CHAPTER 16
[REAGAN'S REINFORCEMENTS ARRIVE…]
A squad of eleven rushed toward the epicenter of the devastation.
The moment they arrived, their jaws fell slack.
What lay before them was not mere destruction—it was annihilation.
Entire streets had been torn open. Buildings lay in fractured heaps. The earth itself seemed clawed apart, as though some primordial beast had risen from beneath the city and dragged its fury across the skyline. The tremors from the clash had rippled through the entire metropolis earlier that night. Citizens had poured into the streets in panic, believing some unnatural seismic disaster had struck.
None of them knew the truth.
None of them knew that beneath the ominous glow of the Blood Moon, a battle had raged between Reagan—The Kraken of Zall—and Ms. Evelyn—The Beast of Iron.
Above, murky clouds churned violently, still disturbed by the residual force of their clash. The night felt wrong. Heavy. Charged.
Security forces had mobilized immediately after the first tremor. Government officials assumed it was an act of war—an enemy nation breaching their borders under cover of darkness.
They were wrong.
This was something far worse.
[EARLIER THAT NIGHT]
Before the battle began, Reagan had contacted The Mercenaries of the Iron Altar.
For years, they had hunted a particular presence—a calamity-class existence.
Reagan believed he had finally found her.
He instructed them to mobilize immediately. If possible, they were to dispatch their elite core members to his coordinates—the park.
But circumstances limited them.
Only one elite core member could be spared on such short notice. The rest were engaged in official operations elsewhere. To compensate, ten of the Iron Altar's strongest combatants were deployed alongside her.
Eleven in total.
Ten powerful members.
One elite core operative.
There were deeper reasons for this limited deployment.
If Reagan was correct—if he truly intended to confront The Beast of Iron, classified as a Second Disaster, Calamity Type—then sending the entire elite core (excluding the Iron Altar's leader) would have been catastrophic.
A full confrontation between all elite members and a calamity-type individual would not simply level a district.
It could erase the nation.
High risk. Minimal reward.
Strategically unsound.
Coincidentally—or perhaps fatefully—the lone elite core member dispatched that night was a powerhouse. Ranked second among the elite, her Ancient Art Release was uniquely suited for combating the Beast of Iron. More importantly, her power possessed a favorable risk-to-reward ratio, minimizing collateral devastation.
Unlike Reagan.
There was a reason his Ancient Art Release was forbidden within national borders.
And the aftermath scattered across the city was proof of that reason.
The squad had rushed desperately toward his coordinates—not out of fear for what the Iron Lady might do…
…but out of fear that Reagan would fully unleash The Kraken of Tempest.
They were too late.
Even miles away, they had seen it.
A colossal, abyssal silhouette stretching across the heavens—its massive form eclipsing the skyline as it descended like a judgment from the deep.
Tracking Reagan had become unnecessary.
All they had to do was follow the behemoth in the sky.
And they did.
But by the time they arrived—
The battle was over.
And the victor stood waiting.
The Beast of Iron.
[AT THE HEART OF THE WRECKAGE]
The eleven formed ranks instinctively.
Steel sang as blades were drawn in unison.
The elite core member stood at the front, calm and composed, leading the formation.
They prepared to charge—
—but halted.
Two figures stood several meters ahead.
One unmoving.
One fallen.
Recognition struck them instantly.
Fear followed.
Several of the ten struggled not to tremble. Their training screamed discipline into their bones, yet their bodies betrayed them. The air itself felt suffocating—thick, heavy, oppressive.
Only the elite core member remained perfectly still.
Calm.
Observant.
Her gaze swept across the battlefield, analyzing terrain, residual energy, wind direction, blood patterns.
Unlike the others, she did not allow emotion to surface.
Standing before them was a figure clad in darkness.
A mask carved in the likeness of a horned demon concealed her face. Twin horns curved upward from its design. Her hair danced wildly in the restless wind. Steam—no, not steam—bloodlust radiated visibly from her body, rising like crimson vapor into the night air.
Her eyes glowed through the darkness.
Crimson.
Piercing.
Unnatural.
It felt as though her presence alone suppressed the atmosphere around them. Breathing required effort. The air grew dense, pressing against their lungs.
And then they saw it.
The blade.
It glowed faintly beneath the Blood Moon, strange sigils running down its length—ancient markings etched with unmistakable authority.
Recognition dawned.
Their grips tightened.
Steel trembled faintly in their hands.
"So… that's the infamous Beast of Iron, huh…" one of the squad muttered under his breath, forcing a brave expression that sweat quickly betrayed. "She's even more terrifying in person…"
"Everyone, hold your position," another voice commanded sharply. He appeared to be second in authority beneath the elite member. "Do not advance without direct order. We are dealing with a calamity type. Stay sharp."
"You guys… look at her blade," one whispered nervously. "Those markings… it's…"
"Could it be—?"
"There's no doubt," another interrupted, swallowing hard. "That's the Talisman of Annhul."
Silence fell.
"But… how is that even possible?"
The question lingered in the cold night air.
And the Beast of Iron did not move.
"So… we're dealing with a calamity type capable of wielding the Supreme Blade of Annhul…"
The acting superior kept the thought to himself, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
"I doubt even an elite mercenary of her caliber could do much in this fight."
His eyes shifted toward the only elite core member among them.
"And our numbers mean absolutely nothing if we can't use any form of Release."
He glanced at the others. Ten capable fighters. Ten disciplined blades.
Yet it seemed useless.
"It… it can't be the real thing…" one of the squad members stammered, his voice wavering despite himself. "I mean—" he swallowed hard, struggling to regain composure, "—no one can wield it. You'd have to be a descendant of Annhul. And we all know what happened to them. They were wiped out."
His voice cracked slightly.
"So it's impossible for that to be the Supreme Blade of Annhul… right?"
Silence lingered.
"No," the elite core member replied calmly.
Every head turned toward her.
"You're wrong."
Her voice carried no hesitation.
"That is the real thing."
The words landed like a death sentence.
"So you're saying—" the acting superior began, only to be cut off.
"Take a good look," she interrupted coldly. "At the person standing behind her."
She lifted a finger slightly, pointing past the Beast of Iron.
For the first time since arriving, something flickered across her face.
Vexation.
"Now that you mention it… we haven't seen Reagan anywhere in all of—"
The speaker froze mid-sentence.
"…Wait."
His eyes shifted beyond the Beast of Iron.
And then they saw him.
A silhouette.
Standing upright.
Motionless.
His body was breaking apart—slowly, piece by piece—turning into fine ash and dust.
The night wind carried fragments of him away in gentle streams, scattering what remained of Reagan Armai into nothingness.
The realization hit them like a physical blow.
It was him.
He stood with his back to the Beast of Iron.
And she stood with her back to him.
Both facing opposite directions.
The Beast of Iron faced the reinforcements.
Reagan faced away from them.
Two figures frozen in the aftermath of something final.
Through the faint shifting of her shoulders, it became clear—
She was speaking to him.
Even as he faded.
The elite core member's jaw tightened. Her eyes burned—not with fear, but with fury. She had been dispatched to reinforce him.
She had failed.
The others sensed it immediately.
If it were up to her, she would have already launched herself forward.
But they hesitated.
They were soldiers.
Not fools.
"It seems your reinforcements have finally arrived," the Beast of Iron said softly.
She tilted her head slightly, just enough to glimpse his disintegrating form through her peripheral vision without turning fully around.
"And judging from their expressions… they don't seem very pleased."
There was mockery in her tone.
"You talk too much," Reagan replied, his voice thinning as the wind peeled fragments of him away.
"So what now?" he continued, forcing steadiness into words that were already beginning to scatter. "They've sent the second most powerful elite mercenary."
A faint pause as more of his shoulder
dissolved into drifting ash.
"And you must be exhausted after our battle."
Even as his body failed him, there was defiance in his fading eyes.
"You'd be lucky to even walk out of here alive."
A quiet, strained laugh escaped him — fractured, almost delirious — carried off by the night wind before it could fully form.
"And why," she said coolly, "is the dead so concerned with the problems of the living?"
The words struck him harder than any blade.
Reagan's fading features tightened with visible vexation.
"You've lost," she reminded him. "This is where you meet your end."
"I haven't lost just yet," he countered, though his voice was fraying at the edges. "The mercenary they sent… her Ancient Art Release is uniquely tailored perfectly for your combat style."
The wind peeled more of him away.
"You'll be dead before the fight even starts."
For a moment, she did not respond.
He thought he had unsettled her.
"And as for your hideout," he pressed, desperation creeping into his tone, "I deployed our men to the foster care home. They should already be on their way right now as we speak."
More of him scattered.
"So face it. It's over for you."
"What are you talking about?" she asked plainly.
Too plainly.
As if humoring him.
"It's just as you said…" she murmured.
She paused deliberately.
By now, only his floating head remained—disintegrating steadily from the jaw upward. The ash had already consumed his mouth. It climbed past the bridge of his nose.
His eyes widened.
He waited.
And then she finished.
"…The foster home never existed in the first place."
His eyes widened further—
But he could not speak.
The disintegration had already taken his voice.
It consumed his eyes.
Then his forehead.
And then—
Nothing.
No ash.
No remnants.
Not even dust remained where Reagan Armai had stood.
The wind claimed him entirely.
"You never found me to begin with," she said quietly.
A final statement.
"I was the one who found you… Mr. Reagan Armai."
The night fell silent.
And the eleven stood frozen beneath the Blood Moon.
But right after she spoke her final words to Reagan, she detected it.
Three footsteps.
Faint. Distant. Coming from the direction of the reinforcements.
Until that moment, her head had been tilted slightly to the side, her attention still fixed on Reagan as he faded into nothingness. She hadn't bothered to acknowledge the reinforcements standing several meters away. To her, they were irrelevant.
But in the space between moments, a realization struck her—
There was an elite core member among them.
And by the time she began to lift her gaze toward their direction, it was already too late.
Someone had launched an attack.
The technique had already been initiated.
She detected only three steps—no more, no less.
Her perception was high enough to catch that much, even at a distance. But that alone told her everything she needed to know.
This wasn't a double step.
It was a triple step.
A technique used only when the intent was absolute execution—when the user committed to killing the target in a single, uninterrupted motion, exploiting distraction or momentary vulnerability.
The third step had already touched the ground.
Which meant the attack had crossed the point of no return.
Her instincts ignited instantly.
She understood the danger at once.
A triple step was notoriously difficult to counter. Once initiated, the only reliable defense was to extend one's consciousness beyond normal perception—to see seconds into the future and adapt before the strike completed.
She tried.
She forced her consciousness outward—
But she was too late.
The gap between them had already collapsed.
The strike was already in motion.
A slanting vertical slash cut through the air.
The elite core member appeared at her side in a blur, blade descending with lethal precision. The strike was aimed at her head—intended to cleave through the twin horns of her mask, continue through her skull, and carry cleanly down her body in a single decisive sweep.
Steel met resistance.
One of the horns shattered apart.
And in that instant—
The horns became the only thing she had to leverage on in order to survive.