Chapter Ten

  Golden flames spewed from the shotgun, a burst of heat that turned the air molten. The blast roared forward, a searing spray of power that could have incinerated a lesser opponent. If these thugs had been facing a typical C-Grade from the city, the fight might have ended right there.

  But Ambrose Severen wasn't typical.

  The warehouse air shimmered with heat distortion as the modified shotgun unleashed its payload. The weapon was clearly beyond standard Virion technology, its runes pulsing with an angry crimson glow as they channeled energy into every blast. The flames spread in a cone pattern designed to eliminate any chance of evasion, a technique that had likely ended dozens of confrontations in the past.

  He had been learning to fight since he could walk, and the System had only sharpened those skills when it integrated his world. These thugs might have known combat, but they'd never faced anything truly dangerous. Until now. They were products of Virion's streets, where technology and numbers often outweighed raw power. They had never encountered someone who had fought their way through multiple realms, faced creatures of legend, and emerged stronger each time.

  Ambrose stood his ground, letting the flames wash over him. His World Eater Cloak drank in the energy eagerly, devouring most of the power before it could touch him. The cloak, crafted from Fenrir's fur after that brutal battle, rippled with satisfaction as it absorbed the incoming attack. What little remained was absorbed by [Infernal Aegis], leaving him completely unharmed. The spiritual manifestation of his defense was invisible to most, but its effects were unmistakable as the flames curved around him like water around stone. As the fire faded, he raised an eyebrow, his expression almost bored.

  This wasn't arrogance, it was experience. After facing Fenrir, after defeating Eric Delrosa, after closing three Incursions on Earth, these warehouse thugs simply didn't register as significant threats. They were obstacles rather than opponents.

  Shotgun thug frowned, confusion flickering across his face. He raised the gun again, leveling it at Ambrose's head from point-blank range. The barrel glowed a liquid cherry red as he fired, the runes along the weapon pulsing angrily. His confidence was visibly shaken, but training took over as he defaulted to the strategy that had always worked before—more firepower.

  Once again, the flames dissipated harmlessly. The cloak shimmered, and the Forge Icon reinforced Ambrose's already formidable defenses. The icon was only 30% complete, but even at that level, it provided substantial protection, reinforcing the very concept of durability around Ambrose. This mid-tier weapon simply wasn't enough.

  "Who the fuck is this guy?" the thug muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. Sweat beaded on his forehead, both from the heat of his own weapon and the growing realization that he was severely outmatched.

  The other two gang members, wielding staffs, stepped forward. Their staves were elegant weapons, built from some metallic alloy Ambrose didn't recognize, with crystals embedded along their length that glowed with stored energy. The men moved with practiced coordination, suggesting formal combat training rather than street fighting.

  They unleashed a barrage of fireballs, each one detonating against Ambrose with a loud crack. The magical projectiles left scorch marks on the concrete floor and nearby containers as they impacted. Smoke filled the room, flames licking at the walls of the warehouse. The acrid scent of burning chemicals mingled with the saltwater smell that permeated the docks.

  When the smoke cleared, Ambrose stood untouched. He brushed a nonexistent speck of dust from his shoulder, his calm gaze fixed on the men before him. Their attacks had done nothing but waste their energy and demonstrate the gulf between their capabilities and his.

  "If you're not careful, you'll burn down your own warehouse," he said evenly. "Fire's fine, but I prefer lightning."

  He held out his hand, and Akaroth materialized from the infernal dimension, its draconic form crackling with energy. The axe roared like distant thunder as Ambrose gripped its handle, the edges sparking with arcs of blue-white lightning. The weapon's presence alone changed the atmosphere in the warehouse, filling it with a pressure that made the thugs take involuntary steps backward.

  I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me, hatchling, Akaroth commented in his mind, her draconic voice tinged with anticipation.

  "Just giving them a sporting chance," Ambrose replied mentally. "Not that it helped."

  With a single swing, he unleashed a bolt of lightning that struck one of the staff-wielding thugs square in the chest. The man flew backward, his body twisting unnaturally as the bolt coursed through him, charring his flesh and leaving the acrid scent of burnt ozone in the air. The staff clattered to the ground, its crystals now dark and lifeless. Where the lightning had struck, the man's expensive suit was reduced to ash, revealing the cybernetic enhancements beneath his skin, now melted and fused to his flesh.

  The ease of the kill wasn't gratifying. Ambrose took no pleasure in eliminating those who posed no real threat. It was simply necessary, a step toward his ultimate goal. These men had made their choices, aligning themselves with Vorshawn's organization and the suffering it caused. Now they faced the consequences.

  Ambrose turned his attention to the other staff-wielder, who frantically hurled fireball after fireball at him. The man's attacks grew increasingly desperate, the fireballs larger but less controlled as fear took hold. He didn't bother dodging, letting his cloak consume the attacks as he strode forward. Behind the man, Ambrose opened a portal to the Tree of Avalon.

  The silver-red flames of his portal cast eerie shadows across the warehouse floor. Through the opening, the massive Tree was visible, its branches reaching toward an alien sky. The sight alone was enough to momentarily paralyze the thug, his mind struggling to process the impossibility of what he was seeing.

  The sound of the portal opening drew the thug's attention, and as he turned to look, Ambrose slammed his foot into the man's back. The thug screamed as he was sent hurtling through the portal, his body crunching audibly as he landed. On the other side, Vivienne's ethereal form shimmered into existence, her violet eyes observing the delivery with serene acceptance.

  "More for the Tree, Knight of Avalon?" she murmured, her voice carrying across the boundary between realms.

  Ambrose nodded grimly, then closed the portal. The Tree needed souls, and these men would serve a purpose in death they had never achieved in life.

  With a slow turn, Ambrose fixed his gaze on the man with the shotgun. "This is your final chance," he said, his voice low and measured. "Take me to your leader. This isn't a fight you can win."

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  His words weren't a boast but a simple statement of fact. The outcome was as inevitable as sunrise. The only question was how much resistance would come before the end.

  The shotgun thug bared his teeth in defiance, firing again. Runes flared as the weapon unleashed another fiery blast, but the result was the same. Ambrose didn't so much as flinch. The stubbornness would have been admirable in another context; here, it was merely foolish.

  Behind the thug, the man with the giant sword and the one with the metal fist began backing away, their courage faltering. They had seen enough to recognize the truth—this wasn't a fight they could win. Self-preservation finally overcame loyalty or greed.

  Before they could escape, Ambrose activated [Infernal Sanctuary], chains erupting from the ground to ensnare them. The chains of silver-red fire wrapped around their limbs, immobilizing them completely despite their struggles. He opened portals at their feet, sending them directly to the base of the Tree of Avalon, where Vivienne waited with her crystals.

  Finally, the shotgun thug dropped his weapon, his hands raised in surrender. "Okay! Okay! Just don't kick me into a portal or nothing, fuck! He's in the back. Hell, he probably heard the fight!"

  Desperation replaced defiance in his eyes as survival instinct finally overrode misplaced pride. Like many before him, bravado lasted only until genuine fear took hold.

  Ambrose glanced past the man, his attention drawn by a subtle shift in the warehouse's atmosphere. His spiritual awareness detected a new presence, one far more substantial than the thugs he'd been dealing with. His gaze settled on a figure stepping into view from the shadows of a back office.

  A bulldog of a man stood there, squeezed into a black and silver suit that looked custom-made for his thick frame. His salt-and-pepper beard was impeccably groomed, and his dark brown eyes held a predator's focus. Unlike the others, there was nothing flashy about him, no visible cybernetic enhancements, no glowing runes, no obvious weapons. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to advertise his power.

  The shotgun thug scrambled behind him like a frightened puppy, seeking refuge. "Mr. Vestrix! I tried to stop him, but he's some kind of monster! He just walked right through everything we threw at him!"

  "Silence," the man said quietly, and the thug immediately fell silent, cowering behind him.

  "Who are you to come into my warehouse and attack my men?" the man asked, his voice soft but laced with menace. Each word was precisely enunciated, carrying the weight of authority and the promise of consequences.

  Ambrose activated [Retribution's Gaze], scanning him. The skill connected them briefly on a spiritual level, granting Ambrose insight into his opponent's nature, revealing sins and capabilities in equal measure.

  [Adam Vestrix – Level 238 Arcane Brawler]: A cold-hearted killer and territorial predator. Prioritizes self-preservation and control over his domain. Has personally executed over one hundred rivals and perceived threats. Serves Vorshawn Red with loyalty.

  The scan told Ambrose little he hadn't already guessed. Adam radiated danger, his right foot slightly back in a fighter's stance, hands relaxed but ready. Spirit coiled around him like a tightly leashed storm, and the power of an Icon surrounded him, its aura almost suffocating in its intensity. This was no ordinary lieutenant but a genuine C-Grade fighter with significant battle experience.

  This wouldn't be an easy fight. But then, the truly worthwhile ones never were.

  "I'm looking for Vorshawn Red," Ambrose said. "Tell me where he is, and it stops here. Otherwise, I play hardball."

  Direct and to the point, Ambrose saw no reason for elaborate deception or manipulation. His objective was clear, and he preferred straightforward confrontation when possible.

  Adam cocked his head, his expression curious. "I asked you a question."

  "I answered it," Ambrose replied. The implied meaning was clear: his identity was less relevant than his purpose.

  "Why do you want him?"

  "To collect the bounty on his head."

  It wasn't the complete truth, of course. The bounty was merely a means to an end—the source of souls for Avalon's Tree and a way to strengthen his position as Knight. But Adam didn't need to know that.

  Adam's lips curled into a faint smile. "A bounty hunter, then. Many have tried, and all have failed. You look confident, though. I wonder why that is."

  There was genuine curiosity in his voice, the interest of a predator encountering something unexpected in its territory. His eyes surveyed Ambrose with professional assessment, cataloging details and gauging threat level.

  He clenched his fists, and Ambrose felt the shift in the air as reality seemed to ripple around him. The pressure of Adam's Icon was palpable, a heavy weight that pressed against the senses. It felt like being deep underwater, the atmosphere itself becoming dense and resistant.

  The Judgment Icon, Ambrose realized. A manifestation of Adam's self-appointed role as arbiter and executioner within his domain. It was well-developed, possibly at 50% completion or more, making it significantly more advanced than Ambrose's own Forge Icon. That would give Adam advantages in direct spiritual confrontation.

  For a moment, Ambrose considered using his Word of Power. It would end the fight quickly, but the mana drain and exhaustion it caused weren't risks he wanted to take just yet. "BREAK" was a last resort, not an opening move, especially when he had yet to locate Vorshawn himself.

  Anticipation sparked within him. It had been too long since he'd faced a real challenge. The thugs had been mere obstacles, but Adam promised to be a genuine opponent. There was something pure about facing another C-Grade fighter, a clarity that came from confronting power with power.

  "If you don't want to find out, tell me what I want to know," Ambrose said.

  Adam smiled faintly. "I think not. My answer would be the same, even if I weren't curious about what you can do."

  The air between them hummed with tension, charged with the spiritual pressure of two C-Grade entities preparing for combat. The remaining thugs retreated to the far corners of the warehouse, recognizing that they were now mere spectators to a confrontation far beyond their capability.

  Without warning, Adam jabbed toward him, and the air itself seemed to punch out at Ambrose. The blow carried the weight of an Icon, reality distorting under its force. It wasn't a physical attack but a manifestation of spiritual pressure given direction and purpose through the Judgment Icon.

  Ambrose braced himself, his Forge Icon reinforcing his defenses. The familiar sensation of molten heat spread through his body as his icon activated fully, reality solidifying around him in response to his will. Combined with the World Eater Cloak, he absorbed the attack, though he felt its strength ripple through him like a shockwave. His boots slid back several inches across the concrete floor, leaving shallow grooves.

  Adam's eyes narrowed, then lit with amusement. There was respect in his gaze now, the acknowledgment of a worthy adversary.

  "It's been a long time since anyone interesting crossed my path," he said, his tone almost jovial. "I think I'm going to enjoy this, bounty hunter."

  The words carried no malice, only the anticipation of a genuine challenge. In a world where most conflicts were decided by technological advantage or overwhelming numbers, the rare opportunity to test one's skills against an equal was something to be savored.

  Ambrose raised Akaroth, the axe crackling with power. Blue-white lightning danced along its edge, responding to his intent and the rising tide of his spiritual energy. The weapon hummed with eagerness, sensing the worthy opponent before them.

  Are you ready, Akaroth?

  Let us show him who we are, hatchling. Her draconic voice resonated with battle-lust, the dragon's nature embracing the coming conflict.

  Spiritual pressure rolled off both combatants as their Icons flared to life. Adam's radiated judgment, a hammer poised to strike, the visualization of absolute authority and the power to enforce it. Ambrose's was an immovable anvil of fire and steel, the embodiment of endurance and the potential to reshape what endured.

  The ground trembled beneath them, catwalks shaking and paint flaking from the walls. Shipping containers groaned as the metal warped under the pressure, and overhead lights flickered and shattered, raining glass down onto the warehouse floor. The shotgun thug scrambled away, fleeing as the two forces clashed.

  Neither man moved, their gazes locked in a silent challenge. This moment of stillness before combat was like the calm before a storm, a brief suspension of inevitability where possibilities remained infinite.

  Then, like gunslingers at high noon, they unleashed their skills.

  Adam's hands became blurs of motion, each gesture releasing pulses of force that distorted the air between them. Ambrose opened multiple [Hellfire Portals], redirecting the attacks back toward their source while simultaneously advancing. Akaroth sang through the air, trailing arcs of lightning as they closed the gap.

  The warehouse, which had moments ago seemed so vast, now felt confining as two C-Grade entities committed fully to battle. This wouldn't be a skirmish but a true test of power against power, skill against skill, will against will.

  And only one would walk away.