The desert highway stretched like a cracked serpent under the pale Nevada moon. Alan Yokob gripped the steering wheel of his bullet-riddled Mustang, his knuckles white as gunfire peppered the rear windshield. The acrid stench of burning rubber and gasoline filled the car, mingling with the metallic tang of blood dripping from the gash on his temple.
He is a Hitman. He has killed many people in his life. But now he is being pursued by several people. They are members of the group whose leader was killed by Alan.
Six cars behind him.
He glanced at the rearview mirror, where headlights glared like the eyes of rabid wolves. Their leader's final words echoed in Alan's mind as they'd bled out on that penthouse floor: "You'll burn for this, mercenary."
A bullet punched through the trunk.
"Burn faster, then," Alan muttered, slamming the gas. The Mustang roared, its engine screaming in protest. He fired blindly through the shattered back window with his CZ P09, the recoil jolting his wrist. One of the pursuing SUVs swerved, its front tire blown, and careened into a guardrail in a shower of sparks.
Five left.
But luck had never been Alan's ally. A high-caliber round tore through the fuel tank. The dashboard lit up in a chorus of warning lights.
Shit.
The explosion lifted the Mustang like a toy. For a heartbeat, Alan floated—weightless, timeless—before the world dissolved into fire.
•
•
•
•
Cold.
Alan opened his eyes to a void of swirling gray mist. His body felt incorporeal, untethered. No pain. No heartbeat.
Am I in hell?
"Not yet," purred a voice that vibrated in his bones rather than his ears.
Figures materialized around him—shimmering silhouettes wreathed in light so blinding it seared his retinas. Their forms shifted: one moment humanoid, the next a tangle of shadowy tendrils and glowing eyes.
"Where am I?" Alan rasped, instinctively reaching for a gun that wasn't there.
"Kirata." The central entity pulsed with amusement. "A world where gods bleed and mortals bargain. You've been… recruited."
"Recruited?"
A clawed hand of light gestured, and visions flooded Alan's mind: a planet vast and ancient, its continents clawed by mountains and forests so dense they swallowed sunlight. Armies clashed—men in obsidian armor riding scaled beasts, their banners emblazoned with a burning eye.
"A millennium ago, mortals betrayed the Demon Sovereign," the entity hissed. "They shattered his throne, slaughtered his legions. Now their descendants grow fat in stolen glory. You will restore this."
Alan laughed, sharp and brittle. "Are you making me your scapegoat?"
"You're a predator," the entity corrected. "A killer who thrives in chaos. Here, you'll hunt greater prey."
A screen flickered to life in the void:
[The Demon Empire System]
Level 1
EXP: 0
Summon: Demonic Hound (50 EXP), Imp Soldier (200 EXP)
…
"WOW" Alan said flatly. "If I don't agree"
The light intensified, scorching. "Refuse, and your soul fuels our furnaces for eternity. Accept, and rule as our hand. Choose."
Alan studied the screen. *Demonic Hound. Imp Soldier.* The words stirred something primal in his gut—the same thrill he'd felt squeezing a trigger, the moment before a target fell.
"Fine," he said. "But I play by my rules."
Since he has nothing to lose, he agrees.
The entity's laughter echoed as the void collapsed.
Alan saw a great flash of light.
He feels himself in a different place.
♦♦♦
He looks around him and realizes that he is in a deep forest.
Towering trees loomed overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at a blood-red sky. The air clung to his skin, thick and humid, buzzing with unfamiliar energy.
Strange chirps and guttural growls echoed in the distance. *This isn't Earth*, he thought, staring at a cluster of mushrooms that hissed and retracted into the ground as he passed.
His suit was torn, his ribs bruised from the car explosion. A jagged cut on his forearm oozed blood—real blood, he noted. The "Guardian of Hell" hadn't bothered to heal him. Typical.
[System Notification: Host Vitality - 72% (Minor injuries detected. Regeneration unavailable until Level 5.)]
Alan scowled at the holographic screen. "Helpful."
A twig snapped. He spun, pistol raised. Shadows shifted between the trees. Something growled—low, predatory, hungry
The creature lunged from the undergrowth: a six-legged wolf with obsidian fur and eyes like molten lava. Its jaw snapped inches from Alan's throat as he dove sideways, rolling behind a tree.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
He fired three rounds. Two missed. The third struck the beast's flank, spraying black blood that sizzled against the moss. The wolf howled, its cry echoing through the forest.
[Target: Shadowfang (Level 2). Damage dealt: 15%. EXP earned: 5.]
"Great," Alan muttered. "Even the wildlife's bulletproof."
The Shadowfang circled. Alan's mind raced. Seven bullets left. No cover. No exit.
Think like a predator.
He feigned a stumble. The wolf pounced. At the last second, Alan dropped flat, aiming upward. Two shots pierced its exposed belly. The beast collapsed, writhing.
[Target eliminated. EXP earned: 30. Level Up: 1 → 2. Stat points allocated: Strength +2, Agility +1.]
Strength flooded Alan's muscles. His vision sharpened. He stared at his hands—stronger, faster. The system's cold logic sank in: Kill or be killed. Just like before.
[New Skill Unlocked: Demon Summoning (Tier 1).]
Alan's screen flickered with options:
- Demonic Dog (50 EXP)
- Imp Soldier (200 EXP)
He hesitated. Demonic Dog. Cheap. Expendable.
A pulse of dark energy erupted from the ground. The corpse of the Shadowfang dissolved into ash as a hound materialized—jet-black, with serrated fangs and eyes like smoldering coal. It growled, awaiting orders.
[Demonic Dog (Level 1) summoned. Bond established. Loyalty: 75%.]
"Scout ahead," Alan commanded.