What the Hell Is That?
“We shall all stand together. Live for today, die tomorrow~ Bury that timid smile deep in your heart~”
In a dark back alley, a grubby-looking gang member hummed the tune. The mask covering his lower face filtered his voice. The lizardman patrolling alongside him grumbled in complaint.
“You gotta sing that song here of all places?”
“Why not? What's the problem?”
“You seriously asking that?”
“Because of the next lyrics? You don't actually believe in ghosts, do you?”
“They exist!”
“Sure, sure~”
The grubby gang member cackled in response. Ghosts? As if such things existed. It was all just lies cooked up by exorcists to make a quick buck. That was the kind of thought only a man who'd never seen a ghost in his entire life could have.
But the lizardman scolding him was different.
“Hey, you only say that crap 'cause you grew up in some middle-class house with a roof over your head. They get regular cleansings there. Down in the slums, they show up at least once a year!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The man just kept snickering, teasing his partner by humming the next verse.
“In the twilight dusk, the boogeyman shall come~ With a rusty blade, he'll slit your throat~ Early evening~ Stuff you in a sack and toss you in the sea~ Late at night~ An empty ship drifts into harbor~ Early morning~”
“Stop! Just stop···”
The lizardman, who'd been holding it in, finally exploded.
That was when it happened.
““?!””
The man and the lizardman locked eyes. What the hell? Some belated April Fool's joke? But no one would pull that kind of stunt over comms.
Dudududu!
And the gunfire echoing from the abandoned factory—the gang's hideout—made it clear this was no prank. The two bolted toward the factory.
As they drew closer, they started spotting other patrol members like themselves rushing in.
“Who's the intruder?”
“Those Elance scumbags we beefed with recently?”
“Just one guy, apparently?”
“Huh??”
They exchanged quick intel before breaching. No clue who the intruder was or what he wanted. No one knew how he'd slipped past patrols, CCTV, and mines to take out the boss.
All they knew was one thing: a single assassin, still rampaging inside.
They rushed in. The moment they did, daggers flew, slitting two throats.
“Crazy! Take cover!”
Patrol teams dove for cover without even spotting the assassin. From beyond the wall, sounds of vanguards clashing with the intruder rang out.
The man who'd been humming moments ago trembled in fear.
Chaeng!
“Gurk···”
“Chabo!”
An officer went down frothing at the mouth after just one exchange. What kind of monster was this assassin that he dropped an officer in a single clash? Could it be because of that song he'd hummed? No. Ghosts didn't exist.
The man denied the thought and peeked around the wall to prove it wasn't his fault.
Peeking out, he saw the figure butchering the gang: wrapped head to toe in black cloth, deep hood pulled low over a skull mask.
The mask's eyes met his. The three lenses in each socket evoked a spider's loathsome gaze. The predator's red lenses stared silently.
An inexplicable terror made the man's body shrink back.
“Shoot! Shoot him!”
An officer's shout snapped him back to reality. He ducked behind the wall again. The figure ignored the hiding man, swinging its blade at those firing at it.
“Fuck! What the hell is that monster?!”
“That bastard's regenerating! He escape from some lab!?”
Amid the deafening gunfire, comrades' voices crackled over comms. Shouts, screams, death rattles. In the cacophony, the man steeled himself. He grabbed the wrist of the lizardman he'd been patrolling with.
“Let's bail.”
This gang was done. Boogeyman, ghost, lab escapee—didn't matter. No gang could survive a monster immune to bullets that regenerated wounds. Best to cut losses now.
The lizardman, gripped by the wrist, agreed. They slipped away naturally.
Luckily—or whatever—this old slaughterhouse was full of corpses dangling from hooks. Amid the chaos of bodies, blending in two more wouldn't stand out.
They mingled among the eviscerated husks—aka logs—slipping out unnoticed. Once far enough, they sprinted full tilt.
“Never singing that song again.”
Safety secured, the man exhaled, trying to play off that he hadn't been scared.
“So what now?”
“What? I figured something like this might happen, so I already hit up Elance. We head there.”
“Gonna keep at this gig?”
“Why? Gonna give up this honey pot?”
“Hell no. Count me in.”
The lizardman snickered too, salvaging his pride. No regrets from either. Kidnapping strays without backup or luring clueless kids for organ harvesting netted millions—no reason to quit. At least, that's what they thought.
And so the two gangsters survived another day···
Splat!
···or not. In an instant, they turned to meat chunks. A hulking brute muttered as he stepped through the blood puddle they'd left.
“Told ya not to block the road.”
No warning given, but it didn't matter to him. All that counted was weaklings obstructing his path. He spat on the lizardman's severed tail far off, then eyed the factory.
“Let's see that ugly mug.”
Grinning ferociously, the brute hoisted his axe high.
Inside the abandoned factory, Amon in his skull mask swung his blade.
Amon harvested the gangsters' necks without emotion. Killing people shouldn't feel this numb, but those he cut down weren't human anymore.
After seeing livestock-like corpses hung upside down in this former slaughterhouse, live bodies tossed into machines like cattle, guts yanked out and replaced with bags of white powder—could you still call them people?
So Amon swung. Even the faint pity in his heart vanished as he reaped the wicked.
His swings produced no rustle of cloth, no sound no matter how fiercely he moved or kicked off the ground. An eerie silence, as if his space existed in another world.
Even spotted, the hush worked its magic.
“He's hiding again!”
With a gangster's shout, Amon melted into the corpses on the slaughterhouse hooks. A trickle of mana into his clothes shifted their shade to match the shadows' tones.
No sound, hard to spot. Despite all the eyes, no one tracked him visually.
Amon reappeared atop an officer, piercing heart through shoulder, yanking free to spray blood. As the mist obscured vision, his mask lenses pierced it.
Gangsters flinching shut-eyed, others glaring through tears. Amon etched their faces while swinging. Five heads flew.
Lenses caught bullets arcing between neck and torso. Amon didn't dodge.
Ting!
A heavy impact hit his neck with a sharp metallic ring. But the bullet didn't penetrate the mask.
The sniper aiming for his face didn't panic, targeting the chest next. Amon shifted slightly, offering his shoulder instead. Another heavy thud. The shot bruised but didn't wound.
Feeling the bruise regenerate, Amon guessed the ammo type.
Armor-piercing?
Enough to bruise someone immune to standard rounds? Likely. They probably thought he'd had bulletproof implants. Close, but not quite.
His skin was bulletproof now—not from surgery, but adaptation since entering. First handgun rounds, then rifles, now AP. Exposed to non-lethal hits nonstop. Wounds healed; most bullets no longer fazed him. Even grenades. Physical attacks? Useless.
Trusting his Adaptation and Recovery Acceleration, Amon pressed the extermination.
He eyed the source of those two shots. Spotted the sniper on the second-floor railing. Memorized the spot, feigned ignorance, swung on.
The sniper fired again. Amon slid under a gangster's crotch.
Sniper panicked as Amon vanished. Scanned the ceiling, not expecting underfoot. Meanwhile, Amon slid through legs, drew his pistol.
Behind the gangsters: one shot to a passed knee, another to a jaw from the opposite side. Silenced by his gear, utterly quiet.
Processed two silently, momentum-launched him upward. Sniper noticed too late; Amon fired first. Muzzle puffed smoke, bullet pierced lens and eye.
Ooh, lucky shot.
Headshot like a movie. Amon admired as he landed.
Dealt with the pest, mopping up the rest. Then he sensed killing intent.
A massive shockwave hurtled from that direction.
Kwagwang!!
Brute force, no finesse. Amon hurled sideways, barely escaping. No time for a clean roll; dodged two more before standing amid rubble.
His eyes narrowed at the source. A horned brute shouldered a massive axe, glaring.
Problem: the "horn."
Why a drill of all things???
Not a beastman horn. A power drill bolted to his forehead. A goblin mask glowed red from his crotch.
Amon's impression···
What the hell is that···
No matter how free the fashion, he couldn't comprehend.
Should I teach him how to dress···
As such trivial thoughts crossed his mind, the brute bared yellowed teeth in a grin. Ignored the fallen, fixed on Amon.
“You the one playing hero lately?”
“···?”
Amon tilted his head. Hero? Perplexed, he cocked his head further. The freak spoke.
“Don't play dumb. Who's got our lab stock and materials drying up? You think it's coincidence some bastard raids our subcontractor right now?”
Amon got it. Aha. Tied to the trafficking network too.
But he didn't charge. Might be a misunderstanding; tried minimal talk.
“Cop?”
“Nah? You think I look like one?”
“Then why're you here?”
The brute grinned, axe high overhead.
“To catch a rat!”
He swung down, bellowing. Another massive blast erupted.