**Present time: The lower levels of the underground fortress below the Red Auction hall**
"Tch, that stupid bitch fooled us!" Jetore shouted in frustration, clutching a wound on his right arm he'd received during the fall. In front of him, Seracore wasn't faring any better; a cut and bruise on his forehead bled freely until he took the initiative to wrap it with a strip of cloth.
The two stood in a long, dark chamber that was surprisingly well-decorated with ornaments and golden pillars. A small artificial lake lay before them, crossed by a red bridge that led to a hall continuing deeper into the fortress. The space was filled with wooden beams, extravagant furniture, and walls adorned with intricate three-dimensional designs.
"Where the hell are we?!" Jetore demanded, his anger reaching a critical point.
Seracore stood calmly, one hand clutching his enormous, bandage-concealed weapon and the other in his pocket. "You'd know if you weren't such a moron and paid attention. Obviously, we're in some stupid underground fortress that Laticia chick had ready to trap us. I'm surprised she even had the funds for this place," he replied with a confident grin as he scanned their surroundings.
Before Jetore could escalate the tension further, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hall. An onslaught of men in black suits, armed with firearms, poured into the chamber.
"There! Two marked mercenaries in sight! Open fire and eliminate them immediately!" their leader commanded.
A barrage of gunfire shattered the air. Acting quickly, Jetore and Seracore dove to opposite sides for cover.
"Sit and watch me at work, bitch!" Jetore yelled, an obvious attempt to belittle Seracore as he launched himself forward. "Twin Explosion!"
His passion mark shone a brilliant orange. Two flaming eruptions burst from his palms, engulfing the front line of guards and blowing the rest backward. The air filled with the smell of blood and burned flesh from the heavy attack.
The leader of the group watched in horror as Jetore continued to create and shoot explosions, destroying parts of the chamber and killing more of Laticia's subordinates. Chunks of the walls began to crumble into the debris.
"T-That's impossible! Laticia never said we'd be facing such a monster! Who are these bastards?!" the leader vented, backing away.
Seracore stood his ground, clutching his large, flat-shaped weapon. His shock at Jetore's raw destructive power was amplified by a single thought: *The Mark of the Bomber, huh? The moron's fighting so recklessly. If he doesn't slow down, this whole fortress could collapse.*
Jetore flipped through the air, dodging shots from the terrified men before his palms ignited. "Rupture Rage!" he shouted. He spun like a saw blade as he landed on his hands, the friction building in the floor until it exploded with a combustion so strong it shredded the remaining guards into pieces. Carbon dioxide slowly filled the chamber from his rampage.
"I-If we can't take that punk down, we'll start with this one!" one of the remaining guards declared, leaping forward with a large crushing hammer aimed at Seracore.
Seracore looked up with a mixture of excitement and arrogance not too dissimilar from Jetore's. "So you extras think you can take me on, huh?" he taunted.
He unwrapped the bandage around the large object he carried, revealing a shield almost his own height. Twisting it quickly, he blocked the hammer's descent. As the weapon clashed against his shield, a blue glow shone from the centre of his collarbone—a shield-shaped Passion Mark.
"Protective Repel!" Seracore shouted.
A blue outline encompassed his shield. The moment the hammer struck, a powerful pressure released from the shield, smashing into the guards and throwing them back with an invisible force. The action gained attention in the hall, momentarily distracting from Jetore's explosions. Jetore's eyes widened. *...So that's his ability, huh? Just as stupid as him,* he thought, though his expression betrayed a flicker of admiration.
Seracore smirked confidently and slammed his large shield down, cracking the floor tiles. "Don't even think about tryna brute force me! I've got the Mark of the Protector! I can project shields and defend against anything. Small fries like you should stay put!" he shouted, his voice dripping with arrogance and pride.
Jetore kicked one of Laticia's henchmen, making him shout in pain. As more approached, Jetore tightened his palms, his Passion Mark glowing a brighter orange. He twisted around, creating a ring of instantaneous explosions that decimated the men around him.
"Bombing Ring," he mentioned casually, before standing and making eye contact with Seracore. "You really think that's impressive, punk? I could easily blow through your sissy-ass shield."
The claim irritated Seracore, who looked more fiercely at Jetore than he did at their enemies. "Oh? Is that what you think? Or is the lion getting insecure that he's not the strongest in the pride anymore?" he mocked.
As the two continued bickering, the leader of the fortress guards yelled out to his subordinates, "These two bastards are too much for us! Release the Clortisax!"
The command caught Seracore's attention immediately. From his countless missions as a marked mercenary, he knew what that was. The Clortisax was one of the many otherworldly beasts—refuse from the Age of Discovery, like Clawroos and Gercoraks. His suspicions were confirmed as he and Jetore heard a loud, earth-shaking roar.
**Back on the surface, in the destroyed, collapsing Auction Hall**
Laticia smiled sadistically as she walked on the red carpet surrounding the collapsed auction stage, where a car lay shattered. "You know, Kran, or should I say Erenor, your worthless brats and stupid assistant are going to die terribly today, all because you gave them the order to storm my auction hall. I have a sea of my slaves and followers down in the fortress below, including a few otherworldly beasts I'd sell on normal occasions," she said.
Kran lay on the ground in a small pool of his own blood. The side of his torso was ripped open to the point of showing some of his organs. He was fading in and out of consciousness, his regeneration granted by being a Marked One slowing as his will to fight weakened. However, he forced a smirk and boasted, "The M-Marked Mercenaries are strong, especially the newcomers we have… It's about time we… h-handed this country to righteous, untainted y-young hearts, so that accursed figures l-like us can slowly fade into obscurity."
Laticia gritted her teeth, her red hair flowing dangerously as she uttered, "We'll see."
**Outside the auction hall**
The support unit of the Marked Mercenaries guarded the entrance to the damaged hall, standing over several bodies of Laticia's guests and bidders whom they had slain. Suddenly, the sound of sirens rang through the air as a unit of soldiers from the Cryoharian government arrived. They stood in a coordinated line, their firearms pointed toward the Marked Mercenary support unit.
A single man stood in front of them. He wore a white coat with the symbol of the Cryoharan flag—multiple hands wielding swords, their tips connecting in a circle. The man had long, bushy black hair and a tattoo of flower petals trailing down his face, complemented by peculiar orange eyes. A sheathed saber was belted on his right side, and a lit cigarette hung from his mouth.
"Tch, should've known the Marked Mercenary bastards would beat us to it," he mumbled to himself.
The Marked Mercenary support unit, a mix of white-clad and black-clad figures, prepared themselves, drawing blades and firearms. Before the tension could snap, a hand rose, signaling a halt.
"Melee and Ranged squads, stand down. Some authority figure like him isn't our primary objective," a voice commanded.
A man walked into the clearing, a trail of corpses in his wake. He was adorned in concealing attire—black assassin-like clothes contrasted by a shining white cloak and a face mask that was half pale and half dark.
The leader of the authority police force, the man with bushy black hair, smiled. "Well, if it isn't Luca the Painted. Y'know, I didn't expect someone like you to be sitting on the sidelines, reduced to mere support. The Marked Mercenaries sure are rude to their subordinates, huh," he said, his eyes lingering.
Luca, the man in the black attire and white cloak, smirked under his mask, ignoring the comment. "And you must be Malikar. I've heard you were the upstart who made headway in the military. Your swordsmanship skills are extraordinary, aren't they?" he said, drawing a blade of his own. "Tell your men to stand down. I'll challenge you," he commanded.
Malikar smirked as if it were hilarious. He took out his cigarette and exhaled smoke before drawing his saber. "Glad to know we think alike," he said before lunging forward.
**Back at the south chambers of the underground fortress, with Jetore and Seracore**
A gigantic, feral beast charged out, crushing and skewering Laticia's own henchmen as it rushed toward Jetore and Seracore. The two stood frozen for a moment. The terrifying Clortisax had a centipede-like body with a thousand sharp limbs that stabbed, skewered, and shredded everything in their path. Its fifteen eyes stared daggers into Jetore, who couldn't believe what he was seeing. It unleashed another deafening roar.
"Tch, the monster even killed its own side! I can take it, no problem!" Jetore boasted before jumping up and dashing toward the beast. "Now! Blow to bits, you—!"
He was unable to finish his sentence. Before he could unleash an attack, the sharp, bladed limbs of the beast extended horrifyingly to ten meters, one of them stabbing clean through his leg. He barely had time to react, twisting back to narrowly dodge a flurry of pierces from more limbs. He landed hard and shouted in agony.
"GAHHH!! FUCK!! MY LEG! That stupid, shitty— NHHAAA!!" he yelled, collapsing in suffering.
Seracore watched Jetore yelp on the ground, wide-eyed. He smirked, "See?! You can't handle it! Shitty bomber!" The insult, though intended to wound Jetore's pride, mainly hurt Seracore himself for his failure to defend his comrade. Because of Jetore's arrogance and his own indecision, Jetore had sustained a serious wound.
The Clortisax raged, unleashing a flurry of piercing stabs from its blade-like limbs toward Seracore. He responded by raising his shield. "Tanker's Defense!" he yelled.
He projected a large, blue shield that grew to block the unending flurry of strikes. The force of the impacts pushed him back, his boots scraping against the floor.
"Tch… Hey— I'm not a fan of it either, but we gotta fight together to beat this thing," Jetore said, clutching his bleeding leg. He remembered his interaction with Riko during the Marked Mercenary selections, how he'd decided to swallow his pride and work with others to take down the Zeerox. The same applied here; he knew he couldn't achieve his goals if he didn't survive.
"S-Shut it! I can handle it myself!" Seracore yelled, a rude dismissal as his shield strained against the onslaught. He grabbed a baton with a hammer-like structure from his side, pushing the shield with all his strength to find an opening. It was a mistake. As he raised his weapon, several blade limbs struck his shoulder repeatedly, drawing blood. He jumped back, clutching his new wound in agony, his face twisting with irritation and anger.
Jetore forced a smug smirk as he pushed himself up, despite the gaping hole in his leg and the fatigue from blood loss. "See that? Neither of us can take the thing down alone! It attacks constantly and leaves no openings to strike. The blasted monster's probably thinking we're its lunch!"
Seracore raised his shield again, his Passion Mark glowing a steady blue. He projected a larger shield, protecting both himself and Jetore as the Clortisax's limbs relentlessly assaulted the barrier, slowly pushing him back. He didn't want to work with Jetore, whom he disliked intensely, but then a memory surfaced.
**5 years ago, in the corner of a street in Lernol Town, 30 km from Neran City, Cryohara**
A twelve-year-old Seracore breathed heavily, covered in bruises as he stood before a group of other children. Behind him, his younger half-sister, Kiera, cried aloud, her face twisted in fear.
"Get outta the way, Seracore! Your sister's the one who messed with us first, ya know! She said she didn't wanna be our friend! So we're teaching her a lesson," a boy said, grinning. The kids behind him murmured in agreement.
"P-Please… Seracore… y-you don't need to—" Kiera struggled, but Seracore cut her off.
"Shut up! I won't let these freaks touch you! I promised your mum I'd protect you!"
The darkness of the night was contrasted by the bright streetlights that seemed to concentrate where Seracore stood, guarding Kiera.
"Awwww, look guys! Seracore thinks his stupid muscles are gonna help him! He's trying to protect his half-sister!" one of the kids mocked in a cold voice. The others laughed. Yet Seracore stood determined. His goal was simple: protect. He'd always protected people, and no matter how arrogant or annoying he became, one thing stayed the same: his philosophy that the people he cared about needed his protection, no matter what.
**Present time, back with Seracore and Jetore**
Seracore's eyes twitched. He had always defended well; his passion for protecting and preserving people from harm was what had led Vesterious to bestow the Mark of the Protector upon him. He clenched his teeth, biting his tongue for a moment before twisting his gaze back to the relentless Clortisax.
"Fine! If it means we can beat this ugly shit! Don't mess it up, shitty bomber!" he conceded.
"Hey! Who do you think you're talking to? I'll beat your ass!" Jetore shouted in defiance before smirking, his nose ring glinting.
Seracore slammed his shield down and yelled, "One Hundred and Eighty Degree Spherical Shell!"
A spherical, transparent shield enveloped both him and Jetore. The Clortisax's thrusts and shredding attacks bounced harmlessly off the curved surface as the beast lunged again and again, trying to break through.
"What the hell's your plan now, idiot? We can't beat it if all we're doing is defending," Jetore said, still clutching his wounded leg.
Seracore looked pissed but smirked. "Of course your dumbass wouldn't get it! We need to protect against its strikes while hurting it at the same time. My projected barrier will protect us. You touch the *inside* of the barrier and let your energy flow from your Mark to the *exterior* of the shell. I saw it earlier—you can make things combust from the inside out. We're doing the inverse, got it?!" he shouted.
Jetore hated to admit it, but the logic was sound. He smirked and placed his hand on the interior wall of the barrier. The Mark of the Bomber glowed a bright orange as Jetore focused the energy inward from his palms. Instead of combusting from his hands, he allowed the energy to flow *into* the barrier, channeling it to the outer shell.
The moment the energy reached the exterior, it combusted, releasing a gigantic explosion outward from the spherical shield. The blast consumed the Clortisax, the friction and force shredding its bladed limbs and burning its body. The beast screeched in agony before collapsing lifelessly into a small crater.
Jetore and Seracore had mixed their opposite abilities—one undeniably offensive, the other undeniably defensive—to create a move that protected as well as it attacked. An Offensive Defense.
The smoke from the large explosion cleared as Seracore's projected shield dissolved. Jetore and he looked at each other and smirked, sharing a rare moment of mutual respect before fist-bumping.