This had been happening a lot recently, and it all started when her husband died.
A secret which only they knew about.
You could say it was their little secret.
Knocking twice on the protective glass used to separate the driver and passenger sections of the car, the driver immediately pulled to a corner and parked.
Then the driver and the bodyguard in the front seat climbed out.
"This has got to stop, Ghrosweav. This can't continue on. You can't keep living like this." The woman looked worried, her hand reaching deep into her dress.
"I'm sorry, Madame, but I can't control it… I have no control over it," the young man, identified as Ghrosweav, said while taking off his outer suit and stretching his left hand into the darkness of the car to grab something.
"I have the protection. You should prepare yourself, Madame."
Saying so, Ghrosweav put on a raincoat and got out of the car.
The Madame pulled a pistol-like device from her innerwear.
Exhaling lightly, she took out an umbrella but remained inside.
"May God watch over you, Ghrosweav," she prayed softly.
Outside the car, the falling rain showed its coldness clearly, sending shivers down the spines of all it touched.
Ghrosweav stood in the rain carrying a specially modified shotgun—this was the "protection" he had spoken of.
Ghrosweav had been born an orphan, fighting tooth and nail with other beggars for food, even stealing from shops. He fought not only for himself but also for his sick elder brother, who suffered from an unknown illness. They could never afford any medical tests, for this city only respected those with power, wealth, and authority.
For poor, dirty orphans like them, even the general hospital—said to be open to the poorest—was not an option.
Until one day, when his brother's health suddenly worsened and he was on the brink of death, Ghrosweav had no choice but to run to a local loan shark for help. He was beaten and thrown into an abandoned building, left half-dead.
There, he was discovered by a kind, middle-aged wealthy man who had just bought the building and was surveying it.
The man said nothing—he simply sent Ghrosweav to a high-class hospital.
After some treatment, when the man returned to check on him, Ghrosweav didn't thank him. Instead, he cried, saying,
"You shouldn't have wasted that money on me. You should have used it to treat my brother... Oh, brother."
But the man only smiled and led him to another ward, where surgeons were operating earnestly—on his brother.
Ghrosweav broke down in tears and thanked the man from the depths of his soul. Later, the man adopted both brothers, sent them to school, and even gave them businesses to manage.
That man was, of course, the Madame's husband—who had passed away about a year and a half before this day.
After his death, the husband's close friend, Osleg Jack, began coming after the Madame and her wealth, even proposing to her. When she refused, he resorted to more extreme methods—taking her to court and accusing her of murder.
Osleg Jack was a powerful politician whose influence stretched across the four Emporium Cities.
Ghrosweav had no choice but to return home and serve as butler and protector for the Madame and her son—their only child.
It was the right decision. Night after night, day after day, assassins of unknown origin came after the Madame's life.
Ghrosweav had attended military school, martial academies, and countless combat gatherings.
For him, dealing with ordinary assassins was child's play. But some were unnaturally strong—inhumanly so.
Common snipers, gunmen, martial artists, or weapon specialists posed little problem, especially with his Ehdraypole—a specially modified gun that could snipe, fire multiple bullets, and even launch three small missiles with devastating power.
But his real problem lay with the others—those with inhuman speed, strength, durability, and worst of all, unnatural regeneration.
These men could survive grenade blasts with only minor burns that healed within a minute. Bullets did almost nothing, and even shots to the head only made them more aggressive.
The only sure way to kill them was to completely blow off their heads.
The only good thing was that they seemed unintelligent and few in number—usually only one appeared at a time.
> This will be tough if they send one of those monsters... but what if they send more than one? Ghrosweav thought.
Suddenly, a bang was heard. Ghrosweav didn't hesitate—he rolled to the side, leaving behind an afterimage that vanished a second later.
Turning toward the direction of the gunshot, he fired without thought, blowing a hole straight through the head of his attacker.
But that was only the beginning.
The guard and driver drew their own guns and opened fire. In the dark, they wore specially modified goggles with night vision and target-marking features.
Ghrosweav suddenly pointed upward and fired three quick shots. Moments later, three bodies fell from the upper floors of nearby buildings.
"I guess you weren't called the Monstrous Aim of Vilget for nothing, right, Ghrosweav?" a voice sneered as the gunfire ceased—everyone's ammo spent.
From the shadows, a group emerged.
Leading them was a man draped in mechanic armor—a proto-mech suit. In this era, full mech production had not yet succeeded, but engineers were close. They had created these powered armors as prototypes.
Their flaw was energy consumption: they required massive power and could only run when wired to a source—impractical for battle. The only solution would be a concentrated energy core, but such technology had not yet been achieved.
That was why mechanic armor existed—smaller, portable, and though weaker than a true mech, still powerful enough for one man to take on ten opponents twice his size. Best of all, it required no more energy than two and a half cars.
The man wearing it was middle-aged, with black-greying hair, brown eyes, and a vertical scar on his forehead. His expression was that of an amused predator cornering its prey.
"XT's butcher toy... you're still alive?" Ghrosweav muttered. It wasn't recognition of friendship, but of blood and enmity.
"Hoho... even in death you've got the guts to call someone a toy? Fine then—I'll rip your tongue out myself! You brats—slaughter this bitch!" the man, identified as Butcher Toy, roared.
"You two—there are about fifty or sixty of them. Four enhanced human martialists with mechanic armor. Be careful with the rest. I'll handle those two," Ghrosweav said to the guard and driver, pointing at Butcher Toy and another armored man.
Both the driver and the guard were enhanced martialists themselves.
Enhanced martialists were elite professionals—martial artists who had undergone body modifications to push beyond natural limits.
Becoming a professional martial artist in this world required time, effort, talent, and resources. They were highly valued because, in truth, the police and authorities existed only as tools to oppress the poor. The rich controlled everything.
For their protection, the upper classes had legalized the hiring of professional fighters.
Firearms were technically illegal—though many in high society disagreed—but this ban was maintained due to opposition from three powerful factions:
The Final Defense Borders, The Church Assembly, and The People's Party. Each had its own goals, often conflicting, but occasionally aligning.
The minimum standard for a professional martial artist was someone who could kill an average man in fewer than four moves.
Enhanced martialists, however, were far deadlier—they could defeat four or five unenhanced martial artists in less than fifteen moves.
As the fight began, Butcher Toy stayed at the rear of his men while the other three armored fighters crept through the crowd.
Driven by greed, the unenhanced martialists charged forward without thought.
Their animal-like behavior was expected—these were unlicensed fighters with no other way to survive. Lacking talent, they could never become professionals, and so they worked for criminal organizations to avoid starving.
The promise of a quarter million becoi each was enough to drive them mad. That amount could sustain a upper middle-class family for a decade or two —or a martial artist for one and a half.
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currency of COR
Medronion kiesh/inco/becoi
5 kiesh
10 kiesh
20 kiesh
50 kiesh
100inco
200inco
500inco
1000becoi