In a quiet barbershop on the edge of Smallville, the air crackled—and Downton materialized mid-step, boots thudding against worn linoleum.
He stood motionless for a beat, eyes fixed on his chest. Blood seeped through his torn jacket, but the wound beneath was already knitting shut. He exhaled sharply, lips quirking.
"That wasn't an illusion," he muttered. "My body really has surpassed human limits. Sprinting doesn't wind me. Bullets don't pierce bone. Hell—even dying feels like a bad night's sleep."
At the sound of his voice, the barber froze mid-snip. Two customers near the window stiffened. A woman in a vintage perm helmet slowly turned her head, eyes wide.
Downton met their stares—and offered a weary half-smile.
That was all it took.
The barber dropped his scissors, bolted for the door, and vanished down the street like a man pursued by ghosts. The customers stampeded after him, scattering into the apartment building across the road. Only the woman remained, still trapped in the whirring perm machine, trembling.
"What… what's going on?" she stammered, voice shaking. "Who are you?"
Downton stepped closer. She flinched—and collapsed sideways, eyes fluttering shut.
He snorted. "Please. If you're gonna fake a faint, at least slump forward. Leaning back like that? Looks less 'terrified civilian,' more 'romance novel cover.'"
He reached past her and yanked the plug from the wall. The machine died with a sigh. "And for the record—that thing's been on for twenty minutes. Your scalp's about to blister."
Shaking his head, Downton slung his battered rifle over his shoulder and stepped back into the Kansas sun.
Outside, Smallville was no longer quiet.
Smoke curled from rooftops. Distant gunfire echoed between grain silos. Patrols of armed men—his men—moved with practiced coordination through side streets, setting up barricades, rerouting civilians, holding off National Guard units with eerie precision.
Forty minutes ago, Downton had been outgunned, outmaneuvered, and buried under a hail of military fire. He'd died—eight times. But each death refined him. Each explosion sharpened his reflexes. Every bullet that failed to kill him carved another layer of resilience into his flesh.
Now, Smallville belonged to the chaos he'd unleashed.
—
High above, in a modified stealth aircraft circling the town, a man in a tailored charcoal suit watched the live feed on his tablet. Cold eyes tracked Downton as he charged a five-man fireteam with nothing but a rifle and a smirk.
Then—impact.
The man's eyebrow twitched as Downton's head snapped sideways from a high-caliber round. He tapped the screen, isolating the frame. Zoom in: a .308-caliber sniper round, M24 signature, buried deep in Downton's occipital bone—but no exit wound. Just scorched hair and raw skin, already regenerating.
"Impossible," the man murmured. He ran ballistic reconstruction. The shot originated from the clock tower—perfect nest, clean sightline.
He leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"His strength isn't just increasing—it's accelerating. And it's tied to death. Every time he falls, he rises stronger."
He stood, voice hardening. "I wanted to observe his limits under pressure. But if he keeps evolving like this, he'll breach containment before Lane's forces even understand what they're facing."
He strode to the rear of the cabin and grabbed a compact HALO rig from the wall.
"Initiate Phase Two," he ordered. "Divert General Lane's attention. Use his daughter as bait—she's idealistic enough to walk right into our net."
A dry smile. "People like her need a cause. So we'll give her one."
His subordinates bowed. "Yes, Master."
The cargo bay doors hissed open. Wind howled through the fuselage.
Dozens of figures—clad in matte-black tactical gear, not traditional ninja garb—lined the ramp. Silent. Efficient. Real.
The Master raised his right hand—then clenched it into a fist.
One by one, they leapt into the sky.
Meanwhile, in Smallville, Downton's head lolled to the side as he swayed unsteadily on his feet.
"Damn it… a sniper," he muttered, pressing a hand to his temple. "That shot gave me one hell of a headache."
He shook his head sharply, trying to clear the ringing in his ears, then scanned the surroundings for the origin of the shot.
High above, hidden in the skeletal branches of a dead oak, the sniper gritted his teeth. Still alive? Without hesitation, he fired again.
Bang!
The instant the gunshot cracked through the air, Downton snapped up his right hand, palm outstretched.
The bullet struck dead center—embedding itself in his flesh with a sickening thwack.
"Ugh!" Downton grunted, yanking the searing-hot slug from his palm and tossing it aside. Blood welled from a shallow gash—no deeper than if he'd scraped his hand on gravel. To an ordinary man, it would've been a graze. To Downton, it was barely an inconvenience.
His reflexes had sharpened dramatically—but he still couldn't see the bullet. He'd only guessed: Headshot last time. Headshot again this time. And he'd been right.
Spitting blood onto the dirt, Downton surged forward, closing in on the retreating soldiers.
They were no longer the disciplined unit they'd been thirty minutes ago. Panic had hollowed their voices as they screamed into their comms:
"The General was right—the target's strength has escalated! It's beyond human!"
"Rifles aren't working! Bullets barely leave a mark—sometimes not even that!"
"We can't keep engaging! He doesn't have limits like we do—he's like a goddamn animal!"
"He's on me—!"
Before the soldier could finish, Downton launched himself through the air, boots crashing into the man's back with bone-shattering force. The soldier hit the ground face-first, stunned but alive—until Downton drove his knee into the base of the man's skull.
Crack!
The sound was wet, final—like a melon dropped from a rooftop. Blood and tissue sprayed outward.
The other soldiers froze, then shrieked in horror.
"You're a devil!"
"A madman!"
"Mom!"
Ignoring the chaos, Downton vaulted over the corpses and lunged at the nearest soldier, slamming his left hand over the muzzle of the man's assault rifle.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Bullets fired—but they had nowhere to go. The barrel buckled, then detonated in a storm of shrapnel. Metal shards tore into the soldier's face before he could cry out.
Downton didn't flinch. He clenched his fist around a jagged piece of hot steel and shoved it straight into the soldier's temple.
Sizzle…
He yanked his fist free, gore dripping from his knuckles, and turned just in time to see the last soldier charging at him—grenade in hand, pin already pulled.
"Go to hell, you damned monster!" the man roared, arms wide, ready to tackle Downton into the blast.
Downton didn't dodge. He opened his arms in return.
"I like being called a monster," he said, voice low and almost tender. "Because I'd rather be one than stay mortal like you."
He stepped forward, meeting the soldier's desperate embrace.
"But I admire your courage. So… let my arms be the last thing that holds you before hell takes you, buddy."
He pulled the man close.
"Good luck in your next life."
The words vanished in the explosion.
BOOM!
Flames and debris mushroomed into the sky. Then—through the smoke and fire—a figure emerged. Downton, skin charred and bleeding, staggered forward, unbroken.
High above, suspended beneath a parachute, a shadowy figure w
atched. His brow furrowed deeper.
"This… is worse than we anticipated."
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