Scars were supposed to be a man's medals, proof that he'd survived something worth surviving. They told stories, carved into flesh instead of stone. But too many of them? That wasn't impressive. That was messy, inconvenient, and hard to explain when people started asking questions.
So the warm-up was over.
Locke glanced down at the torn skin across his chest where Deacon had landed a solid hit earlier. The wound was already knitting together, flesh pulling tight with unnatural speed. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, then lifted his gaze to Deacon with a faint smile.
"The fight between monsters really is different from street brawls," he said casually. "I learned something."
Deacon's twisted face stretched into something hideous, lips peeling back to reveal sharp teeth. "Begging for mercy?"
"No." Locke tilted his head and smiled brightly, almost pleasantly. "You can die now."
When Deacon had been fighting Blade earlier, Locke hadn't been idle. Through the Ultimate Evolution Module's remote observation, he'd absorbed every movement, every angle of attack, every micro-adjustment in Deacon's footwork. That had only been theory, data in his head without muscle memory behind it.
But this last exchange? That had been practice.
He wouldn't brag, but he'd locked down at least eighty percent of Deacon's extraordinary combat style. The remaining twenty was just refinement, repetition, time. And more importantly, he'd found his place on the scale.
In simple terms, he was stronger than Deacon—the A-rank vampire who'd lived nearly a century.
Yes, Deacon had been suppressing him earlier. But that had been deliberate. Locke had chosen not to go all out because he needed friction, pressure, real impact to temper what he'd copied. If he'd unleashed everything from the start, the result would have been obvious.
He had a cheat.
Deacon wasn't wrong about one thing. Among vampires of the same tier, the older one was usually stronger. Power came from blood, and centuries meant countless victims. Experience stacked like bricks.
Unfortunately for Deacon, Locke didn't level up through bloodlines or waiting for some ancient vampire's blessing. He didn't need a higher embrace to climb.
He needed extraordinary points.
As long as he had enough, the Ultimate Evolution Module could push him upward indefinitely. And the moment he upgraded, he didn't start at the bottom of that new tier. He stood at its peak.
That was the truth he'd confirmed just now.
Deacon had lived nearly a hundred years, but he hadn't touched the ceiling of A-rank combat power. Locke, the instant he stepped into that rank, had become its ceiling.
So the conclusion was simple.
He'd gotten what he came for.
Deacon was now useless.
"Hehehe…" Deacon let out a strange, distorted laugh, but Locke cut him off.
"Don't waste your breath laughing. Save your strength for the trip across the Styx."
"No."
"You won't even make it to hell," Locke replied calmly. "You'll shatter."
The smile vanished from Deacon's face. Frost spread across his expression as his scarlet eyes fixed on Locke, emotion draining into something cold and violent.
Then he moved.
Deacon exploded forward, his speed blurring the air between them. Locke didn't blink. He simply raised his right hand.
Bang!
Deacon's fist slammed straight into Locke's open palm.
"What?" Deacon's pupils shrank, scarlet eyes tightening as he stared at the unmoving figure in front of him.
Locke's lips curved upward. His fingers closed.
Crack.
The sound was crisp and final. Deacon's fist shattered in Locke's grip.
Bang!
Bone fragments collapsed inward. Flesh tore. Deacon's scream ripped through the hangar, sharp and high, pain blazing across his face.
"Ah!"
He reacted on instinct, swinging his right leg toward Locke's head in a vicious arc. Locke's right foot shot out just as fast.
Bang!
The collision rang like a gunshot. Deacon's leg bone splintered instantly.
In the next heartbeat, Locke stepped forward. As he released Deacon's ruined hand, his body shifted fluidly. His right leg snapped upward in a brutal kick, catching Deacon squarely as he was forced into a kneeling posture.
The impact detonated.
Deacon's body launched backward like a cannon shell. He smashed into the hangar wall with a thunderous crash, the concrete caving inward around him. A human-shaped crater appeared where he struck, deep enough to nearly punch through the structure.
Boom.
He slid down from the wall and hit the ground heavily, limp and broken.
For a moment, he lay there like a corpse. Then he twitched and began dragging himself upright.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Locke's leather shoes echoed across the hangar floor as he walked forward at an unhurried pace. One hand slipped casually into his pocket, his expression utterly indifferent.
He had said it already.
He was stronger.
"Ah!" Deacon forced himself up, curling inward before pushing against the wall. When he looked at Locke again, fear had seeped into his eyes, staining the red darker. "This is impossible."
Locke stopped a few steps away, studying Deacon's half-collapsed face with mild curiosity. "What part?"
In the distance, faint but growing louder, the alarm of the Sentinel Special Service Team wailed. They were coming, but there was still time.
Deacon leaned back against the wall, breathing ragged. His voice rasped like a crow's caw, layered with shock, disbelief, and rising panic.
"This is impossible. You were only turned recently."
"This is impossible."
"Hehehe… impossible!"
His sunken mouth split into a grotesque grin as he laughed again, hysteria creeping into his tone.
He couldn't accept it.
He, a vampire who had endured nearly a century, reduced to helplessness by someone who hadn't even lived a full year as one.
Locke watched him quietly. It was almost ironic. Deacon had spent years ranting about how the thirteen pure-blood elders had grown soft in modern luxury. He'd accused them of corruption, decadence, and complacency.
But what had Deacon done with his own time?
Had he sharpened his power to its limit?
No.
He'd poured everything into schemes, conspiracies, and obsession with transcending ranks. Calculations. Intrigue. Endless plotting.
At least the pure-blood elders indulged in wine, women, and indulgence openly.
Deacon had starved himself of everything except ambition.
"Tsk." Locke tilted his head slightly. "Is this what madness looks like?"
Deacon's laughter sharpened, twisting into something feral. His eyes caught the brief flicker of contemplation in Locke's gaze.
Suddenly he roared.
"Go to hell!"
He lunged forward, mouth opening wide, a piercing sonic shriek tearing from his throat at point-blank range.
But—
Puff.
Boom.
The scream cut off.
Deacon's mouth remained open as something heavy thudded against the floor behind him. His eyes shifted slowly toward the sound.
On the ground lay an arm. Its hand was crushed, fingers mangled beyond recognition.
Locke stood in front of him, a silver sword in his hand, smiling faintly.
"This is…" Deacon's thoughts staggered. "…mine?"
His gaze dropped to his right shoulder.
Empty.
Blood poured from the torn socket in thick streams, staining the ground. Yet strangely, he didn't feel the physical pain immediately. Instead, a deeper agony bloomed—something that felt like it clawed at his soul itself, as if his existence was being scraped away.
Smoke began to curl from the severed stump.
"This is impossible. I have a daylight ring. I'm not afraid of ultra—"
He froze mid-sentence.
His eyes snapped toward the hangar entrance. Outside, five ultraviolet searchlights blazed, their beams cutting through the interior like white spears.
Understanding hit him in an instant.
The next second, Deacon looked back at Locke. The expression on his face had gone completely insane.
Locke met his gaze calmly, watching as smoke thickened around Deacon's body.
"You fell apart before I even got serious," Locke said lightly.
Deacon's skin began to blacken under the ultraviolet glare, cracks spreading across him like fractures in porcelain.
"…."
...
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