An Assassin's True Calling
Kuung! A tremor that shook the earth shattered the night's silence over the city. The slum dwellers fled in haste from their ramshackle homes, desperate to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the source of the blast. No one bothered wondering what had caused it. In the slums, anyone carrying the curiosity gene had long since gone extinct through natural selection. A few mutants might have paused with fleeting interest, but another Kuung! explosion rang out, snuffing out their curiosity as they bolted for their lives with everything they had.
Because of that, no one saw the lone figure emerging from the blast site.
Where the hell did this guy come from all of a sudden? Amon grumbled, brushing the dust from his shoulders. No matter how strong he'd gotten, he'd never let his guard down. Before raiding the gang, he'd thoroughly scouted their entry routes and manpower deployment. He'd even investigated the megacorp they supplied people to. They were tangled up with the gang, sure, but not enough to send reinforcements out of loyalty.
But reality had other plans. This axe-wielding brute had shown up here, and Amon had been forced to fight him. If he'd come as backup for the gang, Amon could have neatly admitted his intel had failed. But this guy didn't act like he was here to help—if anything, he ignored the gang members and the factory facilities entirely. Just moments ago, the shockwave from his axe swing had swept away a bunch of them. The gangsters, instead of helping him attack Amon, were too busy running for their lives.
Amon couldn't make sense of it.
Guess I have no choice. Amon called a temporary timeout and tried talking to the axe guy. It wasn't wise mid-battle, but in a world where information was as vital as life itself, it was worth the risk. Keeping himself poised to dodge at any moment, Amon asked, "What's your affiliation?"
Fortunately, the axe guy was the type who enjoyed banter in a fight. He lowered his axe and replied, "Livin' off a salary, ya know?"
"Your position?"
"Head of Security."
"?"
The answer threw Amon for a loop. Head of Security? Had he heard that right?
"You sure you didn't mean something like Director of External Intelligence or Top-Secret Special Ops?"
"Believe it or don't."
"...Why?"
Amon couldn't wrap his head around it. Combat-wise, the title fit—his power level checked out. The issue was why he was here. A head of security or protection was the company's last line of defense, their shield. You only saw them when the corp itself was under attack. To use a soccer analogy, it was like the goalkeeper charging up to the forward line. A head of security outside the company was that anomalous.
So he had to ask again. "Why's the head of security out here...?"
The axe guy seemed annoyed by the Q&A and drew his axe again. "I told ya! Came to see what kinda punk you are!"
You never said that. Amon wanted to retort, but the axe swung, ending the chit-chat.
Dodging, Amon confirmed one thing: he'd gotten tangled with a lunatic.
Haa... A sigh escaped him. He'd thought he was living a decent, upright life, but why were all the troublemakers he ran into total psychos?
No, maybe the world's gone mad and I'm the only one who can't keep up.
He dodged the axe swings with that in mind. Blocking wasn't an option. Even a casual swipe unleashed a dynamite-level blast—trying to parry that was suicide. A full-power swing could level half the factory with its shockwave; tanking it head-on with adaptation and regeneration would just get him bisected. The silver lining? By Amon's standards, the axe was slow. To a normal person, it would be a blur too fast to track, of course.
Yeah, this is what it takes to be head of security.
All the powerhouses Amon had faced so far couldn't go all-out. The security chief at Hickzen Group hadn't needed full power to subdue him. The one during Kashi's corp reclamation op had been crippled by hacking and couldn't fight. The closest was that recent mage (security chief-flavored cookie), who'd shown a glimpse of her true strength indoors, not her full potential.
Typically, elites outside company walls fought at this level—smashing a building or two without breaking a sweat, treating a district like a demolition site. This axe guy who'd popped up was cut from the same cloth.
Fear? Not a chance. The old Amon might have bolted, but now? No need.
Amon calmly evaded, waiting for an opening. He still had one joker card up his sleeve.
And when the axe swung horizontally at his waist, Amon leaped into the air.
His gaze locked on the axe guy's face. The man was smirking.
The axe hand tightened. Ignoring momentum, the horizontal sweep shifted to a vertical uppercut.
But beneath his mask, Amon smirked too.
Horizontal slash into vertical uppercut. Exactly as predicted.
Normal fighters couldn't resist when an enemy jumped airborne—the most vulnerable state, unable to dodge or block properly.
But that's what Amon had baited. He'd hidden Sky Step the entire fight for this moment.
His leg kicked off empty air, dodging the axe. The axe guy reacted, raising his left hand.
But Amon Sky Stepped again, circling behind, and swung full-force at the nape.
Ting! A barrier flared at the neck, deflecting the blade.
"Damn it all."
A curse slipped out unbidden. Of course it wouldn't end that easy.
My sword's no slouch either. He shook off the thought and refocused. No time for regrets. The enemy just had better implants and gear reinforcing his whole body—easy to accept.
As Amon recalibrated, the axe guy scratched his nape like it was a tickle.
"Knew a lone wolf like you had somethin' hidden. This little trick, huh?"
He flashed yellowed, grimy gold teeth in a grin. "Mind games ain't your monopoly, kid."
Amon nodded, admitting he'd underestimated. Yeah, that title wasn't some fluke.
He bowed his head. "My apologies for the rudeness."
"So, done probing? Gonna fight for real?"
"Got it. Full power from me too."
Amon gripped his right sword reverse, aimed his left-hand double-barrel crossbow at the axe guy. The man's grin widened.
"That's it! Now we're talkin'! Pure American soul!"
He revved the axe. Brrrng. It vibrated like a motorcycle exhaust.
As the axe guy tied a Stars-and-Stripes bandana to his horn, Amon crouched into a sprint stance.
Then his form vanished.
"Behind ya!" The axe guy yanked his weapon and swung backward.
Kwaaang!!
An explosion dwarfing all before it erupted. A massive dust cloud billowed from the abandoned factory lot.
"Hahat!"
The axe guy bellowed laughter, swinging wildly. Explosions chained endlessly.
But soon, something felt off.
Somethin' ain't right?
No impact feedback. Despite the blatant opening, no counterattack came.
"No way..."
The dust settled, visibility cleared. In the vast clearing stood only the axe guy.
The reality he'd dreaded hit him, flushing his face red.
"Th-this...!"
His roar echoed through the slums.
"You cowardly bastard!!!"
...
Afterward, the axe guy vented on the innocent factory wreckage and left. He slung his axe on his back, mounted his Harley bike.
"Damn punk. Thought he was a decent one for once."
Still fuming, he ground his teeth and revved the engine. Brrrng. The bike roared like his temper.
It sped from the slums toward downtown.
Not far from where the bike departed, a dump truck's engine growled to life.
On the highway to downtown, Haspoon McTail replayed the fight.
His opponent was one hell of a swordsman. He'd pinpointed that no human body could block the axe, focusing purely on evasion. Even then, those masked eyes had fixated on Haspoon's nape—his body's weakest vital spot, somewhat shored up by barrier but still a real threat.
Haspoon liked him for it. Recent foes took one look and fled in terror. When the guy played his Sky Step joker on the nape, Haspoon felt a chill—and joy. He'd even paused to chat, thrilled at a worthy rival.
But once the real fight started...
Damn punk.
Robe, mask, hiding his identity like a coward. Then bolted.
Next time, I'll rip out his guts and hang 'em round his neck. Haspoon swore to his axe.
Soon, his steed hit the highway. Vehicles scattered from his aggressive merge, fearing the road tyrant.
Sheesh.
None of 'em measured up. Cowards everywhere. America these days was full of gays, cripples, and opportunists. Ah, the tragedy! Where had the American soul gone?
Beeeep! Haspoon honked mournfully as he hit the bridge. The gays and opportunists swerved away.
Then his side mirror caught a dump truck. While others fled, it accelerated, tailing him.
Now that's American! Haspoon slowed to check the driver's face.
The bike decelerated; the truck shifted right to pass.
Gonna overtake, eh? Haspoon admired the guts, grinning at the cab.
A wrinkled, classic redneck glared back furiously.
"Haha!" Yeah! This is—
Suddenly, unease hit. Looks, actions—all peak American. But Haspoon's soul rejected it. Beneath that face swirled vile malice.
Chill instinct kicked in; he swerved the bike.
The truck driver swerved too.
Haspoon whipped out his axe, cleaving the truck—but its mass crushed the bike anyway. Both plummeted off the bridge.
In slow-mo fall, Haspoon saw the driver—nimble beyond his years—bail from the cab, landing on the dropping truck via impossible footstep.
Haspoon realized: Hologram!
The driver's form flickered affirmatively. The robed man from before appeared.
In the brief drop, the robed man—Amon—shouted,
[Lord, the waters have come up to my neck!]
Splash! Haspoon and bike hit the river; the truck followed.
Amon kicked off the falling truck, Sky Stepped to the bridge rail, clung on, and continued chanting.
[I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing; I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me! Save me!]
Haspoon, sinking, swung his axe at the truck overhead. River water erupted.
But the impact didn't reach Amon, buffered by truck and water.
Haspoon swam frantically upward, but his hefty axe dragged him down.
Clinging to the rail, Amon watched Haspoon still in the depths and chanted on.
[My throat is cracked from crying out; my eyes fail as I wait for my God!]
Chanting nonstop, Amon pondered his weapons. Every class had its signature.
Warriors like Haspoon: unbreakable bodies, raw power.
Mages: unmatched firepower.
Snipers: range and stealth.
For assassins like him: complacency and intel.
[Those stronger than I, who hate me, who seek my life to take all I have—they become my enemies.]
Haspoon might see him differently, but Amon wasn't a warrior. He wielded a sword, sure, but always struck with ambush, intel, and the foe's own carelessness.
Cowardly? Maybe. But Amon stuck to his role.
[Let their schemes become a snare, their peace a trap to bind them.]
As Amon's chant hit mid-point, Haspoon finally surfaced. Spotting Amon on the bridge, he raised his left hand, aiming a grenade.
Amon leaped off, dodging.
The interrupted Confession of Faith activated.
[Darken their eyes so they cannot see; make their loins tremble always, lay waste their homes, leave none dwelling in their tents.]
As chanted, Haspoon's vision dimmed, his strength draining rapidly. No escape—too weak to interrupt, trapped in water.
He clung to his proud American soul, refusing surrender, but control had shifted to Amon.
The chant reached its close.
[Lord, save me from the mire; let me not sink, deliver me from those who hate me, from the deep waters.]
Salvum de impius palude
Haspoon's consciousness sank. His massive body followed to the bottom.
Haspoon's body wouldn't surface until the next day.