Chapter11:
I rolled out of the car and scanned the outpost.
Flames chewed through tents and vehicles. Explosions cracked the night sky, bursts of orange and white flashing through smoke. The staccato rattle of gunfire echoed sharp and relentless.
Three faceless gunmen broke from cover and leveled their rifles at me. My instincts kicked in.
A pulse of displaced air, and I was suddenly behind them. My lightsaber hissed to life, the hum cutting clean through the chaos. One swing—two went down in pieces. The third fired wildly, panic in every shot, until another burst of air placed me behind him.
He stumbled back, reaching for a knife. "Freak—"
I didn't let him finish. The blade cleaved through him, and he fell without a sound.
Turning back toward the car, I caught sight of Anna crouched low, shielding Zemo behind the open door. Two more corpses in black armor lay sprawled nearby. Zemo, ever calm, knelt beside one, prying a pistol from its limp hand.
I blinked again, reappearing beside them. Zemo had a knife pressed to a bleeding throat, interrogating one of the dying gunmen. Anna stood guard, using the broken car door as a makeshift shield, her sleeve spattered with blood.
"You okay?" I asked.
She nodded, breathing hard but steady. "Fine. You?"
"Peachy," I said, watching Zemo's expression twist darker.
A thud behind us. Zemo muttered a curse and wiped his knife on the man's uniform. Gunfire still roared in the distance.
He gave my lightsaber a long, appraising look before shaking his head and turning back toward the outpost, his expression settling into a cold scowl.
"Time to go?" I asked, jerking my chin toward the car.
"No." He crouched and inspected one of the fallen rifles. "I have men in there. I'm not leaving them to die."
I grimaced. "Thought so."
Zemo holstered the pistol. "Adler, the man I was taking you to meet, is in there. The best forger alive. He can make you a real identity, one that even Interpol won't look twice at. He's a bastard, but he honors his debts. If you help, he'll repay it tenfold."
I glanced at the flames clawing higher. "Let me guess..." I waved toward the very much on fire compound. "He's deep in there."
Zemo nodded. "He keeps his workshop in the deepest areas and surrounded by the most guards. Likely the central levels. You'll know him when you see him, he's too gaudy to miss."
"Figures." I turned to Anna. "Go with Zemo. Make sure he doesn't get himself killed."
She frowned. "And what about you? Gonna get yourself shot again?"
"Please. Like these guys could hit me." I flexed, mostly to lighten the air.
Anna punched my shoulder. "Be careful, idiot."
She took off after Zemo, who was already moving toward the perimeter—probably where his men were stationed.
Above, my crow circled through the smoke. Little bastard had been serving as overwatch.
I pointed toward Anna. "Keep an eye on her."
It cawed once, then veered after them. Smart bird. Useless in a fight, but still.
When they vanished from sight, I blinked closer to the burning outpost and broke into a run.
I wanted to believe this was a random mercenary hit, but deep down, I knew better. Hydra had its claws buried deep in Sokovia by the time of the Avengers. Cracking down on the black-market and taking control would definitely fit their modus operandi.
The movies never showed it, but it made sense.
And even if it hadn't, the faint pull of that damned fate-penalty couldn't have made it more obvious.
Ah, screw it. No time like the present.
[Rolling Platinum Gacha Ticket]
[No Peeking]
Epic Trait
Information Gathering doesn't work against you, scrying spells fall apart, precognition fails, and cameras stop recording.
Okay, useful. I'll take it.
I kicked through a scorched door. The corridor beyond was narrow and half-dark, lights flickering in and out. Smoke leaked through cracks in the ceiling, and small fires burned along the walls.
"Fantastic," I muttered.
Teleporters' worst nightmare. Too many corners, too little visibility. I'd have to rely on speed instead.
I slotted in and activated Blessing. A faint glow spread through my body, heat pooling in my limbs as energy surged outward.
Again.
[Rolling Platinum Gacha Ticket]
[Thunder breathing]
Elite Skill
Demon Slayer - Thunder Breathing is a specialized swordsmanship style and breathing technique that mimics lightning, specifically swift strikes and movements akin to lightning ripping through the sky, and replicates it with the user's movements, techniques and abilities. Most, if not all, known techniques and forms involve utilizing blinding speeds and immensely fast attacks to overwhelm the enemy in an instant. With magical power, thunder can be manifested to further augment the power of the style.
Ohhh, fuck yeah.
It clicked into place immediately—like riding a bike. My grip adjusted. Air flowed in steadily and coldly. My body knew the motions as if I'd trained them for years.
I took a deep breath and moved.
Thunder Breathing lets a normal human move at superhuman speeds. With Blessing stacked on top, it felt like my legs were running on air.
The floor blurred beneath me, the world narrowing into streaks of smoke and flame. Corpses lay scattered through the hall, bodies folded in half or burned from the blasts. The smell of ozone and gunpowder clung thick to the air.
Up ahead, faceless armored soldiers fired down a long corridor. Their muzzle flashes blinked like strobe lights in the dark.
I stopped at the corner, feet planted, lightsaber drawn low.
Breathe in.
"Ichi no kata."
The words slipped out like I'd said them a thousand times before.
Shouts erupted down the hall as Hydra soldiers spotted me. Their rifles lifted, barrels gleaming under flickering light.
"Hekireki Issen."
Time fractured. One heartbeat, I stood at the threshold; the next, I was already across the hall. My lightsaber carved a clean horizontal arc, an electric flash that split the dark.
When the world snapped back, there was only silence and the faint hiss of cauterized wounds. The bodies fell together.
A glimpse of movement down a side corridor caught my eye—green uniforms, not Hydra. A man peeked out from cover, wide-eyed and trembling. I didn't stop to speak to him.
Another breath, and I moved.
The air burned in my lungs, but the sensation was intoxicating. Caution fell away, replaced by speed.
I tore through the outpost like lightning, lightsaber flashing in rhythm with my heartbeat. Each swing carried the precision of practice and the recklessness of instinct.
Ordinary humans used Total Concentration Breathing to fight demons. I, armed with a Blessing and a lightsaber, was a demon hunter on crack.
The air cracked around me, my blade singing through smoke and fire. Somewhere between motion and breath, laughter broke out of me.
Satisfaction burned hot in my heart. Cutting down these bastards who thought they ruled the world filled my chest until it ached.
Maybe it was the euphoria. Maybe it was the technique syncing perfectly with my body. Either way, I didn't stop.
I dashed through the outpost, every turn sharper, every strike faster. The corridors blurred. Light became streaks. There was only the line ahead of me, and I was the blade riding it.
Hydra soldiers filled the hallways—a dozen, maybe more—but they were only targets. Wheat before the sickle. My breathing, measured and perfect, let me slip between their moments. They fired, but I was already gone.
I stopped thinking, letting instinct and rhythm take control.
A narrow storage alcove flashed past my peripheral vision, and I used it. One hand caught the wall. My feet pushed off the concrete, vaulting up and over. I landed on the ceiling and kicked away. My boots hit a man's shoulder just as he fumbled for a grenade. I twisted, slicing through his belt before he could pull the pin. The detonator clattered harmlessly to the floor.
My lightsaber flashed again. Two shooters dropped before they even realized I'd moved. One collapsed mid-breath; the other folded like paper.
At the next turn, I ran the walls—floor, wall, ceiling, wall again. My body obeyed before thought could catch up. A support beam gave me lift, and I vaulted across a line of Hydra soldiers crouched behind cover. My blade swept through the haze, tracing silver arcs where their throats had been.
The air buzzed like a bottled thunderstorm. I laughed as my lightsaber hummed and the air sparked as I passed.
Another room. Five men—two with rifles, one with a bandolier of explosives, one hefting a flamethrower, and the last clutching a shotgun with shaking hands.
The flamethrower spat a line of orange heat. It felt slow, predictable. My instincts painted the path before it came.
I slid under a bundle of hanging cables, planted my palms, and launched upward. My feet hit ceiling tiles. I twisted, spinning over the stream of fire. It missed by inches, scorching the spot I'd just vacated.
The flamethrower roared again. I landed on his back. The weight drove him forward, crashing into the shotgun wielder. They tangled together, off balance. My blade cut through both, a single clean arc of plasma.
The three left struggled to keep up. I didn't let them.
"Ni no kata: Inadama"
Five arced slashes flashed forward, and in the next instant, three Hydra mooks hit the floor in pieces.
When I stopped moving, my chest was heaving. The last strike had felt ceremonial, like closing a loop. My legs trembled, heat and exhaustion crawling up through the rush.
A storm in human shape.
I laughed, even as it hurt. Even as my lungs burned.
[Feat Achieved! Massacre!]
[1 Silver Gacha Ticket.]
The notification flickered in front of my eyes, and I let out a long breath.
The smell of blood and ozone hit first. Smoke curled from a hole in the wall, carrying distant echoes of fighting.
For one long, sharp breath, I stood in the quiet—surrounded by bodies and heat and pulsing light.
Then I exhaled, and that euphoria seemed to peter out.
Where the hell was I?
I blinked hard. The world still hummed from the aftershock. The corridor behind me looked like a war-crime exhibit—Hydra mooks lay out in ugly, twisted rows. The smell didn't help.
"Damn…"
My stomach turned. Not enough to make me stop looking, just enough to remind me I was still human. Maybe I'd gone too far. Maybe not.
I forced a deep breath, and my heartbeat eased. My legs still felt like someone had yanked gravity halfway out of the room.
A distant rumble rolled down the hallway. Metal scraped. From behind a toppled shelf, an older man in a green uniform crawled out—definitely not Hydra. He clutched his side, face pale, eyes huge. He looked at me the way people look at ghosts who happened to enjoy hobby-grade dismemberment.
"Hey," I said, lowering the blade a fraction. "You all right?"
His eyes popped. "Eeeek! D—DAEMON!" The word came out half-scream, half-gasp, before he spun and bolted faster than most athletes.
I watched him go. "Hey, who the hell are you calling…" I started, then stopped. Looked down.
Yeah. Okay. Covered in blood. Gore streaked my clothes; the hall was painted in what used to be people. To anyone else, I probably did look like a demon.
"...Huh. Am I evil?" I asked out loud.
I didn't really feel bad about cutting down Hydra mooks. If anything, there was a sharp, vindictive satisfaction simmering under my ribs. That part worried me a little, not gonna lie. What was the saying again?
Absolute power corrupts absolutely
Options flickered through my head: introspection, guilt, or maybe talk about it.
So what did I choose to do? Of course, what any healthy adult does!
Ignore it until it becomes a problem.
Another explosion ripped through the air, shaking me out of my introspection. The vibration rolled through the floor and up my legs.
I exhaled, drew in another breath, and pushed off. My body blurred forward, air vibrating with my sprint.
The next hallway opened up into something that probably used to look impressive. High ceilings, polished floors, fancy fixtures along the walls. I can faintly see the outline of a posh and vintage look; it must've gone for.
Now it was just a mess of shattered glass, melted metal, and scorch marks crawling up the walls like black veins.
I slowed. For once, it wasn't the chaos that stopped me; it was the squad waiting dead center in the hall.
Another unit. Full gear. Tight formation. Rifles raised. But these weren't the usual faceless mooks I'd been mowing down.
At the front stood a woman.
She wore the same featureless helmet, but her uniform was different—tailored, crisp even through the dust. A long black coat with red trim, medals glinting faintly through the smoke.
The most jarring part, though, was the glowing red orbs forming in her hands.
With a single motion, she flung them forward. They detonated like mortars, the explosions shaking the entire corridor. A vault door ahead of her buckled under the assault, metal screaming as she hammered it with another volley of crimson energy.
"Well, shit."
It made sense if they experimented on them…
The woman twitched, and her gaze locked on me.
Red light flared against her gloves, humming like a live wire.
Of course, Hydra had mutants. Because why the hell wouldn't they?
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