Chapter 118: Don't Ask Who I Am—Just Call Me a Good Samaritan. Peace Out!
The deadly silence lasted less than three seconds.
Edward's casual provocation was like lighting the fuse on a powder keg.
These psychos, who got off on torture and murder, clearly didn't understand what kind of person they were dealing with. They only saw their buddy get bitch-slapped across the field, and instead of scaring them, that direct violence just triggered their twisted bloodlust even more.
"Kill him!"
A man wearing a crying clown mask let out a guttural roar. The double-barreled shotgun in his hands suddenly rose, both barrels aimed at Edward's chest.
BOOM! BOOM!
Two deafening shots tore through the night's quiet. Scorching buckshot, reeking of gunpowder, sprayed toward Edward from point-blank range.
Quinn's heart stopped, and she instinctively squeezed her eyes shut.
But the expected carnage didn't happen.
Instead, there was a series of sharp, metallic pings, like hail hitting a tin roof.
Quinn trembled as she opened her eyes to witness a scene she'd never forget.
Edward still stood in the same spot, hadn't even shifted his stance. In front of him, there seemed to be an invisible wall. The steel pellets—capable of shredding a bear—hung suspended in the air about a foot and a half in front of him, then clattered harmlessly to the ground.
Telekinesis.
Dealing with purely physical attacks like this was child's play.
"That's it?" Edward scoffed, his tone dripping with disappointment.
He took a step forward.
The pupils behind the shooter's clown mask dilated in terror. He tried to back up, tried to reload.
But he was out of time.
Edward's figure vanished from his sight. The next instant, a hand had already closed around his throat.
CRACK.
A sickening snap of bone.
Edward didn't even spare him another glance, casually tossing the limp body and shotgun aside like garbage.
His movements didn't pause. His figure blurred, and like a ghost, he tore into the group of clowns who hadn't yet processed what was happening.
A one-sided, utterly predictable massacre began.
A massive clown wielding a sledgehammer roared, swinging the hammer in a devastating arc toward Edward's head.
Edward didn't dodge. He simply raised his left hand.
CLANG—!
A deafening metallic crash rang out. The heavy iron hammer struck his palm dead-on, yet it was like hitting solid steel—couldn't budge another inch.
The clown felt an unstoppable force rebound through the handle. The bones in his arms screamed under the strain, shattering piece by piece.
"AHHH!"
He let out a blood-curdling scream.
Edward's fingers closed, and the steel hammerhead crumpled in his grip like Play-Doh, crushed into a twisted hunk of metal.
Then, gripping this scrap, he swung backhanded.
THUNK!
The scrap metal punched through the chest of another clown charging with a sickle. The sheer force caved in his ribcage, and he flew backward like a ragdoll, dead before he hit the ground.
"Monster! He's a fucking monster!"
Finally, some of the clowns caught on. This wasn't some random dude—this was a demon in human skin!
Fear began spreading like wildfire.
They tried to run, turning and bolting toward the cornfield that had always been their safe haven.
But Edward wasn't about to let that happen.
He moved, his form so fast it was just a blur.
The fastest runner had barely taken a few steps when he felt a chill at his neck. He looked down to see his body still running forward while his vision spun wildly and plummeted.
Edward shook the blood off his hand—from the sickle he'd just snatched from another clown.
"Why run? The party's just getting started."
His voice wasn't loud, but it reached every survivor's ears clearly, like a whisper from hell itself.
The remaining clowns completely lost it.
They threw down their weapons, dropped to their knees, and frantically begged for mercy.
"Don't kill me! Please! We're sorry!"
"Spare us! We'll never do it again!"
But Edward just looked at them coldly.
"Tell it to the people you murdered."
His figure blurred again.
The sound of fists pulverizing bone, blades slicing through flesh, and abruptly cut-off screams of agony composed a bloody symphony of death.
The whole thing took less than a minute.
When the last clown had his skull crushed under Edward's boot, the world fell silent.
The air was thick with the nauseating stench of blood, mixed with dirt and broken cornstalks.
Quinn and her sole surviving friend stood frozen by the pickup truck, stiff as statues.
Before them lay a genuine killing field.
Mangled bodies, twisted limbs, scattered organs, and those clown masks—now soaked in blood and looking even more grotesque...
All of it formed a nightmarish tableau capable of breaking any sane person's mind.
And the man who'd created this hell stood in the center of that blood pool.
He was spotless, like he'd just taken a casual stroll through a park.
Edward brushed off imaginary dust from his hands, completely unfazed by the horrific scene. These scumbags who got off on torture and murder didn't even qualify as "people" in his eyes.
Killing them was no different than stepping on a few roaches.
His gaze swept over the carnage. Suddenly, as if noticing something, he bent down.
Next to Matt's death-stare head lay something.
A crudely made clown doll, about palm-sized, with an exaggerated, creepy smile painted on its face and messy red hair. Must've been dropped by one of the clowns.
Edward picked up the doll, tossed it in his hand a couple times, then casually pocketed it.
Having done that, he didn't linger—just turned and headed for the highway.
His calm silhouette, contrasted against the bloody nightmare behind him, plunged Quinn's mind into deeper confusion.
Watching that figure about to reach the highway, about to vanish from sight, some inexplicable impulse made Quinn summon every ounce of strength to hoarsely shout.
"Who... who ARE you?!"
Edward's steps didn't stop, didn't even look back.
He just casually raised his right hand, gave a little wave, and his clear but somewhat lazy voice drifted back on the night breeze.
"Just a demon hunter passing through. Peace out."
As his voice faded, he'd already mounted the badass-looking black motorcycle.
VROOOOM—
The powerful engine roared to life. The motorcycle transformed into black lightning, instantly tearing down the highway, quickly disappearing into the distance, leaving behind only a deathly quiet cornfield and a girl whose entire worldview had been shattered.
Demon hunter...
Quinn chewed on those words, looking at the corpses littering the ground, then at the party house in the distance where laughter still echoed, feeling like this whole thing was some absurd nightmare.
Let's push the story forward!
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