XLVI

Gerry’s fist slammed into Reynard’s body with the force of a sledgehammer, the impact sending shockwaves through the air. With Vector Infinity activated, Gerry became a blur of motion, his strikes coming from every conceivable angle in a relentless, precise assault. Each blow targeted weak points—joints, ribs, the solar plexus—aiming to cripple his opponent. He darted across the arena, using his homing attribute to traverse an invisible web of vectors. Each point propelled him with inhuman speed, transforming his movements into a symphony of violence.

This was Gerry’s magnum opus, the pinnacle of his mastery over his homing attribute. His feet barely touched the ground before he launched into another attack, a tempest of fists and knees striking with deadly accuracy. His body vanished and reappeared in the blink of an eye, closing in on Reynard from impossible angles. He grinned viciously as the sounds of his attacks reverberated through the space. This is it, he thought, his confidence swelling with every successful hit. I’ll break him. I’ll humiliate him.

The sharp echoes of impact filled the arena like splintering bones. Reynard struggled to counter, his movements reactive and defensive. He blocked where he could, twisting his body to mitigate the damage, but Gerry’s relentless speed pushed him to his limits. Yet, despite the punishment he endured, Reynard’s eyes remained locked onto Gerry, unwavering and calculating. His expression betrayed no pain, only a quiet defiance that gnawed at Gerry’s confidence.

As the fight wore on, a sliver of disbelief crept into Gerry’s mind. No one had ever withstood this kind of assault before. His strikes, powerful enough to break bones and shatter resolve, were failing to make Reynard falter.

Gerry’s grin twisted into a snarl, his frustration mounting. He poured more energy into his attacks, delivering a brutal palm strike to Reynard’s throat. Reynard swayed subtly, absorbing the blow without so much as a flinch. Gerry followed with an elbow aimed at Reynard’s temple, but Reynard tilted his head with maddening ease.

“Impossible,” Gerry muttered under his breath. His movements grew more frantic, his attacks more brutal. A knee aimed for Reynard’s groin was countered with a subtle shift in stance, the force of the blow dissipating harmlessly. No matter how viciously Gerry struck, Reynard remained standing, unperturbed and unbroken.

What is this? Invulnerability? A barrier? Gerry’s thoughts raced as doubt clawed at him. No… I would’ve noticed if it was a power like that.

Then it happened. Reynard intercepted Gerry’s next strike, his hand closing around Gerry’s fist like an iron clamp.

“You’re getting predictable,” Reynard said coolly, his voice cutting through Gerry’s rising panic. “Your ‘vectors’ lack imagination.”

For a moment, Gerry froze, his confidence wavering under Reynard’s calm gaze. But then he tore his fist free, leaping back to regroup. Fine. If he’s seeing through my patterns, I’ll make them unpredictable.

With a burst of aura, Gerry expanded his network of vectors, creating a chaotic web that crisscrossed the arena. He launched into a dizzying barrage of attacks, bouncing from point to point with erratic speed. Punches, kicks, elbows, and knees came in a whirlwind, striking from every angle imaginable. His speed reached a fever pitch, turning him into a ghostly blur that seemed to attack from all directions at once.

But no matter how frenzied his assault, Reynard remained impenetrable. His stance adjusted fluidly, his body absorbing each blow with an eerie calm. Every time Gerry struck, Reynard’s responses grew sharper, his movements more precise. It was as if he was dissecting Gerry’s fighting style in real time, learning and adapting with every exchange.

He’s… he’s reading me. The realization sent a chill down Gerry’s spine.

Desperation clawed at him as he funneled all his energy into a final, decisive strike. He imbued his homing attribute into his right fist, feeling the familiar pull of fate guiding his attack. With a sharp crack, he launched forward, his fist streaking toward Reynard like a meteor.

But Reynard caught it.

His forearm rose with perfect timing, absorbing the blow with minimal effort. Gerry’s eyes widened as his momentum evaporated against Reynard’s calm defense.

“Still too predictable,” Reynard said, his tone almost bored.

Gerry snarled, veering to the left in a zigzagging motion to throw off Reynard’s tracking. He channeled his homing attribute into his left foot, delivering a roundhouse kick with enough speed to slice the air audibly.

Again, Reynard blocked it. His palm met Gerry’s foot with precise timing, dissipating the force without a shred of imbalance.

This isn’t possible. Gerry stumbled back, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. His mind raced as panic set in. Reynard hadn’t launched a single offensive move, yet Gerry was losing. Every attack had been neutralized, every strategy countered. It wasn’t just Reynard’s defense—it was the terrifying efficiency with which he dismantled Gerry’s every effort.

For the first time in years, Gerry felt the icy grip of fear. Something was very, very wrong.

Reynard tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Is this the best you can do?” he asked, his voice calm yet laced with disdain. “I’ve finished studying your patterns. What else can you show me?”

The words struck Gerry harder than any blow, igniting his frustration into a searing inferno. No, there has to be a way! He clenched his fists, his teeth grinding together as he prepared to launch himself at Reynard once more. This time, he was determined to break through Reynard’s guard, no matter the cost.

For all his speed, precision, and the overwhelming power of his homing attribute, Reynard had countered him at every turn. Worse, Reynard seemed to grow stronger as the fight dragged on, his responses sharper, his movements more precise with each exchange. A cold sweat ran down Gerry’s spine as he realized the truth—he couldn’t afford to prolong this fight. The longer it went on, the more certain it became that something catastrophic would happen, something he couldn’t recover from.

Gritting his teeth, Gerry made his decision. His hand darted into his coat, withdrawing two weapons: a sleek dagger with an otherworldly sheen and a compact handgun. The dagger, his ace in the hole, was no ordinary blade—it was a tool of probability disruption, specifically designed to bypass the tower’s miraculous murder-prevention feature.

The handgun, by contrast, was straightforward but effective—a weapon meant to overwhelm Reynard with unrelenting pressure. Normally, Gerry relied on knives crafted from human bone, the perfect medium for his homing attribute, which worked best on live organic materials. But this time, he needed sheer firepower.

“Let’s see you stop this,” Gerry muttered under his breath.

With a sharp exhale, he moved. Vector Infinity surged to life, and Gerry became a blur, zigzagging across the arena with incomprehensible speed. The gun barked as he fired, each shot coming from an unpredictable angle. His homing attribute guided his movements, placing him in impossibly tricky positions to fire. The bullets didn’t curve, but the sheer volume and Gerry’s relentless, shifting angles created a chaotic storm of projectiles.

Reynard moved like water, his body a fluid blur as he deflected or dodged the incoming bullets. His hands blurred, redirecting shots with a precision that bordered on inhuman. The sound of ricocheting bullets filled the arena, a chaotic cacophony that seemed to amplify the tension.

But Gerry wasn’t done. Closing the distance in a heartbeat, he swung the dagger in a deadly arc, aiming for Reynard’s throat. Reynard tilted his head at the last second, narrowly avoiding the blade, but Gerry pressed on, his attacks flowing seamlessly between slashes and close-range shots from his gun.

The battle’s intensity reached a fever pitch. Gerry’s breath came in ragged gasps, his movements sharp and desperate. He poured every ounce of his energy into his assault, determined to overwhelm Reynard by sheer force of will. Yet Reynard remained calm, his cold gaze unshaken.

That gaze unnerved Gerry. It wasn’t the look of a man under pressure but of someone entirely in control. There was no fear, no hesitation—only an unsettling calm, as though Reynard already knew how the fight would end.

Gerry’s bullets swarmed through the air, forming a vortex of death that closed in from all sides. Yet Reynard’s movements defied comprehension. He twisted and swayed, each motion perfectly timed to avoid the onslaught.

The bullets passed within a hair’s breadth but never struck. It wasn’t invulnerability, Gerry realized with growing dread—it was something far worse. Reynard’s every movement was an exercise in absolute calculation, as if he were bending the laws of probability itself.

It was… “Inconceivable.”

Gerry's eyes narrowed, his breath quickening as he enacted his final gambit.

Every bullet suspended in the air, imbued with his homing attribute, transformed into a node in his ever-evolving vector network. Unlike the static points he’d relied on earlier, these bullets formed a dynamic, shifting web of paths, recalculating in real time as they spiraled through the arena. The air hummed with tension, the faint glint of the bullets tracing arcs like shooting stars.

Gerry moved like a phantom, his body blurring into a dizzying storm of afterimages. His speed was impossible, his trajectory erratic as he rushed toward Reynard from every conceivable direction. The sound of ricochets mingling with the rush of wind as bullets whizzed past Reynard.

But Reynard didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, his cold gaze locked onto Gerry. The bullets tore through the fabric of his suit, sending threads scattering like confetti, yet he made no effort to dodge. He simply watched.

And then Gerry was there.

In a fraction of a second, he materialized directly in front of Reynard, the dagger in his hand poised with lethal precision. The blade gleamed with the promise of death as it plunged forward, striking true.

It pierced Reynard’s chest.

Gerry felt the resistance of flesh and bone as the dagger sank deep, bypassing the World Tower’s miraculous protections as though they didn’t exist. A surge of triumph flooded his veins. This was it—his victory, his moment. He stared into Reynard’s eyes, expecting pain, fear, something.

“Farewell,” uttered Gerry as he revealed the horrifying truth. “The Tower might have the ability to negate death, but this dagger ensures you die regardless… of circumstance.”

But what Gerry saw made his blood run cold.

Reynard’s expression didn’t change. His face remained calm, as unreadable as it had been from the beginning.

Gerry froze, his hand trembling as he kept the blade lodged in Reynard’s chest. Something was wrong. There was no blood. Not a single drop.

The dagger should have worked. It was crafted to defy the rules of the World Tower, to bypass its miraculous protections. Yet Reynard stood there, unflinching, his cold, piercing eyes locked onto Gerry’s.

Sweat beaded on Gerry’s forehead as he stammered, “W-What are you?”

Reynard’s lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. “Your worst nightmare.”

Before Gerry could react, Reynard’s hand shot forward, seizing his wrist with an iron grip. The strength was overwhelming, inhuman. In one fluid motion, Reynard twisted Gerry’s arm, forcing the dagger to clatter to the floor. The sound echoed in the arena like a death knell.

Reynard bent down, picking up the blade with deliberate care. He examined it, turning it over in his hand as though it were a curiosity. “This dagger,” he muttered, his voice quiet but resonant. “Strange. Not aura, but something else entirely.”

Gerry winced, his free hand swinging wildly in a desperate attempt to break Reynard’s hold. But before he could land the blow, an eerie, bluish glow emanated from Reynard’s body.

From the glow, ethereal chains and strings erupted, materializing from thin air. They moved with impossible precision, snaking toward Gerry and coiling around his arms, legs, and torso. The chains pulsed faintly, their light casting unsettling shadows across the arena.

Gerry struggled, his body straining against the spectral bonds, but they didn’t budge. The chains anchored him to the floor and ceiling, suspending him midair like a grotesque puppet. Only his face remained visible, wide-eyed and drenched in panic.

“What—what is this?!” Gerry shouted, his voice cracking. His body thrashed against the restraints, but it was no use.

Reynard stepped closer, his shadow falling over Gerry like an executioner’s blade. His gaze grew colder, his movements unnervingly precise. “The conditions have been met,” Reynard said, his voice detached, almost mechanical. “Multiple physical contacts confirmed. A total of 87 Soul Chains embedded. Soul Links have been primed. Total domination is viable. How do you wish to proceed?”

The clinical tone sent a shiver down Gerry’s spine. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way Reynard spoke, as if addressing some unseen force rather than Gerry himself.

“What? What are you talking about? You’re talking strangely!” Gerry’s voice trembled, his confusion mixing with sheer terror.

Reynard tilted his head slightly, his expression eerily calm. There was something deeply wrong, something profoundly unnatural about him. The air around him felt heavy, oppressive, as though reality itself bent under his presence.

“You’ll understand soon enough,” Reynard said softly, his cold smile returning. “Though I doubt you’ll enjoy it.”

For a moment, something strange flickered in Reynard’s gaze—a hint of warmth, or perhaps the ghost of humanity. It was fleeting, gone almost as soon as it appeared. He tilted his head, and the mechanical precision of his movements softened. When he spoke again, his voice was disturbingly calm, almost conversational.

“There is nothing strange at all,” Reynard said, as if reading Gerry’s thoughts. “I am merely reciprocating the ill will that has been inflicted upon me.”

He held the dagger lightly between his fingers, its edge gleaming menacingly under the arena lights. Pressing it against Gerry’s cheek, he drew a thin line of blood, the crimson bead tracing a path down Gerry’s pale skin.

“Interesting dagger,” Reynard murmured, examining it closely. “It carries the nullify attribute. Disrupting probability… poetic. But let’s see what it really does… and if it even works.”

Panic surged through Gerry as he thrashed against the glowing chains that bound him, their ethereal light now a mocking reminder of his helplessness.

“Ah! No! Let go of me! The House of Mansel won’t leave you be! Do you hear me?! The Hunter’s Association wouldn’t condone murder! My family will know of your involvement! The Association has obligations to the old nobility! One way or another, my family will hunt you—and your family—down!”

Reynard’s gaze didn’t waver. A cruel smile curved his lips, devoid of humor or mercy. “What if the Association is complicit in this murder?”

The smile vanished, replaced by a chilling, unfeeling stare. “Did you think I didn’t include them in my calculations?”

Gerry’s protests faltered, his words catching in his throat as dread seeped into his veins. Reynard’s eyes shifted briefly to the arena wall, where faint distortions hinted at the presence of unseen observers. The oppressive air grew heavier as Reynard addressed them directly.

“You must be watching, right?” he said, his voice laced with veiled menace. “Hunter Association… do not inconvenience me.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, a threat as sharp as the dagger he held. Gerry barely had time to process them before something unimaginable began to unfold.

Reynard’s form shifted, his skin peeling away like burnt paper. Beneath, a mannequin-like figure emerged, its surface smooth and expressionless, yet dressed in the same tailored suit. The mannequin tilted its head, mimicking Reynard’s earlier mannerisms with unsettling precision.

“What… What are you?” Gerry whispered, his voice barely audible.

The chains binding Gerry began to change, their glow intensifying as they transformed into unyielding metal. They coiled tighter, constricting his limbs and torso. Gerry screamed, his cries raw and desperate, but the chains did not relent. Bones cracked with sickening finality, the sound reverberating through the arena.

And then, as if driven by an unseen force, Gerry’s mouth began to move. Words spilled forth—not pleas for mercy, but confessions. Every dark secret, every crime tied to the Elsewhere Cult, tumbled out in a torrent of incriminating revelations. He spoke of the lives he had taken, the deals he had struck, the atrocities he had sanctioned. His voice trembled with terror, yet he couldn’t stop speaking.

Reynard’s voice cut through the confessions like a blade. “You shouldn’t have aligned yourself with the cult.”

The mannequin remained motionless, its blank face an eerie contrast to the gruesome scene. The chains coiled tighter, their crushing force silencing Gerry’s screams. With a final, deafening snap, the chains completed their grim work.

Blood pooled beneath Gerry’s broken form, his lifeless body suspended in the air for a moment before the chains retracted and dissolved into nothingness.

Reynard—or the mannequin that used to bear his likeness—stood still, its hollow eyes fixed on Gerry’s remains. It bent down, retrieving the dagger that he used to stab right at Gerry’s heart at the final second. Holding it delicately, the mannequin examined the blade one last time before it vanished into the folds of its suit.

“You shouldn’t have aligned yourself with the Elsewhere Cult,” Reynard repeated softly, his tone laced with finality. “Their influence ends here.”

Turning toward the exit, the mannequin walked away, its movements fluid and precise. The oppressive atmosphere lifted as it departed, leaving behind an arena steeped in silence and blood.

As the automated cleaning systems activated, erasing all traces of the carnage, Reynard’s parting words echoed in the minds of those watching. The Hunter Association had been warned, and for those who dared oppose him, there would be no second chances. 

~046