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Naruto : Chimera Ninja!
Naruto: Training is My Ninja Way
Soren let the silence stretch, then dropped the hook.
"Tell you what—how about you wake up her psychic gift first, then I'll spill the rest."
If Constantine refused to restore Angela's talent and the demons found another vessel, Soren could kiss those fat quest rewards and the Spear of Destiny goodbye.
"No way. I'm not dragging another person straight into Hell."
Constantine's jaw tightened. He'd already lived through that nightmare once.
"Constantine, this isn't your call anymore."
Soren's voice stayed even. "Mammon's descent is happening whether we like it or not. You've seen the chaos in Los Santos lately."
"Those demons aren't out here sightseeing."
Constantine's face darkened. He didn't want to admit it, but the streets were crawling with the bastards.
"Even if you don't wake her up, can you guarantee Mammon won't just grab someone else with the gift?"
"Or that you can babysit her 24/7 and keep every demon off her back?"
Soren leaned in, tone smooth and reasonable. "Since we can't stop the train, we might as well get on it first. Restore her powers. That puts the ball in our court—we'll know what's coming before it hits."
Constantine's eyes narrowed. He knew that exact pitch. It was the same line of bullshit he used when he needed cannon fodder.
Angela's voice cut through, hard and final. "If it stops the monsters that killed my sister, I'll do whatever it takes."
Between Soren's logic and Angela's plea, Constantine finally caved. He raked a hand through his hair, muttering curses.
"Fine. Follow me back to my place. I need to set some things up."
He shot Soren a glare, then led Angela out of the room.
Soren watched them go, then turned to Carrie. "We've got our own prep work."
Carrie tilted her head. "What are we doing, Mr. Soren?"
"Setting the table early."
Mammon's descent was going down right here in this psychiatric hospital. Soren didn't know what tricks the demons had lined up, but he wasn't about to get caught flat-footed.
...
Underground water reservoir, Ravenscroft Psychiatric Hospital.
Soren scanned the dim concrete chamber. The glass skylight overhead still hadn't been repaired—the exact spot where Isabel had jumped weeks ago.
In Western occult terms, water was the bridge between the living world and Hell, a purifying medium. Perfect location for a demon prince to cross over.
A low voice drifted from the shadows. "Soren, when the hell are you paying me the five million you still owe?"
Papa Midnight stepped out, cane tapping, face sour.
"And what fresh nightmare are you dragging me into this time?"
"Finish this job and I'll square everything at once," Soren said, not even blinking, even though his account was bone-dry.
He pointed at the dark pool below. "I need a kill array set up right here."
Papa Midnight took half a step back. "What the hell are you hunting now? Another demon god?"
After the last time Soren had stiffed him, the voodoo kingpin wasn't taking chances.
"Relax, it's just a few regular demons," Soren said, all sincerity. "Got anything with extra punch?"
Papa Midnight stared, unconvinced. Extra punch for regular demons? Yeah, right. Not a single word out of this kid's mouth could be trusted.
He chewed it over, then named his price. "Ten million."
"Done," Soren answered instantly.
Papa Midnight's stomach dropped. The kid agreeing that fast was never a good sign.
He glanced around the reservoir. "Who exactly are you going after? Satan himself?"
Before Soren could answer, Papa Midnight threw up a hand. "Forget it. I'm not sticking around to run the array this time. I'll set a hair-trigger auto-activation and I'm gone."
"Deal."
Soren nodded.
The array probably wouldn't scratch a real heavy hitter, but every layer helped. Besides, his real insurance policy wasn't some fancy magic circle.
The [Yamato] one-time-use card sitting in his system inventory and the communicator that could summon Uncle Dante anytime—that was his actual ace.
...
Across town, in a cheap rental apartment.
Andrei slapped Clancy on the shoulder, eyes glued to the monitor. "How's the edit coming?"
The screen played their raw footage: Haddonfield, the mist-filled hardware store, all the way through Black Mountain Base.
Clancy rubbed his bloodshot eyes and saved the file. "Almost done…"
"But are we really uploading this? Soren warned us not to cause him trouble."
"His exact words were 'don't cause me trouble.'"
Andrei pointed at the screen. The figure wielding the massive sword was completely covered in thick mosaic from head to toe—just a vague human outline.
"Look at that blur. Even if he sat here and watched it himself, he wouldn't recognize himself. No way the internet will."
Clancy still looked torn.
Andrei squeezed his shoulder. "Relax, man. If he comes knocking, I'll take the heat."
"Think about the money. Think about your sister waiting on that tuition check."
"Once this drops, we're the hottest paranormal crew on the planet. Sponsors will be throwing cash at us."
Clancy stared at the screen, thought about the empty fridge at home, then gritted his teeth. He exported the file and hit upload.
A second later the confirmation popped up. Andrei let out a long breath and threw an arm around Clancy's neck.
"Chill, dude. I routed it through proxies, bounced the IP overseas, and posted it on a foreign occult forum. Nobody's tracing it back to us."
"Wipe that funeral face off and let's go eat. My treat. By the time we're done with dinner, we'll be stars."
...
Security & Containment Center.
Keyboards clacked nonstop in the dim control room. The country's best black-hat hackers sat glued to their screens, monitoring every corner of the net.
The second the heavily proxied video hit that obscure forum, their automated systems flagged it. Within moments the trace team had backtracked the upload location to a physical address.
"Sir, we have the uploader's position locked."
One tech pulled up street-cam footage.
Two men sat in a diner, shoveling food like it was their last meal—Andrei and Clancy.
Westen walked in, face like thunder.
After his unauthorized strike on Soren had ended in total loss, the higher-ups had chewed him out. Only the combat data he'd salvaged from the test subjects had saved his ass.
"Scene match complete?" Westen growled.
"Confirmed," the analyst replied, typing fast. "Footage starts at the hardware store in Bridgton, then moves through Black Mountain Base."
Westen's jaw clenched as he stared at the blurred figure. "Identity?"
The tech swallowed. "We cross-checked Andrei's recent socials with the combat metrics… the match is… Soren."
Westen slammed his fist on the console so hard the whole station rattled.
So the bastard really was systematically wiping out their satellite facilities. First the West Virginia forest outpost, now the Maine Black Mountain site.
Next time he showed up swinging that sword, would the target be this very building?
Those Armitage pricks had forbidden any direct move on Soren—said it would tip their hand too early.
Westen's eyes narrowed with pure venom.
He wasn't waiting around to die.
If the brass wouldn't act, he'd handle his own survival.
You didn't go after a monster like Soren head-on. But every man had a weakness.
A cold smile crept across his face.
If he couldn't touch Soren, he'd grab the people around him.
Like that girl Patty.
Once he had her, Soren would have no choice but to play ball.
"Dispatch a strike team to Los Santos. Grab the woman named Patty. Quietly—do not alert Soren."
Westen's voice was ice.
He glanced at the screen, at the monster sliced clean in half by one swing, and felt his eyelid twitch. Regular soldiers weren't going to cut it against this freak.
"Hold on."
He added, "Wake the Tyrant—T-02 prototype. Give it the same capture orders."
Only a high-tier demon-fused weapon like that could guarantee the job got done right.