A man stood guard, shifting uneasily as rustling came from the bushes nearby. He turned, reaching for his weapon, but a blade cut clean through his neck before he could react. His head dropped to the ground.
A group of hooded hunters stepped out from the shadows, their footwork making no sound, their blades glinting faintly in the dim night.
"All guards eliminated," one whispered.
"Good. Check the entrance and prepare the cannon," another answered.
Roswell stepped into view in light armor, tall and imposing. His eyes swept over the corpse, cold and unreadable. His fingers tightened briefly on his sword hilt before relaxing again.
"Confirm his identity," Roswell said. "Everyone else, take your position."
A scream tore through the air.
"Enemy attack!"
Roswell's eyes narrowed. He turned sharply. "Cannon squad, move."
A guard rushed out of hiding and cut down a cultist near the entrance.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Cannon fire erupted across the valley. The ground shook under each blast. Dust rolled through the trees.
"Zone two and three are sealed and guarded," an officer called.
"Proceed," Roswell replied.
Their unit was composed of the Hunter class, who scouted ahead and entered the mines to investigate and eliminate. Second were the Warriors, who formed two tight defensive lines at the entrance. Last were the regular guards, who handled support and the cannon unit.
The first stage was simple. Trap the enemy inside, bombard the exits, and eliminate anything that tried to escape. It was an unusual tactic for Roswell. A Warrior was trained to close the distance and finish it himself, not to seal a hole and let the cannons do the work.
Shapes emerged within the smoke.
Blackened flesh. Twisted limbs. Curved horns jutting from foreheads. Eyes glowing with anger.
"Demonic beasts!" a Warrior shouted.
The first creature lunged with a feral shriek. Its claws tore against a shield, sparks flying. The awakened warrior countered, driving his sword into its chest. It howled and collapsed.
Roswell lifted his sword. Aura seeped along the blade like faint blue flame.
"Hold the entrance."
The front row stepped forward as one, pushing the demons back. The second row stabbed through gaps, striking joints and soft spots with clean precision.
Another demon leaped overhead. Roswell stepped forward and cut it midair. The creature split cleanly before it touched the ground.
The demons fell under the formation.
A silhouette moved at the far end of the passage, and a strange sound echoed.
More demonic beasts charged.
"Fire," Roswell commanded.
A deafening blast followed. Cannons aimed at the entrance roared. The explosion tore the monsters apart and cracked the cave walls. Thick dust and smoke poured out.
The ceiling shuddered. Pebbles rained down. A slab of stone broke loose and slammed into the ground.
Then Roswell pulled a cloth mask over his face and raised his hand.
"Hunter unit, follow."
Nine masked hunters stepped forward, swift and silent, blades held low. They vanished into the smoke behind him.
Roswell and the nine hunters moved down the tunnels with controlled speed, clearing each chamber. Their blades flashed clean and efficiently, no wasted motion.
Confused cultists emerging from side passages fell before they realized what was happening.
The deeper they went, the darker and colder it became. Symbols smeared in ash and blood covered the walls.
"Stop," Roswell ordered quietly.
Bones littered the floor. Torches flickered around a circle of dead children tied with rope. Fresh blood flowed toward the center, forming warped patterns. Roswell's fingers tightened once on his hilt. One hunter looked away briefly before steadying himself.
"Teams of three. Check every room."
"Ahh. Wha-,"
Behind, one of the hunters jerked forward, choking on his own breath. A thin black shadow blade pierced his chest cleanly.
"Get him!" another hunter screamed, dragging the fallen man toward cover. Two blades slashed at the moving darkness, but their strikes cut through empty air.
A pair of crimson eyes blinked open on the stone surface.
"Sir. A Shadow Spirit," one hunter whispered, taking a guarded stance.
Normal blades would not work here. And in a cave like this, fighting would be harder. If there was a shadow spirit, a contractor was nearby.
Roswell's voice stayed even. "I will handle the shadow. Find the contractor."
"Yes, sir."
The hunters vanished into the branching tunnels without a sound.
A low hiss echoed across the chamber. Then more shadows emerged from the stone, stretching into thin, distorted shapes that clung to the walls like living ink.
Roswell muttered, "More shadows."
The nearest one lunged. Roswell stepped back, aura flaring along his blade, pushing back the darkness. Light burst across the chamber. The shadows recoiled, their forms stuttering.
Another rushed in from the side. Roswell turned and slashed, his aura tearing its form apart. It shrieked and dissolved into the floor.
A third rose behind him.
Roswell shifted his stance and pressed his aura outward. The chamber brightened just enough for the shadow to hesitate. Roswell closed the gap in one step and cut through it, scattering its form across the wall.
Then the spirit shadows ran at the same spot, trying to merge, darkening the surroundings even further. They became a blob of black ink. Tentacles sprouted along its sides, and a cluster of crimson eyes opened in the middle and turned toward him.
The tentacles came all at once.
Roswell created a shield through his aura to block the attack, but the impact threw him into the wall anyway.
He stood and raised his sword level with his head, the point aimed at the shadow blob in front of him. The aura drew back along the blade's edge and gathered at the tip. Roswell took one long breath, then vanished, closing the distance at a speed the eye could not follow.
Tentacles drove in to counter him and grazed his body. He did not slow down as he drove the point of the sword into the center mass of the creature.
A deafening sound tore through the chamber as the shadow burst apart.
The blast threw it across the walls like spilled ink, and the crimson eyes went out. Or so he thought.
On the far wall, the shadow was already crawling back together.
His breath came out slowly. Blood ran from his forehead and his forearm. Roswell tightened his grip and poured more aura into the blade.
Farther down the tunnels, a sharp clang echoed. Then another. Metal against stone. Someone shouted, muffled by distance.
A second later, the shadow trying to merge began to change. Its movements turned sluggish, the crimson eyes flickered, and then they went out one after another.
Footsteps approached.
Five hunters emerged from the passage, their cloaks streaked with dust and blood. One clutched his arm, a bruise swelling beneath the fabric.
"Target eliminated," the lead hunter said, tired.
Roswell nodded and lifted his communication device. "All clear. Send the support unit."
"Yes, sir."
He lowered the device and stepped toward the ritual circle again.
Roswell knelt beside one of the small bodies. His jaw tightened for a moment before settling back into stillness. The blood was still warm. The ropes soaked through. The carved markings had been rushed.
It was the child from the missing report.
He studied the strange pattern drawn in the center. The lines ran outward and stopped short, unfinished.
They needed more children. If the operation had come a week later, the ritual would have been finished, and whatever this was meant to bring would have been a disaster for Linberg.
. . .
Rooftop. Same hour.
The night was cold. The wind carried the faint smell of the sea. Guards stood in formation, silent and tense. In front of them stood the tall, thin man in the hooded red cloak.
Vince's metallic left eye glowed a dull crimson beneath the shadow, pulsing faintly in a slow mechanical rhythm.
He did not move.
His gaze was fixed on the warehouse below. Tiny gears clicked softly inside his eye as multiple visual feeds overlapped. Before the operation, he had scattered several mechanical spiders through cracks and beams around the building. Each one sent a different angle to his sight.
He monitored every movement.
An officer approached, hesitant to disturb him.
"Sir," he whispered. "Scouts saw movement inside. They're shifting cargo. It seems they've been alerted."
Vince did not reply.
One mechanical spider crawled back and disappeared beneath his cloak, legs ticking like a clock. It climbed his arm and dropped a small capsule into his hand.
Only then did he speak.
"Understood. No civilians were detected. No value remains."
The officer nodded and asked, "Should we advance?"
"Not yet." His voice was low and flat, almost a whisper. "Circle them from a distance. Do not move until I give the order."
"Yes, sir."
He extended his hand slightly. "Bring the case."
A guard stepped forward with a heavy metal suitcase. Vince opened it. Rows of thumb-sized metallic spheres lined the inside, arranged in perfect symmetry. He slid his right arm through a port. Metal clicked and locked around his forearm.
"Guard my body."
"Yes, sir."
His eyes went blank. His breathing slowed. His body became still, like an empty shell.
A soft buzz filled the air.
The first row of spheres lifted from the case. A small propeller unfolded from each one with a faint red glow. They hovered in place for a moment, then drifted forward. Another row rose, and another, until a silent swarm filled the air.
The swarm drifted off the rooftop without a sound, gliding across the dark sky toward the warehouse.
As they descended, the spheres detached their propellers. Four small mechanical legs unfolded beneath each one. They crawled across roofs and beams with precise, silent movements, each heading toward its assigned target.
Inside the warehouse, a cultist carrying a crate froze when a small red light dropped onto the floor in front of him.
"What is this…" he muttered, reaching out.
Tic. Tic.
A faint metallic ticking echoed around him. He looked up and saw dozens of tiny red lights flickering through the dark rafters.
"We're discovered!" one of the cultists shouted.
He turned back just as the sphere at his feet stopped.
Click.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The warehouse erupted. A rapid chain of explosions tore through the interior. Crates burst apart. Smoke surged through shattered windows. Several figures collapsed before they could scream.
On the rooftop, Vince's body stirred. His mechanical eye brightened as his consciousness returned.
He stepped forward once and brushed sweat from his right arm.
"A few are still running," he said with pleasure. "Hunt them."
"Yes, sir."
The remaining guards moved instantly, descending the rooftop into formation and vanishing into the night.
He steadied his posture. His body remained unharmed, but controlling the swarm had drained his mind considerably.
Without lowering his guard, his metallic eye returned to its steady mechanical pulse as he resumed watching the warehouse through the surviving mechanical spiders.
As a Professor Class, he could transfer his consciousness into his inventions and control them directly. Controlling so many at once left his mind strained. But the sound of the explosions, the precision of each detonation landing exactly where he had placed it, brought him considerable satisfaction.