Chapter 26: A Monster
The dial tone hissed in Ethan's ear, a cold trail of silence following Leo's frantic warning. Before Ethan could even process the weight of the word "run," his phone vibrated again. This time, it wasn't a contact. It was a private number.
Ethan answered, his Mind shifting into a state of hyper-analytical calm. He knew the more anxious he was, the more he couldn't get things done, so all he could do was calm himself.
A jagged, hysterical laugh came through the speaker before he could even say a word. "Ethan! Run... Because running just makes the hunt longer. I'm at the old Oakhaven Textile Factory on the edge of the county. You know the one—where the 'Ghosts' the likes of you go to die. I have someone here you might want to see, Ethan. Or maybe I just have a very deep hole waiting for you. Come alone. If I see a single police cruiser or one of your 'imaginary' security teams, the first thing I do is call Smith and tell him to finish the job on covering the hole... and maybe you'll be accompanying him."
The call ended. Ethan didn't hesitate. He didn't call the police. He didn't call Leo back. He walked out of the administrative building, ignoring the confused stares from the staff, and climbed into his sedan. He drove toward the industrial district, the engine of his modest car humming a funeral dirge.
The Oakhaven Factory was a skeletal ruin of rusted steel and shattered glass, a relic of an era when South River actually produced things. Now, it produced nothing but shadows. Ethan pulled his car into the center of the hollowed-out warehouse. He got out of his car and could faintly feel the aura of people about 50 meters from him. He felt this strange "lock on" sensation but didn't think much as he walked towards this aura.
The air was thick with the smell of damp concrete and ozone. As he stepped out, the silence was broken by the rhythmic thud of heavy boots. They all stared at Ethan wondering how he knew thier location. They knew he had arrived as the scout placed outside has notified them of his arrival, but they were just planning on calling him and sending him off to another location because they want him to be desperate and scared. Julian felt this will make some of the anger he felt toward Ethan dissipate a little.
As they wached Ethan walked towards them, from the darkness of the loading docks, men began to emerge. One, five, ten... soon, Ethan was circled by over twenty men. These weren't students. They were hired muscle, wearing scarred leather and carrying iron pipes, brass knuckles, and heavy-duty tactical batons.
In the center of the pack stood Julian. He looked like a man who had finally snapped. His hair was disheveled, standing up in oily tufts where he had run his hands through it in a frenzy. His expensive designer shirt was stained with sweat and grime, pulled taut across his chest as he gripped a heavy steel crowbar, tapping it rhythmically against his palm with a predatory focus.
"You really came," Julian mocked, his eyes wide and bloodshot, fixed in a manic stare. "You actually thought your little 'donation' stunt made you untouchable. Look around you, Ghost! Money doesn't matter when your skull is being cracked open on a floor no one visits."
Ethan looked at the twenty men. He knew he didn't know how to fight as he hadn't learned yet, but he knew his body was at the Pseudo Body Refining Stage. He didn't know what this means but he felt dealing with this group of people should be easy with power alone. Against absolute power, techniques is useless.
"Julian," Ethan said, his voice echoing in the vast, hollow space. "You brought twenty men to catch a ghost. You should have brought an army," he sneered.
At the moment, Julian felt a rush of anger consume him. Ethan was someone who didn't dear to look him in the eyes; no matter how much he bullied and embarrassed Ethan, he didn't dear to raise his head and look him in the eyes. But now the ghost he had always bullied now looked him in the eyes with ridicule and contempt. The sense of anger consumed him and he waved his hand and said, "Break his hands and legs!"
The first man to move was a giant of a human, a brute named Hammer who stood nearly seven feet tall. He swung a massive iron pipe in a horizontal arc designed to shatter Ethan's ribs. To the normal eye, the move was a blur. To Ethan's Peak Mind, it was moving in slow motion.
Ethan stepped into the strike, the pipe whistling past his spine by a fraction of an inch. Before the brute could recover, Ethan's palm struck the man's solar plexus with the force of a hydraulic press. The air left the giant's lungs in a sickening wheeze, and his eyes rolled back as he collapsed like a felled oak.
The second and third attackers moved in tandem—professional underground fighters Julian had scouted. They launched a flurry of coordinated kicks and jabs. Ethan moved like liquid and parried a roundhouse kick with his forearm, the impact sounding like a baseball bat hitting a tree. With a lightning-fast pivot, he caught the second man's throat, his fingers digging into the pressure points.
With a roar of effort, Ethan swung the second man into the third, the two of them colliding with a bone-jarring crunch of foreheads and they hit the concrete and didn't move.
The fourth attacker, a lean man with a serrated hunting knife, lunged from the shadows behind Ethan. He was fast and aiming for the kidney. Ethan didn't even turn around. He leaned forward, letting the blade slice through the air where his back had been, and delivered a devastating back-kick. His heel connected squarely with the man's chin. The sound of a shattering jaw echoed through the factory as the knife-wielder was lifted off his feet, flipping backward before landing in a heap of rusted machinery.
The fifth man, a scarred veteran with brass knuckles, tried to use the distraction to land a "sucker punch" to Ethan's temple. Ethan caught the fist mid-air. The brass knuckles ground against Ethan's skin, but his grip was like a vice. He squeezed, and the sound of small hand bones popping filled the space between them. The veteran let out a guttural scream as Ethan twisted his arm, sending him spiraling to the floor in a heap of agony.
Ethan stood in the center of the wreckage, his breathing steady, his eyes cold. He hadn't even broken a sweat.
"Who's next?" Ethan asked, his voice a low, terrifying rumble.
The remaining fifteen men hesitated. They looked at their fallen comrades—the biggest and toughest among them—down in seconds. They looked at Ethan, who seemed to be glowing with an unnatural, predatory energy.
Julian's face went from arrogant to terrified. He stepped back, the crowbar trembling in his hand. "What are you? You're not Ethan McCain. You're a monster!"
Just as the remaining men began to tighten their circle, determined to use their numbers to overwhelm him, a sudden, blinding blue-and-red light flooded the factory through the shattered windows.
The high-pitched wail of multiple sirens tore through the industrial silence. Tires screeched on the gravel outside as over a dozen tactical police vehicles swarmed the building.
"POLICE! NO ONE MOVE! DROP THE WEAPONS!"
The heavy doors were kicked open, and tactical units with high-powered flashlights and rifles flooded the floor. Julian dropped his crowbar immediately, his hands flying into the air, his face a mask of panicked innocence.
"It's him! He's the one!" Julian screamed, pointing at Ethan. "He lured us here! He's a psychopath! Look at what he did to my guards!"
Ethan didn't move. He stood amongst the fallen men, his hands open and visible. He looked at the lead officer, a beautiful woman who looked strikingly authoritative in her tactical uniform. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight, professional bun beneath her cap, and her sharp, hazel eyes scanned the room with terrifying precision. The navy fabric of her uniform was crisp, hugging a frame that was clearly athletic and well-trained, her utility belt laden with equipment that she clearly knew how to use. She was staring in shock at the carnage one young man had inflicted on twenty seasoned brawlers.