Chapter 133: Breach
With a massive release of kinetic force, the security guard was sent flying
backward even faster than he had charged.
Abaki successfully snipped her fishing line just before the dark Nen corruption
could reach her rod. But though the line was severed, the creeping "erosion"
didn't stop at the cut. Instead, it continued to drift through the air,
relentlessly tracking the residual aura toward Abaki's position.
What is this? she thought, her eyes widening. Is it locking onto the frequency
of my aura instead of the physical medium?
If so, the attack was inevitable. Abaki retreated rapidly, trying to put
distance between herself and the creeping shadow.
Her assessment was correct. The erosion moved slowly, and she noticed that with
every inch it traveled, the "Ryan Glas" mannequin on the stage shriveled and
shrank. It seemed that the mannequin's entire mass was being converted into this
tracking curse. Eventually, if it failed to find a target, the energy would
simply dissipate.
But the question was: would the guards give her enough time to kite the ability?
The guard Norman had kicked didn't stay down. He climbed out of the wreckage of
the theater seats, seemingly unbothered by a blow that would have shattered a
normal man's ribs.
Within the entire Macabre Menagerie, only three performers were Nen users.
Lisa, the two-headed girl, was a non-combatant. That left only Abaki and Norman
to face a private army. Breaking out through the reinforced exits seemed like an
impossible dream.
Maybe I can just buy enough time for Norman, Abaki thought. If he can break a
hole in the wall and escape, he can tell the world what the Glas Clan really is.
Her hand reached into her pocket, brushing against the crumpled, sweat-stained
poster of the man she had never had the chance to visit.
Her fingers paused for a microsecond.
The days she had spent training with Hisoka in the old troupe were the fondest
memories of her life. She regretted that she would never see him again. She also
realized she had never quite figured out what she would say to him if she did.
Abaki snapped back to reality. Her hands moved with a fisherman's practiced
grace, yanking a fresh spool of line from her belt and magically fusing it to
the rod's eyelets.
The hook at the end of the line flickered and vanished into a micro-spatial
fold. Abaki stopped moving, closing her eyes to feel the vibrations in the air.
She looked like a veteran angler waiting for a legendary catch.
Norman moved to stand in front of her, his massive centaur frame acting as a
biological shield.
The rest of the troupe had reacted too. They pulled various weapons from hidden
compartments beneath the stage—maces, saws, and sharpened props. It seemed this
group of outcasts had long since prepared for the day their "patrons" turned on
them.
They had been so excited when the invitation from the Royal Glas arrived. They
had rehearsed until they collapsed, wanting to give their best performance on
the world's most prestigious stage. And their reward? The greedy, murderous gaze
of an aristocrat.
The world is rotten to the core, Norman thought, his aura flaring.
The Yeti-man, the circus's heavy hitter, hoisted a shield the size of a heavy
door. He roared and charged toward a group of black-suited guards.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Gunfire erupted. The bullets weren't aimed at the Yeti—whose fur was too
valuable to ruin—but at the performers behind him who were deemed "worthless" by
Ryan's standards.
The Yeti's shield was unstoppable—until a single guard in a sharp black suit
caught it with one hand.
With that one simple gesture, the Yeti's momentum was killed.
The guard's arm bulged, his suit sleeve shredding as he unleashed a surge of
Nen. He ripped the heavy shield out of the Yeti's hands and swung it back,
aiming a lethal edge at the creature's skull.
Ryan's orders were clear: "Pristine specimens." A blunt-force trauma to the head
was the best way to preserve the fur.
But the shield stopped in mid-air.
Another figure, roughly the same size as the guard but radiating a far more
terrifying presence, had intercepted the blow.
It was Ronin. He had appeared via Flying Raijin the moment the shooting started.
Ronin wasn't going to let the troupe be slaughtered. He had held back initially
to gauge the abilities of Abaki and Norman, but the situation had deteriorated
too fast.
Looking at Norman, Ronin noted a fundamental flaw. The Ringmaster had Conjured a
horse's lower body, but his combat style was pure Enhancer. By using a category
that was poorly suited to his natural affinity, he had handicapped his own power
by at least two tiers. A proper Enhancer kick from a man that size should have
turned the guard into paste; instead, the guard was back on his feet in seconds.
As for Abaki, he was still waiting to see what she could "hook." If she came up
empty, he'd have to step in.
Ronin's arrival drew every eye in the theater.
He scanned the room, his Sharingan searching for Ryan Glas. To his surprise, he
couldn't find the man's signature among the survivors.
Did he already slip away?
The guard who had tried to crush the Yeti's head stared at Ronin. He made a
quick assessment based on Ronin's sudden appearance.
An Emitter? A teleporter?
Taking a teleportation specialist in close quarters is easy money for an
Enhancer, the guard thought.
He released the shield and lunged at Ronin, his fist glowing with aura.
No tricks. No flashy techniques. Just a straight punch aimed to kill.
But his "ultimate weapon" failed. Ronin didn't dodge. He simply reached out and
caught the guard's fist in his palm.
Ronin's grip tightened.
Crunch.
The sound of shattering metacarpals filled the quiet theater, followed by the
guard's agonizing scream.
In that heartbeat, the guard realized his mistake. Ronin wasn't an Emitter
trying to play at melee. He was an Enhancer whose AOP (Actual Output Power) was
so high it formed a total, crushing wall.
He was being physically erased.
☆☆☆
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