperative. He runs ahead, clutching his nose. As I follow him, I reflect on the fight.
Their attacks had started to slow, giving me more time to think of countermeasures.
Not to mention how stupid they were.
The hallway wasn't wide enough for more than two people to stand side by side.
If two strong, coordinated fighters had stood together, it would've been difficult to defeat them. But that wasn't the case with these guards.
Sure, they were armed.
The sword was a mid-range weapon, and the dagger was for close combat.
Add in the whip-wielding guard from behind—they may not have been skilled with it, but why take the risk? That's why I targeted him first.
And in their stupidity, they thought it was a good idea to let me pass, believing their numbers would corner me.
They didn't consider that I'd exploit their disarray, mismatched weapons, and the narrow space to my advantage.
"S-Sir."
The hallway ends in a wide-open area filled with a chaotic crowd of people shouting and pushing.
"At least give me some money to compensate for my loss!"
"Damn my bad luck!"
"Damn it, I lost everything! What do I do now?"
One group is trying to recover whatever they can, another is pleading for loans, and a third is lamenting their terrible luck. But no one dares say they were outright cheated or that they changed their bets at the last minute.
Why? Because they'd either be killed by the bettors or by the contest organizers themselves. Remember, there are no police here.
"S-Sir, the boss's office is over there."
The overly enthusiastic-nosed guard points toward the office, drawing the crowd's attention.
They look at him, wondering, Who's this crazy person who wants to file a complaint? But when they turn their gaze, they see the man holding his nose.
Of course, that's not what silences the chaos.
Beside him stands a demon clutching a blood-soaked sword.
I start walking, ignoring their looks of fear and awe.
With every step I take, they part, clearing a path for me.
Within moments, I reach the door.
Truly, with power comes respect.
I stab the sword into the ground and turn to the crowd.
"No one is allowed to enter. Unless, of course, you want to die. Step away from the door. Now!"
The crowd scrambles to obey, pushing themselves and each other back from the door.
All eyes are fixed on me as they wait to see what I'll do next.
Will I knock politely like a normal person? Or simply open the door without permission? No one expects what happens.
I kick the door.
"BAM!"
The force of the attack sends it flying off its hinges, crashing into the wall.
Unbothered by the dust swirling from the impact, I step into the office, my eyes landing on a man drenched in sweat, terror written all over his face.
"Mr. Sora,"
I say with cold precision.
"Would you care to join me for this dance?"
****************Words of praise for me***************
Emiric: Did you see how badass I was?
Author: I think everyone is aware of your ass.
Emiric: Did you see my moves?
Author: Yes, we read the chapter.
Emiric: What about that kick? Did you see it?
Author: Are you going to keep praising yourself the entire time?
Emiric: And the way I threw that dagger, flawless!
Author: Guys, I think he's just going to keep going. Let's leave him with his inner monologue.
Emiric: Look at that move, it's so smooth!
Author:...
Emiric: Ah, I'm amazing!