In a single moment, Ghrosweav swung his gun back, forcing another mechanism to take effect.
The gun shuffled backward as a blade emerged from the former gunpoint.
Ghrosweav ran into the advancing and armed group of martialists. Firearms were banned in the city and illegal for non-military personnel, so ammo was scarce and precious. It wasn't that the higher-society people were stingy with their spending—it was simply that they could only obtain ammo and firearms through importation, which was dangerous in its own right. That gave the {Final Defense Borders} and {The People's Party} an opening to raid the city and cause trouble for the elite.
Unlike the others, {The Churches Assembly} was a separate entity and rarely involved itself in politics or worldly affairs.
As soon as the fight started, Ghrosweav and the other two showed their unstoppable prowess—directly and fiercely hacking, stabbing, butchering, and slaughtering all the normal martial artists and professionals.
Suddenly, Ghrosweav shouted to the driver, "Get down!"
The driver didn't hesitate—if he had, he would have a fist-sized hole in his head by now.
Where he'd just been standing, a massive fist stretched outward. Its owner was none other than one of the four that had come with Butcher Toy.
"Worry about yourself, dumb-shit," Butcher Toy said, delivering a flying kick at Ghrosweav, who blocked it with his sword-gun at an impossible reaction speed.
Then Ghrosweav was flung far into the air. Mid-air, he released the gun form and fired four bullets toward Butcher Toy, who dodged two with an afterimage and blocked the other two with his armor.
Ghrosweav landed on his feet after a mid-air twist—yet he wasn't given time to breathe. Three of the MAMA attacked him immediately upon landing: one with a downward kick, another with a punch, and the last with a metal rod.
Ghrosweav calmly raised his weapon—now in sword form—toward the one with the most force: the rod wielder.
With the parry, the impact easily blew back the unstable Ghrosweav, giving him the opening to dodge the other two attacks, which collided with each other—twisting the fist-thrower's arm painfully.
"Aaaahhh!" he screamed.
"Shut the fuck up—you scream like a bitch!" both Ghrosweav and Butcher Toy snapped at him.
That, of course, only enraged him further.
"I'LL KILL YOU, FUCKERRR!"
No one was sure if he was shouting at Ghrosweav or Butcher Toy, who had just broken his arm with that kick.
Gliding backward from the impact, Ghrosweav retreated step by step into the shadows—until he disappeared completely under the faint light of the moon.
The moment Butcher Toy saw this, the man who'd been chasing him so furiously suddenly froze. Then, like a frightened animal, he started retreating in panic.
Although he tried to hide it, he was terrified—of Ghrosweav in the dark.
He remembered their first encounter: years ago, aboard a merchant ship he'd been hired to guard. The ship was supposedly transporting wool—but in truth, it was carrying kidnapped children from western Glazwood for auction.
A small marine ship had stopped them along the way. Butcher Toy hadn't cared; he, his two sworn brothers—Tigerfish Mur and Whalecarnage Hevic—and their subordinates had already massacred four similar ships and looted them. They thought this would be another easy job.
They were wrong.
Ghrosweav was aboard that marine ship.
That night became a massacre.
They couldn't even see their enemy.
After losing seventy percent of their men, he and his brothers sacrificed another twenty percent as shields just to escape in a speedboat.
Even from afar, Ghrosweav's aim struck true—one bullet pierced the skull of their eldest brother, Whalecarnage, killing him instantly.
Whalecarnage had been talking moments earlier about finding a woman he loved and wanting to start a small shop to retire peacefully. He'd asked his brothers if they'd retire too. They laughed then. Now those words brought only tears and rage.
Later, Tigerfish went after Ghrosweav alone, telling Butcher Toy not to interfere—so at least one of them might survive.
He died too.
Now Butcher Toy's hatred for Ghrosweav was boundless—but so was his fear.
That was why, when the mission to hunt down the Madame and kill Ghrosweav appeared, he seized command without hesitation.
"Oh, so you fear as well, huh?" Ghrosweav's voice echoed from all directions, bouncing off the empty, abandoned buildings.
A silent bang followed. One of the MAMA dropped dead.
That was only the beginning.
While the others fought, the bodyguard and driver were nearly done with their opponents. Except—their MAMA was… different. Almost unwell.
His focus kept slipping mid-fight against the bodyguard, who wielded a longsword.
The MAMA's distraction cost him dearly—his wounds multiplied, and he screamed like a beast each time he was hurt.
This is weird, the guard thought. I'm not weaker than Ghrosweav in a face-to-face fight, yet he's holding off three by himself while I'm stuck with this guy—whose intelligence fades the longer we fight, and whose wounds heal at inhuman speed. Fascinating? No... terrifying.
This entire exchange between both sides had lasted less than five minutes.
Yet in that short time:
– The driver had killed over thirty henchmen, though he was injured.
– Ghrosweav had killed over fifteen, including one MAMA martialist.
– The guard had killed eleven, though the strange armored martialist kept him occupied.
Only twenty to twenty-five enemies remained.
Back to Ghrosweav's fight: they had somehow managed to drive him out and give him the beating of a lifetime. His former elegant appearance was long gone.
Bloodied and breathing hard, he faced both Butcher Toy and the other armored martialist.
They had hurt him badly—but they, too, bled from their faces, the only unprotected part of their bodies.
"What now, Ghrosweav? Out of bullets?" the other armored martialist mocked, his teeth broken and face slashed.
"Or out of those little missiles you used to kill R'Kil?!" he screamed, blood spilling from his gums and empty eye socket.
Ghrosweav laughed—a rough, broken sound.
"Ke... ke... cough! cough! ke... kekeke... hahahahaha... cough!"
Despite his injuries, he stood tall. His stance widened, right foot forward, left back, spine bent slightly as if to lunge.
His left arm hung freely, blood dripping from open fingers.
His right hand held his sword-form weapon over his shoulder, blade up—ready to strike the instant they moved.
He smiled wickedly, licking his lips. Combined with his bloodstained eyes, he looked utterly savage. Fear rose in every heart that beheld him.
Then, softly, he spoke:
"Let's play a game of heart and skin—passion of flesh and blood."
The words sent chills through the armored martialist.
"What the fu—"
Before he could finish, a small hole opened in his forehead. He dropped dead.
Butcher Toy froze, staring in disbelief. Slowly, he turned toward the bullet's path—only to see a middle-aged woman in red standing in the rain, gun raised, smoke curling from its barrel where heat met the cold drizzle.
Her expression was calm.
Then, chaos erupted.
"Aaaahhhh—!"
"Please, help!"
"Why are you doing this?!"
"Sir, we're your allies!"
"Please forgive us!"
The air filled with screams and begging.
They turned toward the noise—
The guard was sprinting toward them, a claw mark across his chest, shallow but bleeding.
The driver was retreating too—missing his right arm.
"What happened?" Butcher Toy demanded, though he didn't know whom he was asking.
A skinny subordinate shouted,
"Sir! That martialist—the one the task owner told us to bring! The last unknown guy with the armor—"
"Yes—the one fighting this man?" Butcher Toy pointed at the guard, who glared but stayed silent, moving to help Ghrosweav stand.
Then the guard explained what had happened.
Ghrosweav didn't seem surprised. He simply took out a high-class energy drug, injected it, and stood again.
Looking left and right, he said calmly,
"Looks like your employer didn't send only you."
"W-what do you mean? Only we came here!" Butcher Toy stammered.
"Act all you want. I know you've nearly drained your armor's power and you're waiting for a chance to escape," Ghrosweav said casually, raising his sword-form weapon again.
"H-how did you know?" Butcher Toy stuttered. His armor's HUD screamed warnings: less than 8% energy, 40% light damage, 19% critical damage beyond repair.
"I also know your armor's running on its last straw—and you're concentrating all remaining energy in its lower section."
"You'll never catch me!" Butcher Toy shouted, leaping skyward. Blue light flared from his legs—then exploded.
He plummeted back to earth, crashing into the Madame's car, smashing the engine.
His screams echoed through the area until they were cut short.
Even with armor, the impact shattered his spine. No defense is absolute.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Clapping echoed from a lower floor of one of the buildings. Twenty figures in mech armor emerged.
Ghrosweav's face hardened. Without looking away, he warned,
"Be careful—it won't help much. I think we'll all die here tonight, Madame. These guys... they're all enhanced martialists. But see the one in front?"
"Yes. What about him?" the guard asked, taking his stance.
"He's a Master Martialist."
The bitterness in Ghrosweav's voice said everything.
The moment they heard the word Master, the driver bolted.
You can't be serious, he thought, running without looking back—until a hole opened in the back of his skull, struck by a tiny uneven stone.
The source was the Master himself.
Masters—a realm of martial arts few ever reached.
Normally, a person could enhance their body once; the talented, twice. Any more, and veins would burst, sending shock through the brain and heart—causing paralysis, stroke, or death.
To become a Master, one must shatter and rebuild their bones repeatedly—seven times—creating the Seven-Direction Human Body. This body extended life from 120 to 200 years and could even resist bullets with advanced hardening techniques.
And that was only the beginning of the Master realm.
Once, long ago, the young heir of a renowned family raped and killed a girl. Her father went to the police, only to be beaten and jailed. He died in misery soon after.
One by one, his family members died—accidents, disappearances—until only the youngest son remained. Ten years later, he returned. No longer a boy, but a god of war—a Martial Master.
He stormed the family's vast estate, guarded by hundreds of fighters, hidden gunmen, and professionals. He fought for two days straight—and massacred them all.
Then he burned their estate to the ground and vanished.
That was how Masters earned their most feared title:
Tireless Killing Machines.
Back to the present. The looks on their faces turned grim.
"Any last words?" the Master asked with a calm smile.
After a pause, the Madame fell to her knees.
"Take me. It's me you want. Please… let them go. I beg you."
"Madame, you shouldn't—"
Ghrosweav barely finished before dodging another stone thrown at lightning speed.
"Oh ho... what do we have here? A talented one, aren't you?" The Master's eyes gleamed with interest.
"Let's play a game," he said.
Yet—
In the very next moment, a gruesome and unexpected being appeared before their eyes.