Chapter 6: The Villain-in-Disguise
The heavy iron gates of the Thompson estate clicked shut behind him, sealing away the world of grief and manicured gardens. Damien stood on the sidewalk for a moment, adjusting the collar of his casual shirt against the evening chill. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to dance around his boots.
He didn't call for a military transport. He didn't want a record of his movements tonight. Instead, he raised a hand and flagged down a passing yellow taxi. The vehicle, a battered sedan that had seen better days, screeched to a halt.
Damien slid into the backseat. The leather was cracked, and the air smelled of stale pine air freshener and cigarette smoke.
"Where to?" the driver asked, eyeing Damien in the rearview mirror.
Damien gave him an address. It wasn't his home. It was a district on the edge of the city, where the neon lights buzzed a little louder and the police patrols were a little less frequent.
The taxi merged into traffic. The driver, a middle-aged man with greying temples and tired eyes, tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. The radio was playing a low, humming tune, but it was frequently interrupted by news bulletins about the ongoing civil unrest.
"Seems it's your first time taking a taxi, sir," the driver ventured, breaking the silence. "Because this is the first time I've seen you as my passenger. I usually work this route, know most of the faces."
Damien looked at him with disinterest, his black eyes reflecting the passing city lights like a dark mirror. He didn't reply. He wasn't in the mood for small talk. He was in the mood for blood.
The taxi driver, realizing the passenger wasn't the chatty type, shut his mouth and sighed. He looked back at the road, but the silence in the car was suffocating. It was a busy day for him, mentally if not financially. The city was on edge. Everywhere he looked, he saw graffiti denouncing the Guilds, posters demanding accountability, and the flashing lights of police cruisers.
The driver's mind was a mess of conflict. His superior, the dispatch manager, and most of his friends had joined the protests earlier that day. They were marching downtown, demanding the abolition of the private Guild system. They knew just how corrupt the Hunters were—how they acted like gods among men, untouchable and arrogant.
But the driver hadn't joined. He had a wife with a chronic illness. He had a daughter in college. He couldn't afford to be arrested. He couldn't afford to be targeted.
He looked at Damien again in the mirror. There was something about the man—the way he carried himself, the dangerous stillness of him—that made the driver want to confess.
"You know... there's an ongoing protest right now," the driver said, trying again. His voice was shaky. "The people... they want to abolish the Guilds. They say the Hunters are connected to racketeering. Human trafficking. Child trafficking. Kidnapping, rape, assault... and lately, they're talking about mass genocide in the lower districts. The people in the US and in Korea... they are in a rage."
Damien turned his head slightly, listening.
"It seems the Hunter Association finally took notice," the driver continued, rambling now. "But not to fix it. They're hiring agitators. They're trying to crush the protests. My Manager... my friends... they're out there right now."
The driver tilted the rearview mirror to catch Damien's eye. He looked desperate for validation.
"I'm in trouble, sir. Can you at least give me a reason... why should I join these protests? Because I know if I don't join, my Manager will get mad at me. He'll tell everyone I'm on the Guilds' side. I mean... I really want to. I hate them too. But I don't want my family to be targeted. I don't want to get hurt. After all... I'm just a normal human. I can't fight a fireball with a tire iron."
Damien stared at the man's reflection. He saw the fear there. It was the same fear he had seen in the eyes of soldiers before a dungeon raid—the fear of the powerless facing the powerful.
Damien sighed. He was annoyed. He wanted to focus on his upcoming hunt, not play philosopher to a cabbie. But the mention of the trafficking struck a nerve. It was exactly why he was heading to the slums tonight.
"Do whatever is right," Damien said, his voice rough. "If you think joining the protest is right, then go commit to doing it."
The driver looked hopeful for a second, but Damien crushed it with reality.
"Though you were right. Your family will be targeted by those Guilds. They don't like dissent. They have long memories and deep pockets."
Damien leaned forward slightly. "But if you won't join that protest, then you already know the consequences. You lose the respect of your peers. You might lose your job as a taxi driver if your Manager is vindictive enough."
Damien sighed again, seeing the driver's internal struggle deepen.
"Both choices have consequences," Damien said, his tone softening just a fraction. "Life isn't about avoiding pain. It's about choosing which pain you can live with. I can't blame you if you choose your family over the cause. But... at least in your life, try to do what you believe is the right choice, not just the safe one. Safety is an illusion anyway."
The driver nodded slowly, absorbing the words. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white.
***
"We've arrived, sir," the driver said quietly, pulling up to the curb of a dimly lit street.
The neighborhood was a stark contrast to the Thompson estate. Here, the streetlights were broken. Trash piled up in the gutters. The buildings were scarred with scorch marks—evidence of unregistered Hunter fights.
Damien checked the meter. It read $45.50.
He reached into his wallet and pulled out a stack of bills. He handed five hundred dollars to the driver.
The driver's eyes widened as he held the cash. He fumbled for his wallet. "Sir! The change—"
"Keep it," Damien said, opening the door. "At least when you get fired from your job for staying neutral... or for joining the protest... you could still have money to buy food for your family for a week."
The taxi driver looked at the money, then at Damien. Tears welled up in his eyes. "Thank you, sir! Thank you very much!"
Damien didn't look back. He just waved his hand dismissively over his shoulder and disappeared into the shadows of the alleyway.
Damien walked deeper into the labyrinth of the district. This was the "Dead Zone," a place where the police feared to tread and the Guilds ruled like feudal lords.
He wasn't walking randomly. He was following a trail.
He had spent the last three years compiling a list. A list of Hunters who abused their power. Hunters who raped, killed, and stole, hiding behind their S-Rank licenses and their celebrity status. The law couldn't touch them. The courts were bought. The prisons couldn't hold them.
So Damien had become their judge, jury, and executioner.
'Seems this is the right street,' Damien thought, checking the GPS coordinates on his smartwatch. 'The warehouse should be just ahead. The Crutian Guild uses it as a transfer point.'
Suddenly, a scream pierced the humid air.
"HELP!"
It was a child's voice. High-pitched, terrified.
Damien stopped. He tilted his head.
"JUST SHUT THAT KID UP!" a deep, gravelly voice roared from an alleyway to his left.
"I'm trying, Boss! But this damn brat is strong! He really knows how to fight!"
"FUCK!" the Boss shouted, his voice laced with rage.
Damien moved. He didn't run; he glided. His [Stealth Specialist (A)] skill activated instinctively. His footsteps made no sound against the wet pavement. His breathing became shallow, undetectable. He merged with the darkness, becoming a shadow among shadows.
He peered around the corner.
In the dead-end alley, surrounded by dumpster bins overflowing with rot, a group of five men were cornering two children.
The men were big, wearing leather armor and carrying high-tech weapons. They were Hunters. Low-level thugs, mostly, but the one in the back—the Boss—radiated a dangerous crimson aura.
The children were young. A boy, maybe twelve years old, with messy brown hair and a fierce scowl, and a girl, perhaps eight, hiding behind him.
"This kid has been trouble for an hour," the Boss spat, lighting a cigarette. "We were trying to kidnap him to sell him to the black market, and he's biting and kicking like a feral dog."
The boy was panting heavily. His clothes were torn, and his lip was bleeding, but he stood with his fists raised in a clumsy boxing stance.
"Then threaten him, you fucking stupid son of a bitch!" the Boss yelled at his subordinate.
The thug nodded. He unsheathed a short sword. The blade hummed with mana. He looked past the boy, locking eyes with the little girl.
He lunged. Not at the boy, but at the sister.
"STOP! If you don't stop, I will kill your fucking sister!" the thug screamed.
"Brother, help!" the girl shrieked, her eyes trembling in fear as the glowing blade hovered inches from her throat.
The boy, who had been preparing to punch another thug, froze. His eyes darted from the thug in front of him to the blade at his sister's neck. The fight drained out of him.
"Alright... alright," the boy stammered, raising his hands in surrender. "I-I surrender. Just don't hurt her."
The moment he dropped his guard, the thug he had been fighting smiled. A cruel, ugly smile.
-SLAM!
The thug grabbed the boy by the hair and slammed his face into the concrete.
"You fucking brat!!" the thug yelled, raining punches down on the boy's back and ribs.
-THUD! THUD! THUD!
"Brother!!" the girl screamed, sobbing.
The kid couldn't fight back. He curled into a ball, taking the blows, his eyes locked on his sister to make sure the sword didn't move. He knew he could kill these low-level goons—he was an unawakened talent, stronger than he looked—but he couldn't do anything while those bastards held his sister hostage.
"Enough!" the Boss barked. "Just hurry up and get us out of here before the police find us. If they find out we're Guild members, we will be persecuted by the government and the civilians. The protests are heating up. And also, the Guild Master already warned us not to get attention."
The thugs nodded. They hauled the boy up by his collar, dragging him toward a black SUV parked at the mouth of the alley. Another thug grabbed the girl roughly by the arm.
"GET UP!" they shouted.
They opened the trunk. It was lined with plastic sheets.
Before they could toss the siblings inside, a voice drifted from the darkness. It wasn't loud, but it carried a chill that dropped the temperature in the alley by ten degrees.
"Let the children go."
The thugs froze. They spun around, weapons raised.
Standing at the entrance of the alley, blocking their escape, was a figure. He wore casual clothes, but he stood with the posture of a predator. His face was shadowed by a cap.
"Who the fuck are you?" the Boss demanded.
The stranger took a step forward.
"Let the children go," Damien repeated, his voice devoid of humanity. "Before I gouge those hearts of yours."
The thugs looked at the stranger, then looked at each other. A second of silence passed, and then they burst out laughing.
"Hahahahah!" the thug holding the sword cackled. "Look at what this clown says! He said he will gouge our hearts? With what? He doesn't even have a weapon!"
"Hahahaha! Just kill him before we get attention from the police," the Boss ordered, bored.
"YES, BOSS!" the thugs shouted in unison.
They unsheathed their swords and knives. Their auras flared—blue, green, and yellow lights illuminating the grim alley. They were D and C Rank Hunters. To a civilian, they were gods.
"Seems you have a death wish, huh?!" one thug sneered, charging forward. "Then we will fucking give you what you want—"
The thug lunged, aiming a thrust at Damien's chest. "ASSHOLE!"
Damien didn't dodge. He didn't block.
He tilted his head slightly, his deep black eyes staring into the thug's soul.
Then, he moved his left hand.
It was a blur. A motion so fast the human eye couldn't track it. He didn't hold a knife. He didn't need one. With [Knife Master (SS)], his understanding of "cutting" transcended tools. His hand, stiffened into a blade-like shape, reinforced by his S-Rank Strength, became sharper than steel.
-SWISH!
Damien's hand passed through the thug's neck.
For a split second, nothing happened. The thug took another step.
Then, his head slid off his shoulders.
-THUD!
The head hit the ground, wearing a look of confusion. The body followed a second later, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings.
-THUD!
"What the—!" the other thugs shouted, skidding to a halt. Their laughter died in their throats.
Damien reached up and slowly took off his cap. He tossed it aside. His red hair fell over his forehead, framing eyes that were voids of obsidian.
"Let the kids go," Damien said again, stepping over the headless corpse. "Before I gouge those hearts of yours."
The thugs trembled. They knew danger when they saw it. But they were cornered, and their Boss was watching.
"Kill him!" the Boss screamed, though he was backing away toward the SUV.
The remaining three underlings nodded to each other. They attacked in unison, a coordinated strike meant to overwhelm a single opponent. They weren't dumb enough to attack one by one after seeing their friend decapitated.
"DIE, BASTARD!"
Three blades converged on Damien from different angles—neck, heart, kidney.
Damien rolled his eyes, bored.
To him, they were moving in slow motion. His [Agility (S)] made the world look like it was underwater.
He stepped into their guard. He moved his hands in a fluid, complex pattern.
-SWING!
-SLICE!
-SQUELCH!
He didn't hit them. He reached into them.
Damien stopped moving. The three thugs stood frozen around him, their weapons raised but motionless.
"Look down," Damien whispered. "Your hearts... seem to have been gouged out."
The thugs blinked. They felt a strange emptiness in their chests. No pain yet. Just a cold draft.
They looked down.
There were gaping holes in their leather armor. And beneath that, gaping holes in their chests.
"Ah..." one thug gasped.
They realized this stranger, from whom they couldn't sense any mana or killing intent, had ripped their hearts out with ease.
-SPLAT.
Three hearts dropped from Damien's hands onto the wet pavement.
The thugs collapsed simultaneously, blood pooling around them.
The Boss of the thugs—David Norton—stared in horror. He backed up against the SUV, his legs trembling. He tried to unsheathe his sword, a magnificent S-Rank blade, but his hands were shaking too hard.
Damien looked at him. Then, he took a single step.
-ZWOOSH.
He disappeared.
David Norton frantically looked around, spinning in circles, his aura flaring wildly in panic.
"SHOW YOURSELF, YOU DAMN BASTARD!" David screamed, his voice cracking. "IF YOU DON'T, I WILL KILL THESE FUCKING BRATS!"
He pointed his sword at the children, who were huddled by the tire of the SUV, too terrified to move.
David's eyes darted around the alley. Nothing. Just shadows.
Then, he felt a cold breath on his ear.
His throat tightened. An invisible vice clamped down on his windpipe.
Damien materialized directly in front of him, one hand casually choking him, lifting him off the ground.
"YOU BASTAR—UGH, ACK!"
David clawed at Damien's hand. He was confused. Terrified.
'How could this be possible?!' David thought, his vision spotting. 'Why couldn't I detect anything from him? No mana signature. No heartbeat. It looks like he is a ghost!'
David swung his S-Rank sword in a desperate arc, aiming to take Damien's head off.
Damien didn't even look at the blade. He caught it with his free hand.
-CRACK!
He squeezed. The metal groaned, then shattered into shards.
"WHAT?!" David gasped, wheezing.
How could a man break a Unique Rank sword—worse, an S-Rank one—with his bare grip?
"I finally found you, S-Class Hunter David Norton," Damien said, bringing his face close to David's. "You really put me in trouble trying to find you, ay? I knew you and your Guild really couldn't resist kidnapping kids again."
Damien's grip tightened.
"Say... where were you selling them? To the Black Market? To the labs?"
The flickering streetlight buzzed overhead, finally illuminating Damien's face fully.
"Who... who are you?!" David sputtered out of fear. "Why do you know my name? How do you know what I would do to these kids?!"
Damien just tilted his head. He stared deeply into David's eyes.
"Nice eyes," Damien whispered. "Beautiful. A ruby red color."
David froze.
"I used to have an amber color to my eyes, y'know," Damien continued conversationally. "But it's not your damn business why my eye's current color is black obsidian. Shame that the owner of those rubies is a fucking disgusting Hunter like you."
David shivered. He couldn't feel any killing intent. That was the scariest part. It wasn't rage. It was indifference.
David wasn't dumb. He saw the madness swirling in those black pools. He realized what Damien wanted.
"Seems you figured out what I would do to your eyes," Damien smiled, a gentle, horrifying expression. "Don't worry. It won't hurt... much."
Damien's free hand reached out. His fingers formed a claw.
"No... no, no, no!" David shrieked, thrashing his legs. "Please! I'm begging you! I have money! I have connections! NO! NO! NOOOOOOO!!!!"
-SQUELCH.
"AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
David squirmed in agony as Damien's thumbs pressed into his sockets. There was a wet popping sound.
Damien smiled fanatically. He pulled his hands back.
In his palms sat two bloody orbs.
David went limp, sobbing and whimpering, blood streaming down his face from the empty sockets.
Damien admired the color in the dim light. "It's mine now. And also... I will send your boss next to hell, you disgusting Hunter."
Damien dropped the eyes. He shifted his grip to David's neck.
-SNICK.
He sliced David's head off with his right hand as easily as tearing wet paper.
He dropped the corpse.
***
[System Notification]
[Ding! Trait Activated: Black Death]
[Minus 5 years of lifespan]
Damien grimaced, clutching his chest for a second as a wave of cold exhaustion washed over him. The System window hovered in his vision, glowing red.
He had used his [Black Death (L)] trait to amplify his physical stats to god-like levels for the duration of the fight. It allowed his [Knife Master (SS)] skill to turn his body into a weapon capable of shattering S-Rank steel. It allowed his [Stealth Specialist (A)] to completely erase his existence from David's senses.
Five years.
He had just traded five years of his life to kill trash.
'I don't regret it,' Damien thought, dismissing the window. 'At least I know now who the Guild is. The "Crutian Guild." I saw David Norton escorting their Guild Master last month. I'll burn them down before I leave.'
Damien took a deep breath, forcing the demonic black markings on his body to recede. He wiped the blood from his hands onto David's expensive coat.
He turned toward the SUV.
The two children were huddled together. The boy was shielding his sister, holding a broken piece of pipe he had scavenged from the ground. They were trembling, staring at Damien not as a savior, but as a monster who had just ripped five men apart with his bare hands.
Damien softened his eyes. He tried to look less like a reaper.
"Are you both alright?" he asked, his voice low and laced with genuine concern. "Are you hurt anywhere?"
The girl nodded slowly, paralyzed by fear.
"Don't come near us!" the boy shouted, waving the pipe. "Or else!"
Damien tilted his head. "Or else what? You'll kill me?"
He gestured to the headless bodies around them. "You saw how I killed that S-Class Hunter and his goons with ease. And you're threatening me with a rusty pipe?"
The boy didn't lower the weapon. His legs were shaking, but he stood his ground.
Damien sighed in frustration. He ran a hand through his red hair.
"Relax. I'm not gonna hurt both of you. Also... I'm a soldier. Why would I hurt civilians?"
Damien reached into his shirt and pulled out his dog tags. They jingled softly. He held them up so the light caught the U.S. Military emblem.
"See? Lieutenant Commander Damien Leone."
The girl peeked out from behind her brother. Her eyes lit up. "A soldier? Really?!"
"Mhm," Damien nodded.
The boy looked at the tags, then at the carnage. He lowered the pipe slightly, but suspicion still clouded his eyes.
"If you were a soldier," the boy said accusingly, "shouldn't you arrest those bastards? Not brutally kill them? Soldiers follow laws. You... you slaughtered them."
Damien laughed. It was a dark, amused sound.
"I'm not a police officer, kid. And also... soldiers like me do brutally slaughter our enemies. That's the job description. You know, you should really thank me for saving both of your asses."
The girl bowed her head. She tugged on her brother's sleeve. "Thank you," she whispered weakly.
"You're welcome," Damien replied, flashing a genuine smile. It transformed his face, making him look years younger.
The boy hesitated. He looked at David's headless body, then at Damien. He dropped the pipe.
"Thank you," the boy said, covering his mouth as if he might vomit from the smell of blood.
-GRUMBLE~
A loud, growling sound echoed in the alley. It came from the boy's stomach. Then, a second later, the girl's stomach answered.
Damien looked at them. They were thin. Their clothes were ragged. Street kids.
He laughed softly.
"How about you join me for dinner?" Damien asked. "My treat?"
The kids widened their eyes.
"Really?!" the girl gasped.
Damien nodded. "Of course. It's my treat. And also... you kids just saw a traumatic event. Consider this a bribe. This is the only way I can pay both of you to keep silent on what I did to these bastards."
The boy raised his hands again, stepping back. "Why should we trust you? We don't even know you! We don't know if you're an accomplice or if you want to kidnap us too! Maybe you just killed them to take their merchandise!"
Damien stared at the boy. He respected the kid's paranoia. It kept people alive in this city.
"Fine then," Damien shrugged. "I won't push both of you. Goodbye."
He waved his hand and turned to walk out of the alley. He didn't intend to abandon them, but he knew how to negotiate. He walked slowly.
He counted to three in his head.
One.
Two.
-GRUMBLE~
The sound was undeniable.
"Wait!" the boy shouted frantically.
Damien stopped and turned around, raising an eyebrow.
"I-I... fine," the boy stammered, his hunger winning the war against his fear. "We will accompany you. But... if you ever try to do something to me or my sister, I will fucking kill you. I swear."
Damien looked at them. The boy was shaking, terrifyingly outmatched, yet willing to fight a god to protect his sister.
Damien snorted. Then he laughed.
He walked over and ruffled the boy's messy hair.
"Stop! Stop ruffling my hair!" the boy protested, batting Damien's hand away.
Damien continued doing it for another second, messing it up completely.
"Come," Damien said, gesturing for them to follow him out of the alley and away from the blood. "I know a place where both of you can finally taste expensive food and make your stomachs full. No strings attached."
He turned and walked toward the streetlights, the two small shadows trailing cautiously behind him.