The masked man stood tall amid the robed figures, revolver in one hand, sword in the other—still dressed in nothing but striped pajamas.
While the other white-robed figures watched him with amusement, one rose with a sigh, his goblet still half full. "Normie scum..." he muttered, flexing fingers that glowed like lava through cracked black skin. "You really had the gall to interfere with our transaction. Annoying, yes—but I'll admit, you must be braver than that Leicester blunt."
The masked figure turned slightly, his gaze drifting to the sobbing girl in chains.
Then he froze. "...Leicester? So she's the girl from before... what's her name again?"
The fire-fisted priest didn't wait. He slammed his molten fist forward—blazing red veins lighting the air—striking the masked man across the jaw, jerking his head away from the girl's trembling form.
The impact cracked wood.
The masked man stood unfazed, sword clattering, revolver slipping from his fingers. Smoke curled around his head, then disappeared. A smear of blood trickled from beneath the mask's lower edge.
The sword hissed as it returned to his grip.
He vanished.
CRACK.
A robed man slumped over, a hole in his chest. The crowd gasped—hundreds of guests rising in sudden panic, goblets spilling, chairs scraping back in a wave of chaos.
Another figure screamed, firing blindly.
Then all hell broke loose.
A dozen men in black coats drew revolvers and rifles, opening fire toward the masked man.
He blurred again—appearing on the far side of the room with a puff of wind. Bullets tore through empty space.
Standing on the table where a pitch-black creature had fallen, he clasped his hands together, as if offering prayer.
The only edge I have in this hellhole is mystery. They don't know what I'm truly capable of—they haven't seen the darkness I carry beneath this mask. Let them fear the unknown. Let them think the worst. Because once they glimpse what's really inside, it won't be just fear—they'll be broken.
The dark-coated men froze. Then, from where the masked man stood, a large grey-tipped tentacle sprouted from his feet and lashed out at the men, easily cutting down seventy of them.
Shocked and afraid, the remaining men ran to the walls of the room, and a third of them fled entirely.
The fire-wielding priest snarled and threw both fists toward his enemy—two arcs of molten energy surging from his hands. They slammed into crates, igniting the side of the warehouse in a thunderous boom.
"Stay still, rat!"
The masked man didn't answer.
In an instant, the fire-wielding priest received a heavy kick to the gut.
He dropped, screaming, flames erupting from his wound.
From her seat, the second robed woman smirked and raised a finger. "He's quick."
The world shimmered.
Suddenly, the masked man saw ten copies of the fire priest rising—each one bleeding fire from their eyes and hands.
He ran to the wall on his left, and the men there scattered, running as fast as they could to get away from him.
His eyes scanned the room, searching for anyone who could be the source of this strange ability.
Damn, this is freaky as hell. Is this what it feels like to be in an illusion? I wish I could do something like this.
Dodging one of the illusion's punches, he saw the real fire priest lying on his knees, clutching his burning abdomen. The two robed figures still stood at the table, with a strange man lying motionless a few meters away.
Pathetic. As if anyone would fall for such a poorly thought-out trick. Only the girl and the injured man were that close to them.
The masked man walked toward the white-robed duo. Once he was a few meters away from the man lying close to them—he vanished in a snap of displaced air and a loud booming sound.
The man on the floor tried to lift his head—only to be slammed down again by the force of displaced air. He covered his ears, swirled and turned, screaming.
The masked man reappeared in front of the robed woman.
Behind him, the illusions disappeared, and the man on the floor was unconscious.
The masked man straightened and looked toward the woman, hesitating to hit her.
Magic crackled between her fingers—violet strands twisting like lightning. She screamed and sent a blast of purple energy at him.
He sidestepped, but not fast enough. The edge of the blast scorched his side, tearing a jagged burn through his pajama top.
He grunted, then launched himself at her. She cast again—bolts flaring between her palms, but he appeared beside her in a heartbeat.
One hand grabbed her wrist. The other knocked her unconscious with a single, careful strike to the temple.
She crumpled.
Around them, the warehouse was chaos.
Men fled in droves—hundreds pouring through the exits, abandoning the scene in blind panic. Some fired as they ran. Others tripped over each other.
The fire priest, limping and bleeding, stumbled toward the masked man one last time.
"You... How...?"
The masked man turned toward him, chest rising and falling beneath his torn pajamas.
"Listen well, fool. You do not deserve to understand my... Perpose ," he said flatly.
Silence fell, broken only by distant fire and sobbing.
Smoke curled across the shattered hall.
And amidst the ruin, the masked man stood alone—bloodied, half-burned, dressed in striped cotton and steel.
Unawakened.
But unbeaten.