What God Desires (1)
I run. The ground propels me forward. For a brief moment my vision blurs from the sudden surge of speed. Then the familiar sensation clicks into place—the skills and traits I’ve stolen locking together inside me. Eyes wide, I watch the bastards rushing straight at me. They raise their makeshift weapons high, closing the distance with clear intent. Fear swims in every pair of eyes charging toward me at once.
My strength is overwhelming. I’ve already tested it. A stomp crushes skulls. A full-power punch sends grown men flying. A kick can slam someone into a wall hard enough to leave them embedded. But that doesn’t make me invincible. A knife in the right spot will still kill me. The Preacher proved that. Even he lost limbs to blades and gained holes from bullets. In the end, I’m just a beast. A lion. They’re the herbivores. And even a lion can die if it misjudges the horns.
The weapons are dangerous only if they connect. So I simply don’t let them.
I force down the grin trying to climb my lips and leap forward at the peak of my acceleration.
“Uh—”
The idiot barely gets the sound out before my fist meets his face. A thunderous crack splits the air. Superman Punch—the same jump strike I saw in that mobile game. The man’s face caves in and he collapses in a tangled heap. I’m already moving on to the next wave charging me.
Swish. Shwaaaak. Shwaak! Hatchets, knives, machetes identical to the one I carry—they swing at me in a frenzy. I twist my body, never letting a single strike land. Side step. Rear foot pull. Head tilt. I read the attacks before they fully form and move just enough to stay untouched.
Crack! A jab. I’ve never trained in boxing, but it came bundled with Advanced Combat. The clean straight snaps a jaw sideways and the man drops. I almost stomp his head flat when a hammer screams toward me. I leap backward. Whoooong—crunch!
“Surround the fucker! Stab him all at once!” someone screams. Even the toothless bastard Hyuk-jun had shouted the same thing earlier. People’s ideas really don’t vary much. It was effective, too. No matter how good my dodging, how high my Combat and Agility stats, being surrounded meant death.
The moment I evade the hammer, more cultists swarm from behind, teeth bared. Uwaaaah—shouts drenched in terror. Weapons swing wildly. Simply avoiding isn’t enough. Dodging is always one tempo late, and the options for counterattack after are limited. So?
I already knew the answer. Two options.
They charge. They run at me swinging. I slip through their arcs like it’s choreography. I see every trajectory, every foot placement, every ounce of force behind their blows. Target points, timing, power, openings—they’re all laid bare. All I do is move according to the optimal path my mind calculates.
This time I don’t dodge. Thud. Before the hatchet can accelerate, I shoot my arm out and smack the handle aside. My fist slams into the now-disarmed man’s throat. Crack. He clutches his crushed windpipe and crumples. I yank my body back to avoid the follow-up hammer and machete. Retreat.
A quick sidelong glance confirms my sister has fallen back further. The hammer guy gets greedy, overextending.
“Fuck! You fucking piece of shit!”
He swings the hammer repeatedly. The instant it descends from above, I slip sideways, close the gap, and drive a knee into his ribs. Crunch. Most of his ribcage collapses. His eyes roll back. I use his falling corpse to block the machete coming down at me.
“Uh—”
While he panics, I seize his throat and hurl him into the wall. Boom. Stone chips scatter. He doesn’t get up. I glance at him, then catch the wrist of the next man swinging a sickle and ram my forehead into his face. His features pulp and he drops. No time to wipe the blood off my own face—I drop two more with rapid jabs.
Long corridor. Wide enough, but I keep giving ground to avoid encirclement, pushing them back the entire time.
“Surround him! I said surround—!” The desperate scream is useless.
Whoosh. Whoooong! I evade another hammer. Lean, slip, jab. Crack! The man flies away. Attacks rain down without pause—blades, hammers, anything they can swing. I dodge a sickle and counter with a low kick. Crunch! The leg folds with a scream. Another man reaches for me; I slap the hand aside and crush his throat with an elbow. Ignoring the one clutching his neck, I meet a tackle, shift my weight, and drop an elbow onto his spine. Crack. Vertebrae give way. The moment I straighten, another man stabs with a reverse-grip knife. I twist, catch the wrist, inhale, pivot, and hurl him. Seventy kilograms of adult male becomes a wrecking ball. The tangled group collapses in a heap. I charge straight into the gap.
Now was the time to press the advantage. Another short sprint ends in a Superman Punch. One face caves. I catch the baseball bat swinging at me, yank its owner forward, and kick him away. Grab the idiot diving at my back, drive a knee into his stomach until he kneels. My breathing is ragged now.
Groans fill the hallway. Ten… fifteen left? Sixteen? I’ve lost count. Roughly half remain. Optimistically, still half. Pessimistically, only half. Either way, they’ve stopped charging.
There are two ways for a few to defeat many. I read it in a comic once. Force one-on-one fights. And terror. Break the group so it can no longer function as a group. Every single cultist who stepped up to me is now either dead or crippled on the floor.
I steady my breathing and shake the blood from my fist.
“Ugh… ah…”
I walk toward them. Small footsteps follow behind me—Kang Ahyeon. We advance together. The cultist scum don’t let us come easily. They shuffle backward. Pushed all the way to the stairs, one lets out a pathetic “uh” before tumbling down. Groans echo, then the sound of frantic footsteps fleeing downward. The rest continue retreating, eyes fixed on me.
I can practically read their thoughts. Swarm me, surround me, stab. Simple. But how? Anyone who got close died or passed out before an encirclement could form. Not one of them could withstand a single blow. Blocking was pointless. The overwhelming gap in power made it impossible. So they would have to fight me while accepting death. That was exactly what I wanted. The terror of dying the moment they faced me kept their group paralyzed. There weren’t many ways to break that fear.
It should appear soon.
I approach the stairs. The cultists backpedal on the steps, then—
“Ah.”
They let out a small sound. The group hesitates and parts to both sides. Several men push through the gap.
“…I thought a bear had crawled up here… but it’s just a person?”
A cocky man in his thirties steps forward. Behind him, a group of suited men. The one in front has a familiar face. Former martial artist, former cop, current head of the cult leader’s security detail. Choi Jae-wook. The world had ended and he was still wearing a suit. His security team too. Well, someone has to show up for work even after the Rapture.
I look at him. He looks at me—covered in other people’s blood—and tries to appear relaxed despite the clear wariness in his eyes.
“…Huh? Hey, wait, aren’t you Kang Hyun? Wow, the world went to shit and you’re still alive? If I’d known you could fight like this, I would’ve asked the cult leader to put you under me. What the hell are you doing, causing all this—”
He keeps running his mouth as he steps closer.
“Ah, forget it. A man who only talks smooth doesn’t earn respect. You seem pretty confident in those fists. How about it? You and me, one fight. Beating up weak regular believers isn’t any fun, right?”
…I did want to fight him. Ex-pro. Maybe Master-rank Combat? With my Strength at 9, could I win? Or would I get crushed by superior technique like in those comics? The curiosity stayed curiosity. There were already piles of corpses behind me, yet Choi Jae-wook overflowed with confidence. I immediately understood where it came from. The pistol peeking from inside his suit jacket. A police revolver.
I didn’t need to say anything. I covered my ears. From beside me, a gun barrel thrust forward.
Only kill the ones with guns.
Kang Ahyeon always listens well.
Maybe because her Stealth skill even kills presence, Choi Jae-wook only notices her now. His eyes widen.
“Uh—”
Too late.
The shotgun roars.
A human body flies. Torn to shreds by the shotgun at close range, it tumbles down the stairs, scattering blood and screams.
“Kyaaaaak!”
Spent shells clatter across the floor. As I step forward, the cultists shrink back in terror. Kang Ahyeon keeps her aim locked on Choi Jae-wook’s corpse.
“Don’t touch the gun. If anyone approaches the body, I’ll shoot.”
Her quiet voice cuts through the silence louder than any shout.
“It’s a semi-automatic shotgun. Nine rounds left. It fires every time I pull the trigger. If you don’t want to test that, everyone go down the stairs. Even if you all rush together, three pulls will kill you all. So don’t try anything stupid.”
I didn’t need to give any orders. The cultists avoid the corpse like it’s sewage. I descend the stairs and pull the revolver from Choi Jae-wook’s body.
◈ Six-round cylinder. Reliable. Familiar weight in the hand.
◈ Insight confirms it is exactly what it appears to be.
Too bad Plunder is still on cooldown. I could have taken his Combat Mastery. Or at least gained some shooting skill. Can’t be helped.
I step down the stairs with my sister. The cultists retreat, hesitating. Their eyes swirl with emotion—fear, shock, rage—but whenever our gazes meet they swallow hard and flinch backward. A man who kicks people until they fold, stomps them into paste, and beats fifteen people to death with his bare hands. A woman who shoots someone at point-blank range with a shotgun without hesitation. The way the cultists look at the two of us is dominated by disgust and terror. They stare like we’re monsters.
That kind of gaze would have bothered me once. Now it feels strangely pleasant. The way they tremble and look away the instant our eyes meet—like they’re facing a predator that will attack the moment they run. I watch them frozen, unable to advance or retreat, then meet my sister’s eyes. She seems to be thinking the same thing.
I raise the looted revolver.
“Hand over everything you have, you fucking bastards.”