Chapter Eleven

  Adam launched another jab, and the air rippled with power as a wave of fire surged forward like a tidal wave, its heat palpable even across the distance. This wasn't ordinary fire; it was laced with the force of his Icon, a testament to the raw power he commanded. The flames took on a strange quality as they advanced, almost sentient in their movement, curving and intensifying as if guided by Adam's will.

  The warehouse air became superheated, metal surfaces glowing red where the flames passed near them. The concrete floor cracked under the thermal stress, spiderweb patterns spreading outward from where Adam stood. His Judgment Icon infused the attack with purpose, each flame a verdict, each surge a sentence to be carried out.

  Ambrose didn't flinch. His own Icon surged in response, reinforcing [Infernal Sanctuary] as ghostly chains erupted from the ground, slicing through the advancing fire. The Forge Icon's influence made the chains more substantial, more real than they would have been otherwise, strengthening their ability to divide and disperse Adam's attack. The few embers that made it past were devoured by his World Eater Cloak, vanishing into the blackened fabric like water into sand. The cloak rippled with satisfaction as it consumed the energy, its hunger seemingly endless.

  The clash of Icons created visible distortions in the air between them, reality itself straining under the pressure of two competing conceptual forces. Forge against Judgment, creation against authority, an immovable object meeting an irresistible force.

  Adam didn't waste time watching his attack fail. He moved, weaving through the chains with bursts of power that sent them recoiling before they could touch him. His movements were efficient, deliberate, and precise, everything Ambrose expected from someone wielding an Icon. There was nothing flashy about his technique, nothing wasted. Each motion served a purpose, each step calculated for maximum effect.

  The discipline spoke of military training, perhaps even special operations before joining Red Hand. His suit, despite the intensity of the battle, remained largely undamaged, suggesting enhancement beyond mere tailoring. The fabric seemed to absorb and redistribute impact, a practical application of both technology and System enhancements.

  Hefting Akaroth, Ambrose slashed at Adam, the dragon axe roaring with electricity. The air around it crackled with the sharp tang of ozone as lightning surged from its edge. The axe's draconic nature emerged more clearly during combat, scales becoming more defined along its surface, the edge keener, almost hungry for contact.

  Storm and judgment, hatchling! Akaroth's voice urged in his mind. He counters with flame, so we answer with tempest!

  Adam avoided the strike, his body twisting effortlessly to dodge both the axe and the chains that sought to entangle him. His movements had a fluid quality that belied his bulky frame, suggesting System enhancements focused on agility and reaction time.

  Ambrose watched carefully, noting how Adam used controlled bursts of force to redirect the chains before they could wrap around him. It was an impressive display, one that showed not only skill but experience. Each burst was precisely calibrated, enough force to deflect without wasting energy, enough control to maintain his position without compromising his next move.

  But Ambrose wasn't here to kill him.

  Killing Adam would have been far easier. In a straight confrontation, death was often the simplest solution. A single Word of Power, "BREAK", directed at his opponent's heart would end the fight instantly. Incapacitation, however, required control, a fight of attrition rather than overwhelming force. Ambrose didn't mind hurting him, even maiming him, but Adam's death wouldn't serve his purpose. He needed information about Vorshawn Red, and dead men told no tales.

  His [True Sight] remained active throughout the battle, watching for patterns in Adam's movements, looking for weaknesses to exploit. The enhanced vision revealed subtle fluctuations in Adam's spiritual pressure, moments when his attention shifted from offense to defense and back again. These were the opportunities Ambrose would need to capitalize on.

  For a while, the battle became a stalemate. Adam unleashed waves of fire and bursts of raw power, and Ambrose countered with chains, axe strikes, and his cloak's voracious defenses. The warehouse around them bore the brunt of their clash. Shipping containers were smashed, their contents spilling out in chaotic heaps. Crates of weapons, packages of synthetics, and stacks of credits littered the floor, testaments to Red Hand's diverse criminal enterprises. The catwalks above groaned and buckled under the strain, one section collapsing entirely.

  Flames licked at the walls, and smoke thickened the air, but Ambrose's cloak consumed the heat and energy, preventing the building from catching fire. The World Eater Cloak seemed almost disappointed by the easy feast, having been crafted from Fenrir's fur to handle far more dangerous energies than these.

  "I see what you're doing," Adam said, his tone almost conversational as he stepped back from another failed chain attack. There was no fear in his voice, only professional assessment. "You're holding back. You want me alive."

  Ambrose didn't reply. Talking during a fight had never been his style. Words were distractions, opportunities for error. His father had taught him that, drilling the lesson through countless sparring sessions where any verbal response was met with a swift counterattack. Instead, he executed the plan that had been forming in his mind as the battle unfolded.

  Opening a portal behind Adam, Ambrose activated [Infernal Sanctuary], causing molten silver chains wreathed in stygian flames to surge from the portal. The chains moved with predatory intent, seeking vulnerable points, joints, neck, torso. Adam heard the portal open, but his focus remained on Ambrose, expecting the attack to come from the front. It was a common mistake, even among experienced fighters; the mind naturally prioritized the visible threat.

  The chains struck with precision, wrapping around Adam's limbs and torso. Their burning edges bit into his flesh, leaving scorched marks where they touched. Despite his suit's protective properties, the spiritual nature of the chains allowed them to bypass much of its defense, connecting directly with Adam himself.

  Adam gritted his teeth, his body flexing as he fought against the restraints. His Icon surged, and his spirit roared in defiance, but Ambrose's own Icon pressed back, clashing with Adam's power and holding him in place. The Forge Icon reinforced the chains' structure, making them more substantial, more resistant to Adam's attempts to break free.

  The warehouse trembled under the strain of their spiritual conflict, the concrete floor cracking further as their Icons battled for dominance. Dust and small debris fell from the ceiling, and the remaining lights flickered erratically, casting strange shadows across the battlefield.

  Ambrose knew the chains wouldn't hold forever. Adam's strength was formidable, and he would eventually break free. But Ambrose didn't need forever. He only needed a few seconds. Time enough to execute the next phase of his attack, to end this confrontation on his terms.

  Dismissing Akaroth back to its infernal dimension, Ambrose rushed forward, seizing Adam by the head with both hands. His grip was firm but controlled, his fingers positioning themselves precisely on Adam's temples. This close, he could feel the heat radiating from his opponent, the furious pulse of blood beneath his skin, the straining muscles fighting against the chains' constraint.

  "Whatever you're planning won't work," Adam spat, his voice strained. "I'd rather die than tell you anything." His breath came in ragged gasps, but his eyes remained defiant, the resolve of someone prepared to take secrets to the grave.

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  His spirit surged again, pressing against the chains and Ambrose's grip, but it was already too late. The chains tightened further, reinforced by Ambrose's will and the power of his Icon, holding Adam long enough for what came next.

  Ambrose activated [Retribution's Gaze], the skill flaring to life as it tapped into the wellspring of Adam's evil deeds. This wasn't mere pain or physical torment; it was justice made manifest, karma accelerated and concentrated into an overwhelming flood. The sins of his past became fuel, igniting a fire that burned from within. Each life taken, each cruelty inflicted, each act of violence or oppression, all returned to him in a single, devastating moment.

  Ambrose carefully controlled the mana flow, ensuring the skill wouldn't kill Adam outright. That required precision, a delicate balance between punishment severe enough to incapacitate but restrained enough to leave his victim alive and capable of providing information.

  The effect was instantaneous. Adam's body convulsed, his screams of agony cutting through the wreckage-strewn air. His eyes widened, then rolled back as the skill forced him to experience the suffering he had inflicted throughout his life. Pain radiated through him, the chains biting deeper as the fire of his sins consumed him from the inside out. The combined torment was too much, and Adam's struggles ceased as he slumped unconscious in Ambrose's grip.

  As Adam fell limp, Ambrose released him, letting the chains lower the unconscious man to the floor. He stood over his fallen opponent, his expression grim but satisfied. The fight had been challenging, but the outcome was never truly in doubt. Adam was formidable, but Ambrose had faced far worse.

  Disappointing, Akaroth commented from the infernal dimension. I was hoping for more.

  "He fought well enough," Ambrose replied mentally. "And he'll be more useful conscious than dead."

  Opening a portal to his safe house, Ambrose lifted Adam's unconscious form and carried him through. The lieutenant would wake to find himself secured and ready for a more thorough interrogation. Then Ambrose would have what he truly came for, information about Vorshawn Red, his operation, and his location.

  One step closer to his goal. One more soul for Avalon's Tree.

  "He's creating a lot of enemies for himself," Corey muttered, staring at the shattered remains of the warehouse.

  The building was barely standing, its walls scorched and buckling, debris scattered across the ground. What had once been an organized criminal operation now resembled a disaster zone. This place was known to be a Red Hand warehouse, a hub for drugs and other illegal goods. Everyone knew it, but no one could, or would, do anything about it.

  The air still crackled with residual energy, an aftereffect of the tremendous power that had been unleashed here. Crime scene technicians moved cautiously through the wreckage, their scanning devices occasionally emitting warning beeps when detecting dangerous levels of residual spiritual pressure.

  Chelsea Smith stood nearby, her arms crossed as she surveyed the scene. Despite the warehouse's infamy, she and her partner had been powerless to act against it. Virion's corruption ran too deep. Red Hand could probably march drugs through the streets in broad daylight, and the authorities would look the other way. The gang's influence extended into every level of government and law enforcement, secured through bribes, blackmail, and the occasional strategic disappearance.

  Her scanner picked up faint traces of mana signatures, evidence of multiple skills having been used recently. The patterns were unusual, unlike anything typically seen in Virion, suggesting the perpetrator was indeed from off-world as they had suspected.

  "Witnesses said they heard a commotion," Corey continued, "but what's most interesting is what they felt."

  Chelsea raised an eyebrow. "And that is?"

  Corey hesitated, his usual nonchalance replaced by unease. His hand unconsciously drifted to his sidearm, a nervous habit he'd developed over years of service. "Spiritual pressure. And Icon power."

  "Fuck," Chelsea muttered, her lips tightening into a thin line. She had hoped it wasn't true. Spiritual skills were rare enough, but Icons were the domain of the elite, those with both the innate capability and the resources to develop such power. Their suspect wasn't just dangerous; he was in a category few in Virion could match.

  The implications were enormous. If Red Hand was facing someone with spiritual abilities and an Icon, the balance of power in Virion might be shifting. Change wasn't always for the better, especially when it came violently.

  "The illegal skill would've been flagged," Corey added, "but our guy didn't stick around long enough for that." He kicked at a piece of debris, sending it skittering across the broken concrete. "Security systems registered the energy signature but couldn't match it to any known database. Whatever he's using, it's not standard."

  Chelsea pinched the bridge of her nose, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior. "I don't want to hand this over to SpecOps." The Special Operations division was notorious even within a corrupt system, the enforcers of the enforcers, answerable only to the highest levels of governance and corporate influence.

  Corey grimaced. "Me either. Those guys are dickbags. But if he's got a spiritual skill..." His voice trailed off, the implications clear enough without being stated.

  Chelsea waved him off, already knowing what he was going to say. If their suspect had that kind of power, they were out of their depth. That's what SpecOps was for. They had the equipment, the training, and most importantly, the authorization to deal with spiritual threats.

  And Chelsea hated SpecOps. Their methods were brutal, their oversight nonexistent, and their corruption absolute. They weren't interested in justice, only in maintaining the status quo that benefited those already in power.

  She moved carefully through the wreckage, her scanner continuing to collect data. A patch of floor near the center of the warehouse showed the most significant damage, with concentric rings of destruction spreading outward. This had been the epicenter of the confrontation, where the two powerful beings had directly clashed.

  Illegal skills like spiritual abilities were one of the few things Virion's corrupt bureaucracy wouldn't ignore. It wasn't about justice, it was about control. The powers that be couldn't tolerate individuals who were too strong to be manipulated, and spiritual skills made people just that. They represented a threat to the established order, a wild card that couldn't be easily contained through standard methods of bribery or intimidation.

  Visitors to Virion were often flagged and monitored if they had such skills. Some were even turned away outright. It was part of why Chelsea had never tried to advance. Doing so would have ended her career, and only those approved for SpecOps could develop spiritual skills without reprisal. The System itself was regulated in Virion, with certain paths of advancement deliberately restricted or monitored.

  Icons were even more forbidden. Only SpecOps commanders were allowed to cultivate them. The power they represented was too significant, too transformative to be allowed in the general population.

  Chelsea hadn't known that Red Hand had access to illegal skills, but it didn't surprise her. Criminals always found ways to work outside the law. The higher up the chain you went, the more likely you'd encounter those with abilities that defied Virion's restrictions. If she could find this individual and prove their involvement, it might give her the leverage she needed to go after the entire gang.

  But it wouldn't be easy. She needed damning evidence, something indisputable. Brass wouldn't cut off their steady flow of bribes without it. Even with the obvious destruction before them, the official report would likely blame a gas leak or some other convenient explanation unless she could prove otherwise.

  Her scanner beeped as it detected something unusual near what had once been a stack of shipping containers. Moving closer, Chelsea found a small puddle of blood with strange properties, it seemed to shimmer slightly when viewed from certain angles, suggesting contamination with spiritual energy.

  "I've got something," she called to Corey, who ambled over with practiced nonchalance. "Blood with spiritual residue. Means our guy either wounded someone with a spiritual attack or was wounded himself."

  "Looks like the former," Corey said, pointing to a trail of similar droplets leading toward what remained of the warehouse's back exit. "Someone was taken. Forcibly."

  Burying her fists in her coat pockets, Chelsea stared at the wreckage. She desperately wanted to act, to do something that would make a difference. She believed in the law, not in its corrupt execution, but in the ideals it was supposed to uphold. The principles that had guided her since childhood, that had sustained her through the academy and her early years on the force.

  The law wasn't meant to have exceptions. No one should be above it. That was the cruel irony of her position, fighting to uphold a system that had been perverted beyond recognition, hoping to restore something that perhaps had never truly existed in Virion.

  She was trying to clean up the filthy mug of Virion, but she was doing so with a dirty rag. Still, there was one clean spot on that rag, and Chelsea held onto it. If she kept using that clean spot, maybe, just maybe, she could succeed. It was a fool's hope, perhaps, but it was all she had.

  "Let's get to processing," she said finally. "Maybe we can figure out why he came here."

  Corey sighed but got to work. There was a lot of wreckage to sift through, and precious little time before someone higher up decided this investigation wasn't worth pursuing. The clock was ticking, and Chelsea knew that somewhere in this city, their quarry was moving to his next target.

  The hunt was becoming more complicated, and more dangerous, with each passing hour.