"SORRY? Of course you would be… aFTeR TRAMPLING on a gRAve you didn't even KNOW BELONGED TO YOU, pfft."
The voice cracked through the night like a whip lashing bare skin—sharp, mocking, and unsettlingly calm.
Ryken turned, eyes narrowing toward the figure now emerging from the haze of dust and shattered stone.
A young man stood alone amidst the rubble, his posture relaxed, almost regal, as if the chaos around him was nothing more than an inconvenient breeze. The moonlight painted his golden robe in hues of myth and majesty—Cruxius, heir of the Blac family.
For a moment, Ryken's enhanced senses kicked in—then faltered.
He blinked.
What the hell?
The estate felt... wrong.
Too quiet.
The distant sounds of panicked civilians, barking orders from guards, even the subtle shuffle of trees—all vanished. As if the entire estate had slipped into some sort of vacuum.
No... it wasn't silence. It was suppression.
A ringing buzzed in his ears. Dull. Persistent. Like his body recognized danger but couldn't place it.
He saw Cruxius's lips move.
But he heard nothing.
Ryken's voice cracked through the stillness, confused. "What did you do to me?!"
Cruxius tilted his head, amused. "Hah. Not like you can hear me."
His voice echoed only faintly in Ryken's ears, distorted, like it passed through glass and water.
Cruxius stepped forward, arms out like a priest delivering a sermon.
"It's poetic, isn't it?" he mused, smiling faintly. "The mighty A-rank hero reduced to a confused dog in the middle of a stage he thought he owned."
Ryken's fists clenched.
"What stage?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.
Cruxius smiled wider, then raised a single finger.
"Say cheese."
FLASH. FLASH. FLASH.
WHOOM-WHOOM-WHOOM.
Sudden wind ripped through the air as three military-grade news choppers descended, their rotors screaming like banshees.
Spotlights burst alive, locking Ryken in a white-hot cage of light.
Drones swarmed like vultures, circling and zooming in, catching his every breath, every twitch.
Black vans screeched to a halt beyond the broken gates.
Reporters poured out like a flood, voices shrieking over one another, cameras flashing like muzzle fire.
Cruxius stood at the center, the perfect contrast—composed amid the chaos around him, with hands tucked in his pockets, black suit fluttering, eyes looking back at Ryken with clear amusement.
Before the performance began.
"We are live at the Montserrat Blac Estate where chaos unfolded moments ago!"
"The footage you're seeing is not edited. Repeat—NOT edited. That is Ryken, the A-rank hero, standing amidst the ruins of one of the most secure private estates in Europe."
"This isn't just property damage, folks—this is a clear attempt at murder. As you can see exclusively from the footage of him holding a huge monster before throwing—yes, throwing—it intentionally toward the mansion."
"Sources confirm the Hero Association had no official mission assigned to Ryken in Spain. So why is he here? Who authorized this assault?"
"Citizens are outraged. The hashtag #HeroesWithoutChains is trending as viewers question whether the Hero Association has lost control of its operatives."
"Let's not forget Ryken's history—collateral damage in Rio, that incident in Cairo, the controversy in Seoul. When does 'justice' become unchecked aggression? Is this because heroes consider us cockroaches?"
"We're joined now by legal analyst Dorian Vonn. Dorian—could this be grounds for criminal prosecution?"
"Absolutely, Marla. From a legal standpoint, this is breaking and entering with international implications. Civilian endangerment. Destruction of property. If the Blac family presses charges, this could go all the way to the World Court."
Cruxius finally turned to the hovering microphones, his voice soft but heavy with grief.
"I never imagined… that someone entrusted with saving lives… could so casually step over the lives of others."
He paused, lowering his eyes for effect.
"My late mother was buried in this courtyard. He shattered her resting place… for what? Glory? Misguided justice?"
The crowd hushed.
Even the cameras seemed to zoom in tighter.
Ryken stepped forward, mouth open. "That's not—!"
FLASH.
FLASH.
A reporter screamed: "He's approaching! Step back, he's aggressive!"
"Wh-what?"
Ryken froze as the camera lights burned brighter, a dozen red dots from drone targeting systems dancing across his chest and arms.
The ground beneath his boots cracked slightly as he shifted his weight, tension bristling through every muscle.
Cruxius, still smiling like a serpent in silk, raised a gloved hand lazily and murmured a single word:
"Fire."
POP!
A sharp, hissing impact—then pain.
Ryken stumbled back, blinking at the smoking hole in his suit's shoulder area.
His fingers touched the seared edge of the metal and met blood.
An ultrasonic bullet.
One designed not just to pierce, but disrupt at a molecular level. The wound buzzed with microscopic tremors, dulling his strength and piercing the skin—good enough for penetrating steel-like flesh.
"What… the hell…" he muttered.
And then came Cruxius's voice—mocking, cruel, weaponized for an audience.
"Don't move, you monster." His voice echoed across the estate, broadcast into the media's microphones. "First you destroyed my home. Now you're threatening innocent reporters documenting your carnage? I may be just a mere human, but even I can see injustice when it slaps me in the face."
Ryken's eyes burned, not from pain, but fury.
'What the fuck is he spouting?' he thought. None of this made sense.
He gritted his teeth. This was spiraling. He needed to leave before the Association wouldn't be able to help him like always.
The Hero Association valued heroes based on their ranks and rarity and would ignore such trivial events where some lowlife died, supporting the hero by showing his merit against the damage caused.
So, he decided to leave this to the Association again—to let them handle the damage control.
But as he twisted to dash away, another bullet slammed into his other shoulder.
Then another. And another.
Tat-tat-tat.
A coordinated volley lit up his frame, each impact a sharp sting, like bees injecting venom into his nerves.
He grunted, stumbling, crossing his arms to shield his vitals.
His voice broke into a primal scream.
"I'll KILL you BASTARDS!"
VVVZRRRMMM!
A beam of heat lanced from his eyes, boiling the air itself as he tilted his face toward the heavens.
BOOM!
A helicopter exploded midair, turning into a flaming pinwheel that spiraled downward in a trail of smoke and shrieking metal.
The camera feed cut to static for a second—before switching to another angle from a surviving drone.
Panic erupted.
Reporters shrieked. Civilians screamed. Guards scrambled.
"He just shot down a helicopter! This is LIVE, people! That was a MEDIA aircraft!"
"He's out of control!"
"What kind of HERO does this?!"
Ryken stood amidst the chaos, chest heaving, mind racing. "W-wait… I didn't mean to…" he stammered.
But it was already too late.
The narrative had overtaken the truth.
The headlines were written.
The clips were edited in real time.
Public opinion had already slammed the gavel.
And then—
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!!
A high-pitched screech ripped through the air, drilling into Ryken's skull like a sonic spike. He dropped to his knees, clutching his ears.
"AGHH—!"
The sound was inhuman. Weaponized.
A sonic suppressor, buried in the estate's architecture, designed for disabling enhanced beings. Ryken's vision blurred. Blood trickled from his nose.
Cruxius's voice floated through the agony, crystal-clear as if untouched by the chaos.
"You know what I love the most?"
Ryken tried to respond. His mouth moved, but the words were swallowed by the sonic shriek.
Cruxius chuckled, cold and cruel.
"It's seeing fragile, egoistic, god-complex heroes like you wiggle like dogs."
Then—
CRACK—THOOM!
A new force crashed down from the sky—something heavy, humanoid, cloaked in steam and kinetic energy. It slammed Ryken to the ground, creating a crater that splintered the marble beneath.
Dust. Debris. Silence.
Reporters gasped.
"Wait—what was that?! Another arrival? Who the hell is—?!"
The drone feed focused, lens adjusting on the silhouette in the smoke.