Inside the Hiyori Nightclub's upper floors, a room had gone entirely still.
High-end automatic rifles, anti-materiel sniper hardware, a rotary grenade launcher, staves engraved with operational glyphs, all of it on the floor.
This equipment, combined with the Demon the scarred man had contracted, had been the foundation of the squad's confidence.
With this loadout and practiced coordination, they'd killed more than one Lv4 transcendent. They'd done it cleanly, efficiently, without any of the people involved getting particularly hurt.
The room didn't care.
Armor and ballistic vests had been shed across the floor in the way soldiers shed weight when a battle becomes a rout. Magazines were still full. The weapons had done nothing.
The enemy was not a person, not a grouped target, not anything they could orient against. The enemy was the room itself, every wall, every surface, every ordinary object in it, all of them participants.
