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A deep silence filled the room.
The old man finally spoke, his voice low and tired. "Donald… he used to be part of the support team for the National Space Administration. He had access to many classified files. According to our intelligence, he was compromised—bought by a rival force. He leaked far too many secrets."
He glanced at Wesley. "Wesley… destiny is like a web—woven tightly. You—"
But Wesley wasn't interested in hearing more.
He didn't care about Donald's background or his betrayal. All Wesley knew was that he recognized the name. And that was enough.
Without another word, Wesley turned around and stormed out.
The other assassins glanced at one another, unsure of what to do. No one dared to stop him.
But just as Wesley was about to step outside, he froze.
Everyone's eyes followed his gaze.
At the entrance to the old textile factory, a shadow appeared. A young figure stood tall, half-shrouded in darkness. Though the upper half of his face was hidden in shadow, it was clear—he was just a teenager.
Yet the pressure he gave off made even the most hardened killers tense up.
It wasn't something visible—it was something they felt deep in their bones.
Even the old man's dull gray eyes flickered with something dark. A flicker of unease.
Click.
In an instant, every assassin raised their weapons and aimed at the boy.
But the boy didn't flinch.
He didn't show even a sliver of fear.
Instead, the killers began to sweat. Something about the way he stood—the calm in his movements—was unnatural. It felt as though they weren't staring at a human being at all…
…But at a beast. A monster lurking just beneath the skin, ready to rip through them at any moment.
Every killer present was elite in the underground world. And yet, they were all gripped with silent panic.
Who was this kid?
How could he pressure them like this just by standing still?
Then the boy stepped forward.
His face emerged from the shadows.
It was Sanjid.
Still young, still lean, but no longer the same boy from two months ago. His expression was sharp, his eyes unwavering.
Step by step, his footsteps echoed in the quiet space. The tension in the air was so thick it could be cut.
The old man forced a smile. "Son, this is a private facility. You should turn back."
But Sanjid said nothing.
He didn't need to.
He could already feel it—the foul, decaying aura around the old man. Rotten, dark, evil.
His training had sharpened his senses, and though he didn't possess Bella's perception ability, his instincts had become razor-sharp, especially when enhanced with magic.
Suddenly, Sanjid raised his hand.
A silver cross-shaped sword materialized in his grip, gleaming under the dull factory lights.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Before Sanjid could take another step, the killers opened fire.
Muzzles flared.
Bullets screamed through the air, filling the room like a violent storm.
But one man didn't fire.
Wesley stood frozen. Something deep inside him whispered danger. When he saw Sanjid summon the sword, a primal fear overtook him. It wasn't just fear—it was the sense that he was looking at death itself.
Trusting his instincts, Wesley triggered his adrenaline burst, and darted backward as fast as he could.
And it was a smart move.
Because Sanjid was no longer just a boy—he was Death walking.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
To Sanjid, the bullets might as well have been moving in slow motion. He saw each one clearly, as if time had slowed to a crawl. Calmly, he swung his sword, slicing the bullets out of the air.
Even those aimed with special arcs or delayed timing—blocked without effort.
Then he moved.
His body blurred, disappearing from sight. In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Screams erupted.
Sanjid had launched himself into the group of killers like a storm.
Each time his blade flashed, someone dropped.
A silver light would shine—then a body would collapse, lifeless.
Panic broke out.
They tried to fight back. Tried to use bullet time, adrenaline boosts, anything.
But nothing worked.
Their special skills, the ones that gave them dominance over normal humans, meant nothing here.
Sanjid's speed, reflexes, and strength crushed them.
In less than ten seconds, most of the elite assassins were dead.
Sanjid grabbed the head of one who was still alive.
With a gentle push backward, the man's body arched unnaturally—then Sanjid drove the silver sword through his chest.
Blood splashed.
Only three assassins remained.
They had seen enough.
They weren't just afraid—they were terrified.
One of the women dropped her weapon. "Run," she screamed. "He's not human! He's a demon!"
Their faces twisted in fear, and they bolted.
But Sanjid didn't stop.
He didn't let demons escape.
Whoosh!
He hurled his sword.
It spun through the air and impaled the woman who had spoken, slamming her body into the factory wall. Blood oozed down the metal beam as her eyes went cold.
The remaining two didn't even look back. They ran with everything they had, burning every last drop of adrenaline.
They were only ten meters from the door.
Ten meters from hope.
But then came the sound.
A rushing wind. Like thunder breaking the air.
They looked up.
Sanjid had launched himself into the air.
He came down like a falling star, crashing into the two with a shockwave that split the air.
Their bodies were crushed under the impact, thrown aside like broken dolls, landing on factory tables with a sickening thud.
Silence fell again.
The entire battle—from first shot to last breath—had lasted no more than ten seconds.
But it was a masterpiece.
An elegant, ruthless dance of death.
It wasn't just about power. It was about precision, grace, and absolute control.
This—this was the true art of killing.
And from the shadows, Wesley trembled.
He had watched it all.
Every kill, every movement.
And he knew now, without a doubt—Sanjid was no longer a boy.
He was a weapon. A force of death wrapped in human skin.
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