Unfortunately for Lori, his fate had been sealed long before the fight even began.
Ten seconds later, he lay unconscious on the ground.
Marc gazed at the motionless assassin. His suit clung to him, drenched, while his hair fanned across the wet floor, drifting in the shallow pool that had gathered there.
Something about it unsettled Marc. He had become too strong. Lori was no ordinary opponent—he had been one of the most dangerous men alive. Trained in countless martial arts, skilled in every method of killing, he was the kind of fighter who could topple even seasoned professionals with ease.
And yet Marc had not suffered a single blow. Lori hadn't even managed to strike. It was as if an insect had dared to face a human.
That was why Marc felt a pang of pity. He knew how arduous the path of martial mastery was; he had spent months on it himself. Even with his prodigious instincts and his unnaturally fast growth, true mastery would have taken him years of relentless practice. And yet, his aura meant that he didn't need all that time to defeat an assassin who had been trained since he was 12 years old.
He had heard Christina's stories, so he knew just how much he had suffered. Even though Marc had endured his own pain, over time, Lori had been immersed in the world of assassins far longer.
That was why he felt a pang of pity for the man he had just defeated so effortlessly, now lying unconscious on the ground.
"Sorry."
But he had no time to dwell on his sympathy, for a horde of soldiers suddenly poured out of the military building to apprehend the enemy.
Those already present closed in around him, making sure he had no chance to escape.
From a certain point of view, one might think Marc was surrounded and in a perilous position.
Yet Marc turned toward them with calm composure, a faint smile spreading across his lips.
In an amused tone, he said:
"In my opinion, I'm going to have to break a few bones here and there."
Rachel arrived a little later on the small battlefield. All the soldiers now lay scattered on the ground. The rain carried streams of blood toward her shoes.
It was inhuman...
The idea that a single man could have done all this was unthinkable.
She found Lori in the middle of what looked like corpses and held her umbrella over his head. Lori slowly opened his eyes, noticing the presence of his sister.
Then Rachel spoke in a completely neutral voice.
"Well, you really got beaten down, poor thing."
Lori didn't reply, so she turned her head slightly, admiring the magnificent handiwork.
"I suppose it was probably Jin or Marc Zeymond. Either way, even we can't do anything against them."
Still, Lori remained silent, his face just as unreadable as his sister's.
"You know, plenty of nicknames are given out in times of war. We'll get one too if we keep going like this. We're strong, that's a fact, but not as strong as them. You know what they've already called him, don't you?"
This time, Lori's interest seemed to flicker. He raised an eyebrow slightly.
"No."
Rachel replied calmly.
"The Death of War. The standing order is to unleash heavy artillery the moment he's spotted. Clearly, you weren't heavy enough."
Lori slowly pushed himself up on his elbows and spoke to Rachel with a cold voice.
"You're talking a lot today. What's wrong with you?"
Rachel slowly tilted her head.
"I talk a lot when I'm stressed."
Lori's expression shifted, betraying a trace of surprise.
"You? Stressed? Doesn't look like it... To me, you'll always be the emotionless doll, Rachel."
Rachel allowed herself a faint, amused smile that barely touched her face.
"I know. Let it stay that way in your eyes...until the day you perish."
Marc was now hidden atop a building—an apartment block, six stories high, standing in the middle of the city. From up there, he was deep in thought, trying to figure out where his books might be.
"That truck was just a decoy… or maybe it had nothing to do with it? They were probably just rotating the soldiers. Damn it. Did they bring the books to the Emperor? That would complicate things. I could storm the royal palace easily enough, but…"
Marc glanced beneath his armor. A wound had reopened during the fight with the soldiers from the military base. One of them had managed, brilliantly, to catch him off guard and land a bullet right where his armor was weakest.
"That bastard Aeros won't leave me alone. His aura was on those soldiers. They've never been this strong… and since I can't go back to the other world, my own aura stays stable, growing only slowly. I'm not gaining power fast enough."
The wound, however, was healing quickly. In just a short span, not only had the flesh closed, but the armor itself was mending as though nothing had happened—infused with Marc's dark aura.
"…Well, that's new."
It was the first time he had seen his aura repair what he wore. Normally, it only sped up his healing, ensuring his injuries never lingered for long. But this? His aura reinforcing his armor...it was unexpected. Something to remember for later, though for now, it wouldn't change much.
Marc adjusted his armor again. His gaze drifted to Emperor Garid's palace, clearly visible from where he stood. To stop the riders of the apocalypse, he needed his books, at any cost. And if the Emperor had them personally, then they would be inside that palace.
Maybe…
He readied himself to move when suddenly, a light flashed across the entire city. Intense, blinding, yet brief—so fierce that anyone who saw it would be left sightless for at least a minute.
Marc froze. A horrifying thought struck him.
He had seen this light before...
He had seen it during the Empire's nuclear tests. The first of a long line of the most devastating weapons ever conceived.
"A-42."
An immense bomb, fired from what they called a Kurk. A one-hundred-meter-long launch device weighing one hundred forty-seven tons. Once drilled into the ground by massive augers, all it required was to load the warhead and press the right button. Garida had thousands of these, stored away like toys of war, unused only because they had no need.
The bomb would be launched at over eight thousand kilometers per hour, beginning a long journey that could last half a day. If it failed to strike its target, it was equipped with thrusters, allowing it not only to change trajectory but to extend its range by hundreds of kilometers if necessary. A marvel of technology, proudly unveiled to the public during a grand ceremony. Garid's words from that day echoed in Marc's mind:
"The security of Garida is matched only by its golden glory."
Marc remembered that dreadful smile of the Emperor. He remembered himself standing in the crowd, watching his sovereign on the platform.
Back then, he had been puzzled. The results were undeniable, but still, he couldn't shake the thought: if war ever came, hundreds of thousands would die. And that thought unsettled him. He had never loved death—neither his own, nor that of others.
Yet he had been reassured, if only faintly. Deep down, he believed no one would dare disturb them without reason.
But now, he was no longer so certain. His memory twisted.
Aeros's aura appeared behind Garid. In an instant, the crowd around Marc was gone,replaced by a carpet of corpses, burning in the flames. Marc's eyes widened, but he refused to look away from the Emperor. He would not turn his gaze to the dead. He fixed it instead on the man responsible, and on his monstrous smile. Aeros's aura smiled too, looming behind him, turning the air thick and oppressive.
Suddenly, a missile launched from behind the Emperor. A great explosion roared, the shockwave sweeping everything away—the bodies, the ground itself. The sound was so deafening, it could have shattered every eardrum in the crowd… if the crowd had still been alive.
Marc turned to follow the bomb's furious trajectory. The night sky overlapped with the distorted vision of his memory. Soon, the bomb reappeared in his sightline, tearing above his head at unrelenting speed before passing indifferently beyond.
His twisted memory collapsed all at once. Reality rushed back into him. He stood frozen, a statue, until one terrible thought jolted him back into motion.
This time, it was real. And one thing was certain..
"I have to stop it."
In an instant, Marc vanished from the rooftop where he had been, following the missile's trajectory. By now, he was fast enough to run along walls for long distances, and so he descended the building and sprinted onto the street below.
The glass doors of the building behind him shattered with a deafening crash, but Marc paid no mind. He had to intercept the missile.
He surged past the speed of sound, overturning cars in his path as he ran. Every step was measured, precise, ensuring he never lost sight of the missile as it streaked forward, forcing him to veer sharply left and right, tracking its every movement.
Then, at a critical moment, he shouted:
"Now!!"
He drew a deep breath, preparing to leap. The plan was straightforward: deflect the missile skyward and detonate it far above. Simple in theory, but in execution, it demanded tremendous strength and a strike capable of piercing the missile's armor. That was ...impossible...but Marc didn't care.
Above all, he had to reach it. Doubt gnawed at him. The missile hovered at least a hundred meters above, and he had never attempted a jump of this magnitude. Even with his aura, he questioned whether he could reach it.
Without hesitation, he braced his legs, channeling every ounce of power into the highest leap of his life. It was this or nothing. This or countless innocents would die. He had to ensure his parents' safety.
His aura surged, propelling him over ninety meters into the air.
The wind tore across his face as he approached the missile, his momentum dwindling dangerously.
Suddenly, the horrible thought that he wouldn't be able to have it surfaced.
"I'm not going to make it…"
The missile drew closer, hurtling toward the Empire of Zvenne. Somewhere, his parents, Elie, Emperor Turcan, and Exorian could be. Perhaps even an entire city of innocents. He had to stop it. He had to..but his leap lacked power and he was still meters short.
It was over…
Horror contorted his face. His heart felt unbearably heavy. The weight of his emotions threatened to crush him. His aura no longer buoyed him. He plummeted, the missile racing toward its destination, his mind consumed by a storm of dread and despair.
Had he already failed? Could he truly protect anyone?
Marc was drowning. Drowning in air...but even more, drowning in despair and terror. The night darkened around him, time itself slowing, while his white mask betrayed no emotion. Instead, it gleamed in the cold moonlight.
For a fleeting moment, it was strangely beautiful...a tragic perfection.
"But this can't be the end…"
With a sudden surge, Marc clenched his fist, fury and resolve igniting in his chest. His aura swelled violently, radiating outward in every direction.
He began his descent—but then, he propelled his aura downward. The thrust gained him precious meters, just enough to reach the missile.
It hovered mere inches above him. One hair's breadth from failure. Yet Marc's teeth were clenched, his gaze fixed.
He extended his hand, desperation coursing through every fiber of him—and miraculously, he gripped the missile's side.
"I've got you!"