Third-Person POV...
Hotel BlackMoon, Third Floor
A dimly lit corridor stretched out like a sinister serpent, its walls adorned with faded gold trim and worn, crimson carpeting that seemed to whisper secrets of the past.
The air was heavy with an aura of foreboding, thick with the scent of smoke and sweat, and the distant hum of tension that hung like a challenge.
A phalanx of five imposing figures, clad in black attire that seemed to absorb the faint light, stood guard like sentinels of doom.
Their eyes, cold and calculating, bore into the shadows before them, as if sizing up an invisible threat. Each of them was a master of mayhem, armed to the teeth with an arsenal of deadly weapons that glinted menacingly in the faint light.
To the left, a towering figure, his face a chiseled mask of granite, gripped a sword with a worn leather hilt, its blade etched with the scars of countless battles. His eyes, like two glacial lakes, seemed to freeze time itself, scanning the corridor with predatory focus.
Beside him, a lithe, agile woman, her raven hair tied back in a ponytail, cradled a sleek, black pistol, her finger resting lightly on the trigger, poised to unleash a hail of bullets at a moment's notice. Her breathing was controlled, measured, the mark of a professional killer.
To the right, a hulking giant of a man, his massive frame straining against the seams of his black fatigues, hefted a shotgun with a sawed-off barrel, its wooden stock worn smooth by the grip of countless hands.
His eyes, like two burning coals, seemed to sear into the darkness ahead, as if warning anyone foolish enough to approach of the horrors that awaited them.
Next to him, a wiry, agile figure, his face a map of scars and tattoos, brandished a pair of deadly daggers, their blades glinting like shards of ice in the faint light. He twirled them absently, a nervous habit that belied the deadly precision with which he could strike.
And at the far end of the corridor, a lone figure, shrouded in shadows, stood watch, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder, its barrel pointing lazily towards the floor. His eyes, like two dark pools, seemed to draw in the surrounding darkness, patient and calculating.
These were five of the eight hijackers left in the hotel—professionals who had turned traitor for profit, willing to sell weapons to terrorists and take innocent lives as hostages.
They had heard the screams from below. They knew three of their comrades had fallen silent.
And now they waited, weapons ready, for whatever monster was hunting them in the darkness.
...
As the tense silence was shattered, a sudden, jarring sound pierced the air, like a shrill scream that sent shivers down the spines of all who stood frozen in anticipation.
The unmistakable hum of the elevator's machinery roared to life, its mechanical heartbeat growing louder with each passing second, building towards a crescendo of uncertainty.
"Positions!" the sword-wielding leader hissed, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of command.
The five hijackers tensed, their senses on high alert, stood poised like coiled springs, their eyes fixed intently on the elevator doors, their minds racing with the possibilities of what was to come.
The air was electric with tension, heavy with the weight of anticipation, as the elevator's slow ascent seemed to drag on for an eternity.
The woman with the pistol shifted her stance, adopting a textbook firing position. The giant with the shotgun planted his feet, ready to absorb the recoil. The dual-dagger wielder crouched low, prepared to dart forward at a moment's notice.
The sound of the elevator's approach was like a ticking time bomb, counting down the seconds until the doors would slide open, revealing the unknown threat that lay within.
The hijackers' breathing was synchronized, their chests rising and falling in unison, as they stood transfixed, their gazes locked on the elevator's metal doors, their fingers twitching with anticipation.
The elevator's machinery groaned and creaked, its mechanisms straining as it lurched and stuttered its way upwards, the sound of its progress echoing through the corridors like a death knell.
Floor indicators flickered: Second floor... approaching third floor...
The hijackers' eyes were glued to the doors, their pupils dilated with a mixture of fear and adrenaline, their faces set in determined masks, as they steeled themselves for the unknown.
"Remember," the leader muttered, his knuckles white around his sword's hilt, "three shots center mass, then fall back to secondary positions. Whatever's in there killed Marcus, Jin, and in under ten minutes. Don't underestimate—"
*Ding!*
The elevator chimed its arrival with innocent cheerfulness, a sound grotesquely out of place in the tension-thick corridor.
And then, in an instant, the elevator's doors slid open with a hiss of compressed air, the sound like a sigh of relief, as the hijackers' collective breath was held in anticipation.
...
As the elevator's doors slid open with a hiss, a sudden, palpable tension filled the air, like the crackle of electricity before a storm. The dimly lit, metallic interior of the elevator car was bathed in an eerie, golden light, casting an otherworldly glow on the scene that was about to unfold.
And then, like a vision materializing from the shadows, the imposing figure of Riyan emerged, his towering presence commanding attention despite his relatively average height. There was something in the way he moved—fluid, confident, utterly without fear—that made him seem larger than life.
His piercing gaze, like two burning embers in the darkness, locked onto the quintet of adversaries who stood frozen, their weapons trained on him with unyielding intensity.
For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Riyan's hand grasped the Yunling Spear, its crimson blade glinting menacingly in the faint light, the ruby embedded in its heart pulsing with an almost hypnotic rhythm. The weapon, a testament to his unyielding prowess in battle, seemed to hum with quiet power, as if it too were alive and hungry for blood.
His eyes, like two piercing stars, shone with unwavering determination, a fierce inner light that seemed to bore into the very souls of his would-be assailants. There was no hesitation in that gaze. No doubt. Only cold, calculated purpose.
The five hijackers, their faces twisted into expressions mixing bravado and barely concealed fear, stood transfixed, their guns and blades held steady, as if time itself had been suspended.
The air was heavy with the weight of anticipation, the silence between the two groups a living, breathing entity that pulsed with almost palpable energy.
It was as if the very fate of this confrontation hung in the balance, the outcome a mystery waiting to be unraveled in blood and violence.
"That's... that's just a kid," the woman with the pistol whispered, her voice betraying uncertainty.
"A kid who killed three trained operatives," the leader growled back. "Fire on my mark—"
But Riyan moved first.
In a blur of motion almost too fast to follow, he stepped forward from the elevator, the Yunling Spear spinning in his grip with practiced ease. The crimson blade carved arcs of light through the air, beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
His lips curved into a cold smile, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute confidence:
"Eight became five. Let's see how long you last."
The hijackers, a motley crew hardened by years of violence and betrayal, their faces a blur of anger and desperation, seemed to embody the very essence of chaos and anarchy.
Their weapons, a deadly assortment of pistols, knives, and cruel-looking blades, appeared to be extensions of their own twisted desires, instruments of destruction honed to perfection.
But in Riyan's eyes, they were already dead. They just didn't know it yet.
....
In a flash of coordinated violence, three assailants emerged from their defensive positions, their training overriding their fear. Their eyes blazed with sinister intent, though beneath that burned the primal instinct of cornered predators.
With synchronized motion born of countless operations together, they raised their weapons—but these were no ordinary firearms. These were Mana-infused armaments, crafted with precision engineering and imbued with concentrated magical energy. Each bullet, shell, and projectile carried a dose of concentrated Mana, the very essence of life force, making every shot potentially devastating even to enhanced individuals.
The first attacker, the towering figure with the menacing scowl and the leader's authority, grasped a rifle that shimmered with an ethereal glow. The weapon's barrel pulsed with soft blue light, Mana circuits running along its length like veins of power.
With cold calculation born of a hundred kills, he took aim at Riyan's center mass, his finger tightening around the trigger. "Target acquired," he muttered, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart.
The second assailant, the lithe and agile woman with eyes that burned like hot coals, wielded a handgun that crackled with dark energy. The pistol's grip seemed to writhe and twist in her hand, responding to her Mana signature, the weapon bonding with its wielder.
Her breathing steadied as her training took over. She adjusted her aim, leading slightly to account for potential movement. "Firing," she announced crisply, and squeezed the trigger.
*CRACK!*
The report of the gun echoed through the corridor like a crack of thunder, sending a Mana-laced bullet hurtling towards Riyan with deadly precision. The projectile left a faint trail of dark energy in its wake, screaming through the air at supersonic speed.
The third attacker, a hulking brute with a cruel grin that masked deep-seated anxiety, brandished a shotgun that seemed to drink in the light around it, leaving only an aura of darkness and foreboding.
The weapon's twin barrels yawned open like the maw of a beast, loaded with specialized Mana-charged buckshot designed to shred through defensive barriers and flesh alike.
"Die, you bastard!" he roared, his voice betraying more emotion than tactical sense, and fired.
*BOOM!*
The shotgun's roar shook the air, a thunderous explosion that rattled the walls. A hail of glowing projectiles tore towards Riyan, spreading in a deadly cone pattern designed to eliminate any chance of evasion.
All three attackers fired in rapid succession, their Mana-infused weapons unleashing a maelstrom of concentrated energy upon Riyan. The rifleman added his own contribution, three precise shots fired with mechanical efficiency.
*CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!*
The air was filled with the acrid smell of ozone and smoke, the sharp tang of discharged Mana mixing with gunpowder. The corridor lit up with flashes of blue, dark purple, and crimson light as the various projectiles converged on their target.
The remaining two hijackers, the dual-dagger wielder and the sniper, held their positions, weapons ready, watching for any sign of movement, prepared to capitalize on any opening their comrades created.
It was a textbook ambush, executed with professional precision.
Against any normal opponent, it would have been instantly fatal.
But Riyan Descartes was far from normal.
As the barrage of Mana-infused death screamed towards him, Riyan's eyes narrowed, tracking each projectile's trajectory with inhuman precision. The world seemed to slow around him, his enhanced perception breaking down the chaos into manageable components.
The darkness affinity within him stirred, responding to his will.
And then—
*To Be Continued...*
...
**Q&A CORNER**
**Questions for Readers:**
1. How will Riyan counter the Mana-infused weapons? Will he use his Darkness affinity defensively or offensively?
2. Do you think Riyan will use "Nemora" against these five hijackers, or save it for a more worthy opponent?
3. What role will the Yunling Spear play in this fight? Will we see Riyan's Spear Saint talent truly unleashed?
4. The two remaining hijackers are still unaccounted for—where do you think they are, and what threat might they pose?
Share your predictions and theories in the comments!
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— Lone Raut
The battle begins in earnest. Will the hijackers' Mana-infused weapons be enough to stop Riyan, or will they join their three fallen comrades? Find out next time!