Kenji was annoyed—no, he was pissed. Who did this crazed woman think she was?
Yes, he had found out about the bounty. How? Well, the pile of corpses beneath his boots was quite the indication.
It had only been three days since he met Lady Fortuna, and already his "peaceful" life in Yorknew had been turned into chaos. Apparently, saying no to a woman was now an offence punishable by having your head priced at. And not even a small bounty either, four million was enough to tempt anyone with a death wish. Weren't these mafia families scrambling for resources? Where was Fortuna getting the funds to burn?
When the first assassins came for him, Kenji assumed they'd finally connected him to the thinning numbers of their men. But finding out it was all because of a woman obsessed with him? That almost made him wish it was the mafia's revenge instead.
At least that would've made sense. Every time he carved through one batch of bounty hunters, another followed. By now, they had to know he wasn't weak. Yet they still came, chasing money over their own survival.
Kenji sighed, stepped down from the hill of bodies, and sheathed his sword back into his inventory. Passing a cracked window, he paused. His reflection stared back, golden eyes that were soft and almost inviting, golden-brown hair neatly kept, beard trimmed to precision. His build was lean but defined, far from bulky, but a long way from scrawny. Handsome, yes. Polished, yes. Intimidating? He sighed again. That was a hard no.
Was there any wonder these guys still came after him, he just wasn't scary enough. He didn't look like the type of man that would gut you and not lose sleep.
If I met myself in the street, I wouldn't be scared either.
Still, this little act had helped him make up his mind, the decision was made. He'd been torn over which mafia family to bend under his control. Fortuna had kindly solved the problem by declaring war first.
Now he would return the favor. He had not considered The Ritz Family before she decided to look his way.
The Ritz Hotel loomed before him, FORTUNE VIEW HOTEL, a colossal monument of marble and glass against the city skyline. It was her fortress, the jewel in the crown of her criminal empire, radiating a decadent aura that stood in stark contrast to the ruined streets just blocks away.
The air around the hotel was clean, the pavement free of the grime and debris that plagued the rest of the city, as if a sterile bubble had been erected to keep the real world at bay. His destination.
Kenji strode inside. The moment he crossed the threshold, his senses flared, danger sense and spatial awareness gave him a feel of the surroundings. The entire place was filled with the raw, nervous energy of the dozens of auras waiting for him.
They were everywhere.
Men hidden in corners, behind pillars, at the top of the stairs, and even in the ornate chandeliers above(how), all coiled and ready, holding their breath in the tense silence of the opulent lobby. The air was thick with their fear and aggression, a cocktail of adrenaline and fear.
A lot of them were so afraid that he could practically taste the fear in the air. They knew what would happen if they faced him.
Good.
Dozens rushed forward, mobbing the lobby, filling the area. Dozens more held back, hands twitching toward guns, their fingers hovering over triggers, ready to unleash a hailstorm of lead. The tension in the lobby was palpable. Surely they knew what was about to happen, yet they came.
"If any of you feel this is a mistake," Kenji said calmly, his voice a low, steady rumble that carried with unnerving clarity through the vast, echoing marble hall, "this is your only chance to leave."
For a heartbeat, silence. He saw hesitation flicker in a few pairs of eyes, a flicker of doubt at the sight of his unassuming facade and calm demeanor. But pride and fear of their ruthless leader, Lady Fortuna, kept them rooted in place. It seemed the thought of running was worse than the thought of facing him.
"Seems she has loyal dogs after all," Kenji murmured, his voice a quiet, almost disappointed afterthought.
They feared her more than they did Him. Well, how about He change that and show them why they should fear him more instead.
His sword shimmered into existence as he drew it free, a blade of polished steel appearing from nowhere. The men all flinched instinctively, their nerves frayed to the breaking point, and Kenji took a single, deliberate step forward.
The sound of his shoe on the polished marble was a thunderclap. One of them, a bulky brute with a crowbar, screamed to break the spell, charging with a desperate roar. The floodgate burst, and the dozens of thugs surged forward as one.
Kenji's first step met the crowbar, his blade angled just enough to turn the strike aside with a quiet shink. The force of the blow was nothing to him. His foot hooked out, tripping the thug, and with a single, graceful sweep, he bisected the man from shoulder to hip. Blood sprayed, a grim red mist against the gilded walls and marble floors. The others roared and surged, their shouts a mixture of panic and bloodlust.
Kenji didn't rush. He didn't need to. He moved with an almost leisurely pace, his blade a blur of silver, each motion efficient, almost casual. He was just walking forward. His sword became a silver ribbon, weaving through the mass of bodies.
A horizontal slice took a man's head cleanly from his shoulders, the backswing simultaneously took an arm from another. He moved with the fluid grace of a dancer, each step almost seemed timed to the rhythm of the men falling around him.
A thug swung a baseball bat, and Kenji sidestepped, his blade flashing in a vertical cut that split the man's sternum. Another one came at him with a knife, and Kenji simply let his sword slide past his own body, the blade catching the man's wrist and severing his hand before the thug even registered the movement.
Panic rippled through the crowd. Gunfire erupted, a deafening staccato of sound that ripped through the grand lobby. Muzzle flashes lit up the room in a strobe of chaotic light. Kenji moved faster, weaving between the hail of bullets with an impossible elegance, his blade a silver streak in the chaos.
The air hummed with the sound of whizzing projectiles. He twisted his body, letting a bullet graze his jacket, then angled his blade to deflect another, sending it harmlessly into a marble pillar. A third bullet, aimed at his head, was met with a precise flick of his wrist. The blade caught the projectile's side, and with a low-pitched whizzz, it was redirected with lethal force, screaming back into the chest of its own shooter.
He didn't just dodge, He had all but taken control of the flow of the battle, everything seemed to be moving according to his will, every movement ended a life.
His sword became a tool for manipulating the projectiles, each deflection a life snuffed out.
Bullets sparked off steel, turned back into their owners. The lobby echoed with screams, the constant report of gunfire, and the sickening wet sound of men being cut down. The smell of copper and spent gunpowder filled the air.
He was a force of nature, like a hurricane of violence. For the men, he might have well been the devil come for them. He could see it in their eyes, they were scared, yet they still fought. Well, if they got in his way, then there was no need to spare them. If they are fighting him, trying to kill him, then why should he not do the same.
Mathew trembled where he stood, his pistol held in shaking hands. He had once been a free man, a gambler. One loss too many in Fortuna's casino had damned him, and he was now a permanent fixture in her personal security.
Enslaved, bound by her power, he had lost his freedom, his will, and his hope.
He had clung to the hope at first that others like him would rebel, that together they could find freedom. But under Fortuna, hope rotted. Competition was her law. Betrayal her currency. Men sold out each other for scraps, and he had nearly died more than once for trusting the wrong hand.
Now, watching the golden-eyed man cut through Fortuna's soldiers like paper, Mathew felt terror, despair… and rage. Why did she have to provoke a monster like this? His body screamed to drop the weapon and flee. His legs wouldn't move, paralyzed by the overwhelming aura of bloodlust. And then, too fast to see, the man was in front of him. A hand strike to his neck ended everything in blackness.
Kenji surveyed the lobby. Dozens lay sprawled in blood across the polished floor, the once-gleaming surface a canvas of crimson and gore. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating, a chilling blanket that was a stark contrast to the earlier chaos.
A soft ding chimed in his mind. His System window blinked:
[Strength:+0.003][Agility:+0.0007][Endurance:+0.02][Strength:+0.3I][ntelligence:+0.0005
Kenji snorted. Player Reward was working, yes, but the meager trickle of stats was almost insulting. At first, he thought the ability was broken.
Then he realized the truth, weak prey simply didn't have much value left to take. The ability absorbed stats proportional to the enemy's remaining strength at the moment of death. But the problem was that, even at full strength, these fooders were not even worth a single stat point. Why? Because a tier 8 single point was not the same as a tier 10 point, as such. Well, it didn't really matter because the ability worked as it was supposed to, and that's all that mattered. He just needed to kill stronger enemies.
Shaking blood from his thoughts, Kenji strode into the elevator. His aura spread, mapping the building, his senses picking up the location of her Nen, a dark thing that pulsed from the top floor. He felt her. Top floor. Waiting.
It would be rude to keep a lady waiting.
Lady Fortuna's fingers dug into the armrest of her velvet chair, the expensive fabric groaning under the strain. On a large, polished black screen that occupied an entire wall of her private study, she had watched. Every second of the slaughter.
She was no stranger to violence, but this… this was an art form. He hadn't used any Nen. Not a flicker. He was killing her men as if he were swatting flies, with a calm, casual, detached precision that sent a shiver of fear and arousal down her spine. Dodging bullets, cutting them from the air, all with pure physical ability. The ease with which he moved was unnerving.
She forced herself to breathe evenly. She had seen strength. But this kind of strength, so effortless, so quiet, so beautiful, it was Terrifying.
Still, Fortuna was not without her cards. That display was against fodder, the lowest of her ranks. He had yet to face the true elites of the Ritz Family, the men and women she had personally molded, bound, and sharpened into her thorns. They were her top men, her most powerful puppets, Nen users, and they were waiting for him.
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