Beast Hunt (3)
The fallen darkness flickered feebly.
"Return... my power... and resurrection..."
Boom!
A transparent explosion shattered the pile of bones. It was the telekinetic shockwave I'd triggered remotely.
Mana like boiling rage surged through the circuits in my body. This overwhelming power. The omnipotence emanating from the mana that boiled up the more I drew it forth. It was possible only because this was a dream, but right now, I was a mage unleashing one hundred percent of my circuit's potential. Something that would take at least a year in reality.
At the explosion's center, every bone but one crumbled to dust. The beast's skull alone, after bouncing several times, rolled intact across the ground. Broken branches and scattering leaves rained down over it. The dead beast wailed mournfully.
"Return... what's mine..."
"Shut up!"
I pulled back the hand I'd aimed straight ahead and clenched the empty air, slamming it down hard. A searing beam of heat tore through the wind in a twisting arc.
Screeeeech!Boom!
The blazing whip unleashed a torrent of heat laced with physical force. My mentor's skull slammed into the ground from the recoil.
Unlike the old days when all my mentor could manage was transforming himself, I wielded magic freely here. Because this was my mental world.
My fingertips trembled with emotion. The mentor's specter sobbed.
"You... stole my power and wisdom..."
"Who are you blaming?"
I forced down the rage churning in my gut and sneered at the specter.
"The one who killed you was no one but your own arrogance. Or am I wrong?"
If this crystallized embodiment of chosen-people supremacy hadn't underestimated me as some young yellow monkey, and hadn't gotten drunk on the power of magic for the first time as a mage, squandering his mana, the outcome of that surreal game of hide-and-seek might have been entirely different.
From the start, the reason he'd chosen me was that even his pursuers wouldn't dream I'd hide in a yellow body. That deep-seated discrimination let him look down on me like a fool.
"..."
As my thoughts continued, I suddenly felt pathetic about myself.
What specter? It's just trauma.
I wanted to mock it, ridicule it, vent my rage and violence on it. But that thing over there wasn't my mentor. It was just the core of the trauma lingering inside me.
Dreams reflect desires. Even after all this time, unable to overcome my fear, maybe I just wanted to mock the object of that fear somehow.
If so, what difference was there from jerking off?
The moment that realization hit, the beast fell silent as proof. I swung the mana heat beam that had been roaring slackly.
Boom!
The ferocious thermal pressure smashed the unbreakable skull, launching it like a cannonball deep into the forest shadows. I cut off the mana, letting the burning whip vanish.
Silence returned to the woods.
Reducing mental strain was one of a dream's natural functions. Here, I wasn't the boss of a massive organization—no need to watch my image, free to be as ugly as I wanted.
Insulting a phantom enemy, getting drunk on phantom power, surrendering to rage. But I couldn't tolerate seeing myself like that.
What I needed to do now was seize this rare dream as an opportunity.
A shallow sleep was regrettable, but the sensation of operating my circuits was no different from reality. I needed to simulate my full potential as a mage for future readiness.
I have to grow stronger than anyone.
My innate abilities were the ultimate insurance to protect me in any situation, the universal key to counter every magical variable on the path to London.
When I emerged as an asymmetric force beyond the imperialists' expectations, those ancient mages would truly become prey.
I was prepared to risk danger to hone my magical prowess and gain real combat experience. Hoping this bizarre sleep disorder would visit often, I rigorously tested mana control and various incantation calculations until the alarm rang.
The next afternoon.
My guard dogs—keen-nosed and quick to act—pinpointed the port warehouse rented by the White Guard. Kyung-tae, leader of the pack, reported as representative.
"It's not just for storing goods. The homeless ones bunk there communally for food and lodging. Doubles as guard duty."
The one who spilled this intel was loaded in the back of our guard team's vehicle. I'd dump him in the sea when the time came. No reason to kill him early and spare the pain.
"The plan?"
"Simple. Hit 'em at night, smash the first wave. Spread false info through their network to lure in the responders and smash the second wave. The stragglers stumbling in drunk on drugs or booze? Third wave, smash 'em too."
Unconventional tactics are the weak's gambit. When our forces overwhelmed, the best was always a frontal assault.
They'd never imagine a spec-ops level raid on themselves.
I nodded and stared at one of the photos the guard team had snapped.
"This their sign?"
"Yeah. Like dogs marking territory, they tag everywhere."
The photo showed graffiti on a wall: ᛟᚱᛁᛟᚾ 14/88. Red background, black letters. White skull beside it. All three of their symbolic colors.
Using runes instead of letters was childish as hell. Runes or not, it just meant English.
The overused red felt tacky, like waste.
"Dirty like dog piss, too."
Kyung-tae chuckled at my remark.
"Spot on, hyungnim."
ᛟᚱᛁᛟᚾ translated to ORION. A slogan white supremacists loved: "Our Race Is Our Nation." The numbers 14/88 symbolized other slogans. 14 for the 14 words: "We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children." 88 for "Heil Hitler."
Lame wordplay.
We set the strike for midnight. After a quick tabletop drill with the subordinates, Kyung-tae sent them to prep and asked me,
"What about you, hyungnim?"
"What about me?"
"No need for you to come along. We'll handle it, you rest and get the report later."
"Hmm."
Usually, sticking together avoided splitting forces. Our guards weren't typical bodyguards—they prioritized proactive threat elimination, broad preemptive strikes, and close protection in the field. Despite the name, they functioned as an elite praetorian guard. But ultimately, their core duty was protecting me.
With me on site, close-protection forces could flex as reserves. And more reserves were always better.
"No. On second thought, I'll go."
Kyung-tae didn't ask twice.
"Got it. We'll prep accordingly."
Time passed.
The on-site support team at our overseas HQ easily hacked the rundown warehouse and its perimeter cameras. Cheap Chinese IP cams meant for petty thieves—barely any security. Penny-pinching fools were everywhere.
Still, my hunting dogs held off breaching past midnight.
The White Guard threw a wrench in.
"Push it back a day, hyungnim?"
I checked my watch and answered Kyung-tae's question.
"...Wait a bit longer."
"Roger."
Three hours earlier, a van pulled up, dropped off some voluptuous women, and left. Skimpy outfits, cheap laughs. Heavy exposure despite the cold. Hookers on a house call.
Making a bunch of women vanish with them would get messy. The dispatching brothel would report it, and cops wouldn't shrug it off. Mass kidnapping, murder, trafficking. With neo-Nazi skinheads involved, no other conclusion fit.
Even a broke, unmotivated police force couldn't ignore it. Worst case, feds take over.
Waiting in the car dragged on, boring. A patrol car passed close, but the two cops barely glanced our way.
Probably pegged us as bums with wheels.
In this land of inequality and cars, homeless with vehicles were common. Even profs and civil servants lived in theirs. No reason for cops to eye us.
How much longer? The radio crackled.
"Car incoming."
The vehicle pulling into the warehouse yard was the same van that brought the women. A common Ford Transit, but the plate left no doubt.
VAGINA.
Real subtle. Pimp shelled out for that plate.
The middle-aged madam who stepped out lit a cigarette, leaning cockily. As it burned down, her clients emerged with her girls, opening the warehouse door. Talk between the madam and skinheads, then she burst out laughing. Paid up, she nodded, loaded her girls, and left.
All but one.
Kyung-tae panicked.
"What? Why leave her?"
The lone woman clung to one guy, plying professional charm. He wrapped an arm around her waist, nodding the rest inside. Clearly the crew's core—lieutenant or boss.
"Come on. Perk of rank."
Kyung-tae sighed, scratching his head.
Organizations often set hierarchies: who can own what, do what. Common as dirt. Look at the old Korean army's twisted grunt discipline.
It was showboating too. In thug world, macho flexing proved dominance over other males. Bragging seven times a night, eight times—badges of honor.
Peering through the warehouse walls with my overpowered eyes, I made the call.
"No choice. Proceed as is."
"Bury the girl too?"
I shook my head at Kyung-tae's question.
"We'll think on that."
"Got it. Report after first sweep."
Kyung-tae grabbed his balaclava and hopped out.
If I could magic their memories, it'd be easy.
But no such incantation existed. You'd need full grasp of brain function first, then circuits fast enough to compute it. Nothing as complex as a brain. And against an awakened mage? Forget it.
Messing with brains via mana meant stripping their mana field first—basically depowering them.
I stepped out of the car. Around me, Kyung-tae's eight-man, two-team crew loitered—some on benches, some against walls—playing vagrant sentries.
My coat fluttered. The alley wind carried the sour stink unique to remote, poor ports. Factory-warehouse-housing mix; smells were inevitable.
My eyes pierced the warehouse, seeing everything inside. As expected, my hunting dogs were massive overkill.