"Leaving so soon?"
The Vanguard's voice slithered through the air—strange, resonant, heavy with oppressive power. He walked forward casually, one foot kicking open a fire hydrant as if swatting aside a toy.
Water geysered into the air.
His muscles responded.
The effect was immediate—visceral—his entire physique swelling, bulging, growing. Within seconds, he towered over three meters, a small giant silhouetted against the spray.
Blizzard of Hell's blood ran cold.
This one is different. Completely different.
Where were the A-Class Heroes? How had this thing breached the front lines? And the Hero Association's battle updates—silence.
She glanced skyward. A helicopter buzzed into view—news crew, probably.
A black line swept across.
The helicopter crumpled like paper. It spiraled downward in flames. No parachute. No survivors.
S-Class. This requires S-Class intervention.
Her mind raced through tactical calculations: stall, let the others retreat, then extract herself. That was the play.
But first—first blood.
Her psychic power lashed out. Fuel tanks ruptured across the street. Gasoline flooded the pavement, and she caught it with her will, whipping it into a spiraling vortex around the Vanguard.
"Fire."
A flick of her wrist. A windproof lighter's flame.
WHOOSH.
The gasoline ignited. The Vanguard vanished behind a curtain of roaring fire and black smoke.
Hellish Blizzard's Cremation.
"Fubuki Group—RETREAT. NOW."
"But big sis—"
"GO."
They hesitated—too long. A car bumper tore through the flames like a missile, sending several members flying.
"RUN!"
This time, they ran. Carrying the wounded. Not looking back.
Blizzard of Hell stood alone, deflecting a hail of debris—car doors, chunks of pavement, twisted rebar. Her psychic power drained with each deflection. Her nose began to bleed.
Then—nothing.
The floating wreckage clattered to the ground. The fire tornado dissipated to ash.
The Vanguard stood in the center of the devastation.
Alive.
His skin was shredded. His surface charred black. But he breathed. He stood. He smiled.
"HAHAHAHAHA~!" His laugh was wet, ragged, triumphant. "The King's blood flows in my veins, human. And now—" the burst hydrant sprayed him anew, water soaking into cracked flesh, accelerating his regeneration "—I'm wet again. Your little fire was impressive. But not enough."
He charged.
Not fast—devastating. Each step cracked pavement. He drew back his foot like a soccer player lining up a penalty kick.
"DIE. "
Blizzard of Hell's last reserves condensed into a barrier—thin, desperate, barely coherent.
The kick connected.
The barrier held—barely. But the force transferred through, launching her backward like a ragdoll, faster than any sprint, faster than any fall.
This is it.
Despair flooded through her. The ground was coming. Or a wall. Or nothing at all, just the endless impact that would shatter her spine and scatter her consciousness.
Goodbye, sister. Goodbye, everyone.
Her life flashed before her eyes—childhood, training, the Fubuki Group's founding, the endless climb toward recognition—
WHUMP.
Impact.
But not ground. Not wall.
Arms.
She blinked. A face swam into focus above her—handsome, calm, faintly amused.
"Oh my, Miss Blizzard of Hell." Akira's voice was warm, almost playful. "We really are fated."
"...Mr. Akira?"
She lay in his arms, cradled against his chest, his hands positioned—improperly, intimately—one supporting her back, the other...
She felt pressure. There.
"I'm dead?" she whispered.
His hands shifted—deliberately, she suspected—and she scrambled off him like a scalded cat, face burning, heart hammering.
This man. Where is he touching? If my psychic power wasn't depleted, I would—
She looked around. Two long furrows scored the pavement behind them—Akira's footsteps, gouged into solid concrete as he'd braced to catch her.
He stopped my momentum. From a dead sprint. Without moving.
"Why are you here?" The questions tumbled out, half-accusation, half-confusion. "Were you trying to be a hero? Were you following me?"
Akira sighed, gesturing behind him. "I admit your appearance and figure are exceptional, Miss Blizzard of Hell. But not so exceptional that I'd orchestrate a Monster attack as a pickup strategy."
He pointed.
"I have amnesia, remember? Yesterday, I recalled that I own property here. That property."
She followed his finger.
A beautiful three-story Western-style mansion. White walls, blue roof, a small yard with a swimming pool that glittered in the fading light. Easily 100 million yen. Probably more.
And scattered around the yard's perimeter—dozens of Monster corpses. Evidence of a one-man war fought and won before she'd even arrived.
He fought through all of them. To get home.
Her gaze returned to the Vanguard, who was advancing again, steam rising from his regenerating flesh.
"Mr. Akira, that Monster survived my cremation. He's not ordinary Ghost-level. We need to—"
"Ghost-level?" Akira cracked his neck. Rolled his shoulders. Smiled. "No problem."
"This isn't ordinary Ghost—"
"Miss Blizzard of Hell." He stepped past her, placing himself between her and the Vanguard. "I've already killed half a dozen Ghost-level Monsters tonight just getting to my front door."
He raised one hand, fingers curling in a come here gesture.
"One more won't make a difference."
Fire hydrants exploded along the street—one, two, four—water geysering into the night. A figure on the far sidewalk accelerated, each footstep cracking pavement.
"Human! You're still alive?" The Vanguard's voice was a grinding roar. "This time, I'll pound you into paste!"
His wounds had closed—not fully, not cleanly, but enough. Water had done its work. His face remained a horror show: flesh scraped away, teeth and bone visible, but he moved. He charged.
Fubuki's heart seized.
In my current state, I can't help him. If he falls, we both die.
The Vanguard's charge was unstoppable—a freight train given flesh, a battering ram with murderous intent. How could anyone win against that?
"Run!" she shouted.
"Watch my villa!" he shouted back.
They stared at each other.
Then Akira laughed—genuine, amused, utterly inappropriate for the moment.
"Help me shield the villa," he said, rolling his shoulders. "I don't want blood splashing on the walls."
He moved.
Faster than the Vanguard. Faster than Fubuki's eyes could track. He ripped two streetlights from their concrete bases—one in each hand—and launched into the air, spinning like a dervish, like a top wound too tight, like a blender.
[Ambidexterity — ACTIVATED]
Dual-wielding proficiency: +50%
[Swordsmanship Mastery — STACKED]
Two-Sword Style: Windmill Slash
The Vanguard's rage detonated. "PUNY HUMAN—YOU DARE LOOK DOWN ON ME?!"
He planted his feet. Poured everything into his right arm. The air around his fist shimmered—heated by speed, distorted by force.
"SUPERSONIC PUNCH! "
Fubuki's breath caught.
He's in the air. No leverage. No dodge. It's—
OVER.
A flash.
Not of steel—of movement. Akira twisted mid-spin, his body folding through a gap that shouldn't have existed, shouldn't have been possible.
[Backstabber — ACTIVATED]
SHING.
Two strikes. One motion.
The Vanguard's right arm separated at the shoulder. His head separated at the neck.
Both sailed through the air in lazy, wet arcs.
His punch hit nothing—empty air, scattered water, a memory of violence. Confusion flooded his remaining features.
How?
He saw Akira standing in the distance, back turned, streetlights dripping dark fluid.
A diversion. He—
His vision spun. Tumbled. The ground rushed up.
He saw his own body—still standing, still armless, still headless—before darkness claimed him forever.
Fubuki stared at the collapsing corpse. At the blood spraying in controlled arcs—away from the villa, away from the pristine white walls.
He did that. Casually. Like swatting a fly.
"Mr. Akira." Her voice emerged hoarse. "I suggest you withdraw temporarily."
He turned, eyebrow raised.
"That Monster—the one that sent me flying—he was Ghost-level. I used everything I had and couldn't scratch him." She swallowed. "Your speed and strength are A-Class, certainly. But against something like that—"
"Miss Blizzard of Hell." Akira's voice was gentle. Almost kind. "I killed half a dozen Ghost-level Monsters on my way here tonight."
He gestured at the scattered corpses around the villa's perimeter.
"That one was just the last."