The Boy Who Faced the One-Man Army
Plasma cutters extended from the six arms sprouting from the gorilla's back in Punk City slashed downward. With a humming vibration that shook the air, a red line left an afterimage in the empty space. Moments later, the entity that had once been a police officer split cleanly in two.
The gorilla paid no attention to the bisected cop. It simply deflected bullets and magic with its bare body, swinging its three pairs of back arms and thick primary arms in perfect unison to unilaterally massacre the surrounding police. Its right eye, compound like an insect's, captured the entire battlefield, while its brain CPU analyzed every detail. In just 0.1 seconds, the analysis complete, the six arms moved autonomously to execute efficient slaughter.
The police had come to rescue civilians, only to die helplessly. It wasn't that they were incompetent. They had their own augmentations and specialties—mages, swordsmen, even skilled snipers. This many could wipe out a gang branch. But they were no match for that gorilla. What it wielded was military-grade gear, unavailable on the civilian market—and not just one piece, but plastered across its entire body. At that level, they shouldn't have sent police; they needed the army and armored vehicles.
"Special forces ETA!"
"Ten minutes, sir!"
"You bastards! They've got air vehicles—why the hell are they slower than us?!"
"Christmas season traffic in the airspace, they say!"
"Thanks for the update, asshole!"
Once again, the beat cops were meat shields buying time for the special forces. Those with middling talent, money, and connections always drew the short straw. But their presence wasn't meaningless. By grabbing the gorilla's ankle, they let civilians escape the scene.
Confirming no civilians remained, the police shifted strategy—from encirclement kill to time-buying. Instead of aggressive return fire, they switched to suppressive shots from safe cover. The change worked. Just going defensive slashed casualties dramatically.
Watching this, the rookie cop felt hope. 'We can survive!' That led to a fatal mistake. One they should never have made. But regret came too late.
A rocket streaked in, obliterating the rookie and his cover. A few cops bit their lower lips hard. No time to mourn, though—the gorilla responded to their strategy shift with a rocket barrage.
Boom!Kaboom!
"Liniiaaa! Lini!!! I'll kill you all, you pigs!!!"
Sometime between, the cops had become blood-sworn enemies for killing the gorilla's daughter. The sniper who'd been picking it off got caught in the rocket spam. Building walls crumbled, windows shattered. The area morphed into a full battlefield.
In that hell, a rocket launcher locked onto the inspector's cover. 'Damn it! Should've stayed home listening to the wife nag!' No other cover nearby. Sensing his end, the inspector squeezed his eyes shut.
That was when it happened. Whoosh! Something streaked through the sky. Psssh! Rocket launch. Then BOOM!—the backblast engulfed the gorilla, audible beyond the cover.
Dust clouds obscured the spot, but it was clear: the gorilla had knelt for the first time. As the inspector processed the sudden shift, a boy approached. Dust-caked, clothes in tatters, yet his looks shone undimmed—radiating trustworthiness.
As the inspector admired the boy's face, the kid asked, "Got a sword or anything?"
Rewinding time. Right after the gorilla unleashed its rocket barrage.
Walls of several buildings crumbled—including the attic where Amon and Sonia hid. Their protective wall gone, the battlefield where the gorilla raged filled their view.
The gorilla's compound eyes turned toward the collapsed wall's interior. Nothing but clothes on hangers. It dismissed the attic and returned to its work.
"Phew."
From the clothing piles the gorilla had overlooked came a sigh of relief. Amon's group, hidden amid the fabrics. Luckily, the gorilla ignored their side.
Convinced they were undetected, Amon decided to stay cloaked in the cloths. Fifteen minutes since the barrage began. Special forces usually took ten. With Christmas congestion, maybe twenty tops. Five more minutes hidden, and they'd be safe—or so Amon figured.
Sonia nodded, burrowing into the pile. The shop owner moved to join. But before he could,
"Ugh!"
The old man groaned in pain. Amon asked worriedly,
"What is it?"
"Nothing. Don't worry about it."
The old man brushed it off, but his limping leg betrayed him. Amon's gaze dropped. Scissors protruded from the man's thigh.
'Damn... from then?'
When the wall blew, debris—including the sewing kit—flooded the attic. It stung, but Amon and Sonia's sturdy bodies endured. The old man, not so much.
Misfortune or fortune? He'd dodged most flying junk thanks to them blocking it, unscathed above the waist—but the scissors pierced his thigh.
Under the dim attic light, Amon checked the old man's pallor. Not good. Even without expertise, he knew it hit a major vessel. No carrying him to hide elsewhere.
In his haze, the old man kept murmuring in Korean, "Go... hurry..."
Amon shut his eyes. A stranger in this world, where pity or justice was a joke. Even if they reached a hospital in time, survival odds unknown—and could he pay? Logically, leave him.
Amon furrowed his brow and prayed. "Lord, look upon me in mercy."
Prayer short, decision swift. He handed the dazed old man to Sonia with instructions.
"I'll draw the gorilla's eyes. You cross that alley. See the bakery? Back door leads to the hospital."
"What? Draw its eyes how?"
"Sonia. Trust me."
No spilling about past lives or patterns. Just faith.
The boy's earnest eyes reflected in the girl's golden ones. Sonia bit her lip, hoisted the old man piggyback. She couldn't abandon him either. Whining at Amon,
"I'll be right back. Stay alive... till then!"
Swallowing the death flag, she shouted. Amon, catching her care, grinned confidently. "It'll be over before that."
Words done, Amon improvised with attic tools. Glimpsing the gorilla sparked "one-man army": thick arms with heavy weapons, back arms armed too. Firepower to smash two light tanks. But not invincible.
'Weak lower body.'
Thighs looked solid, bulletproof even. But Amon meant balance, not durability.
'Swinging eight weapons up top leaves no room for leg mounts. Legs just brace recoil.'
Precariously so—a nudge could topple it. Amon targeted legs. Workshop space helped; materials abounded.
He calmly tied ropes, weighted one end: bolas complete. Waited for gorilla to aim a weapon.
As it closed with rocket on a cop—'Now!'
Amon hurled. Bolas wrapped legs perfectly, tripping it forward. Unintended rocket fired mid-fall, backblast engulfing it.
Watching the explosion, Amon puzzled. 'Why remove the safety?'
Rockets usually had user safeguards. This mini lacked it—maybe miniaturized for back storage. Only the gorilla knew. Lucky break anyway; Amon shelved safety thoughts, approached the inspector.
"Got a sword?"
Stunned, the inspector kindly pointed to a half-corpse—lower body intact, decent katana at waist.
Amon eyed it, clicked tongue. "Tch. Kinda iffy."
Yet crouched to sprint for it. Inspector got it: the boy would charge. Normally stop him, but in crisis, miracles tempt. Especially after gorilla knelt. Couldn't help trusting the kid.
Instead of blocking, "Take this before you go."
Handed a pistol, one mag left. Amon nodded thanks, dashed from cover.
En route, alerted cops suppressed, drawing eyes. Amon reached the sword, gripped reverse for rush.
'Not aiming to win.'
It was an army. Amon's "tutorial" barely started. No gamer hubris. Goal: disable till special forces. Survival boost.
Recalled neighbor game's mechanic: focus boss parts for part destruction, easing patterns. Not native to Punk City, but reality now—worth trying.
Amon charged. Blast-ravaged gorilla was wrecked: right arm charred, back launchers smashed. Sensors fried; no field omniscience—cops shooting, bolas tugging, chaos.
Amon scaled back unnoticed. Reverse-gripped katana jammed into right auxiliary shoulder joints. Hammered hilt like nails.
Crack!
Something snapped inside three right arms. Left auxiliaries swung late—Amon dodged.
Right auxiliaries whirred, seized. All ranged on right: aux down, main arm gun ruined by burns. Ranged crippled.
Burnt arm creaked, barrel turning. Before aiming, Amon covered. Roll grazed wounds stung, tolerable.
Gorilla prioritized Amon. Advanced on cover. But cops struck: bullets shattered right eye.
No aim assist, machine gun sloppy. Overload: target boy, cops threaten; cops, boy threatens. System balked, raged instead.
Ditched gun, drummed fists. Thud thud thud!
"Groooar!"
Magic tattoos glowed. Amon's words: phase 3 signal.
Sweating, Amon scanned. 'Anything to survive phase 3...'
Nothing. His novice body failed any weapon. Only flee, evade.
Quick math: phase 3 arms—two mains, three left aux. Patterns estimated.
Problem: dodge all? 'Maybe a minute...'
After? Unknown. Excited gorilla locked eyes. Amon tensed, aimed pistol, prepped side-roll for charge.
But no phase 3. BOOM! Massive shadow plummeted, crushing gorilla, shattering road.
Deafening sirens from sky. Amon gaped up. Familiar logo emblazoned on hovering vehicle: sniper leaning out, left arm sniper rifle mod locked on gorilla.
Amon knew that logo well. H.O.D. Hyper Operation Department. Hod. Pinnacle of American police power.