The deep roar of a customized Harley-Davidson Cruiser sliced through the night air. The White Haired Man—his face completely concealed beneath a matte-black tactical helmet, his form clad in a tailored black suit, drove the bike across the road.
Without warning, the high-pitched scream of modified engines echoed behind him. Four sportbikes tore out of the side alleys, matching his speed and closing in on his flanks.
"That's him!" the lead rider barked through his radio. "That's the White Reaper! Kill him!"
Two bikers accelerated, swinging heavy iron baseball bats straight for his head from both sides.
The White Reaper didn't even flinch. He leaned back, letting the iron bats whistle past his face by millimeters.
The riders pivoted, swinging again—this time aiming low. The Reaper ducked his head sharply, slipping between the arcs as the two bats collided with a deafening metallic CLANG, shaking the arms of both attackers.
He pinned the throttle. The Harley surged forward with brutal acceleration.
Behind him, the night erupted in headlights. Dozens of bikes poured from the side streets, followed closely by tinted SUVs and armored technical trucks mounted with heavy machine guns.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the darkness as a wall of lead tore up the asphalt around him.
The White Reaper maneuvered with terrifying fluidity, tilting the bike back and forth to weave effortlessly through the hail of gunfire.
Glancing into his rearview mirror, a faint smirk touched his lips beneath the dark visor.
So... these belong to the same place, as the scout I put down, he thought.
Instead of fleeing, he slammed on the rear brake, sending up a cloud of burning rubber as he spun the motorcycle 180 degrees—facing the oncoming armada head-on.
The mercenary convoy gasped as the lone rider accelerated directly toward them.
Right at the brink of impact, the White Reaper executed a brutal low-slide, laying the heavy Harley down on its side while vaulting high into the air.
The sliding 800-pound motorcycle acted like a kinetic missile, sweeping under the front wheels of the lead bikes and flipping them into the oncoming SUVs.
BOOM! BOOM!
A chain-reaction explosion illuminated the night as fuel tanks ruptured. A massive armored truck slammed its brakes, crushing the wrecked Harley beneath its treads as the remaining vehicles screeched to a halt, forming a barricade around the intersection.
Dozens of armed operatives poured out of the vehicles, weapons raised, completely surrounding the lone figure. The White Reaper landed silently in the center, his hands casually resting inside his suit pockets, his helmet still firmly locked in place.
From the front rank, a man stepped forward, his face obscured by a painted tiger mask.
"White Reaper... it's an honor to finally meet you," Tiger Mask purred, his voice laced with synthetic distortion.
The Reaper remained silent, standing motionless with his hands buried in his pockets.
"No reply? How arrogant," Tiger Mask sneered.
"It's not arrogance," the White Reaper replied, his voice calm, muffled slightly by the helmet. "You simply aren't worth my words."
Tiger Mask chuckled, a cold, mocking sound. "I'd watch my tongue if I were you. Unless, of course, you're eager to see your beloved mother turned into a corpse."
The Reaper didn't move an inch.
"Not even a tremor of fear? How fascinating," Tiger Mask said, shaking his head.
"You should be the one worrying," the Reaper said quietly.
Tiger Mask paused, caught off guard. "Our strike team consists of master assassins who have butchered hundreds. What chance does a soft, pampered rich woman have against them?"
A dark smirk formed beneath the Reaper's helmet as he took a single, deliberate step forward.
"You'll find out soon enough," the White Reaper said, his voice dropping into a chilling register. "In her teenage years... she was known as Ken no Tensai—The Prodigy of the Blade."
Tiger Mask stepped up to meet him, leaving mere inches between them in the center of a circle of over a thousand armed mercenaries.
"Aren't you going to take off that helmet?" Tiger Mask whispered.
The White Reaper didn't answer. His hands remained deep inside his pockets.
Back at the Orphanage,
Dozens of masked operatives scaled the outer stone walls, dropping silently onto the snow-covered lawn like shadow phantoms. Armed with tactical blades and short bows, they fanned out through the main courtyard, securing every exit.
Inside the quiet halls, Team A crept through the corridors, checking room after empty room.
The squad leader clicked his radio transmitter. "Sir, Team A reporting. Target is not in the residential wing. The entire facility appears empty."
Through the static, the commander's frustrated voice came back: "Impossible! Team B, C, D, and E—report status immediately!"
"Team B clear—nothing."
"Team C clear."
"Team E? What is your status?"
A pause. Then a quiet voice cut through: "Sir... we've located the target. We are engaging—"
Static abruptly killed the transmission.
"All teams, converge on Team E's position now!" the commander barked.
Team A broke into a sprint, bursting through the side doors and into the secluded rear garden behind the orphanage.
The ten men of Team E were already scattered across the snow—unconscious and bloody.
"Stay alert! Weapons up!" the squad leader shouted, raising his blade.
CRACK.
A sudden, blunt impact struck the back of his skull, driving him face-first into the dirt before he could even register the threat.
The remaining mercenaries spun around in horror. Standing calmly in the center of the garden was Ophelia. Her coat fluttered in the winter wind, her expression devoid of fear.
One of the men barked a nervous laugh. "The prey came straight to us!"
Before the words fully left his lips, Ophelia blurred across the snow. A lightning-fast roundhouse kick caught the man squarely in the jaw, sending his body airborne to slam violently against the concrete boundary wall.
"What the hell?! She's strong?!" another shouted, backing up as the rest drew their combat knives.
"She was supposed to be a spoiled woman!"
"Kill her!"
Four men lunged simultaneously, their blades glinting in the moonlight.
Ophelia slipped past the first blade with a subtle sway of her torso, counter-striking with a vicious kick strike to his solar plexus, cracking the man's ribcage. Before he could gasp for air, she delivered a high kick to the second attacker, cracking his jaw with a sickening snap.
"This woman is no joke—"
A sharp downward heel kick silenced the third, driving his head into the frozen earth.
Footsteps thundered through the garden as Teams B, C, and D poured into the courtyard, stopping dead in their tracks as they took in the sight of Teams A and E broken on the floor.
Ophelia straightened, her majestic posture completely unbothered, her eyes cold as ice. She put her hands in her coat.
"Welcome to my orphanage," she said softly.
The remaining thirty mercenaries roared, rushing forward in a desperate wave. Ophelia ducked under a barrage of thrown tactical knives, side-stepping an armor-piercing arrow that shattered against the stone fountain behind her.
Engaging multiple armed targets bare-handed in an open field can be dangerous, Ophelia calculated in a split second.
Her eyes flicked toward a pile of construction debris near the garden wall. Lying among the rubble was a six-foot reinforced iron rebar rod.
As three men lunged with short swords, Ophelia swept low, grabbing the iron rod and vaulting off the ground. She spun through the air, wielding the heavy iron bar with fluid, terrifying speed.
THWACK!
The initial arc hit with such kinetic force that it severed the first attacker's arm clean off, before carrying into his leg. Two more men leapt from above—Ophelia executed a single, blinding horizontal slash.
CLANG!
The iron rod cut through their weapons and necks in one seamless, artistic motion. Heads rolled onto the blood-stained snow.
Silence descended over the garden, broken only by the wet sound of dripping blood.
The remaining mercenaries began to violently tremble, taking terrified steps backward.
Ophelia stood among the carnage, her face and clothes speckled with crimson, dragging the heavy iron rod behind her through the snow like the Grim Reaper carrying a scythe. Her blue eyes were scary, as the full moon behind her, reflected her in to a scary silhouette.
I am truly grateful... that I had the children moved to the safehouse earlier today, Ophelia thought, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto the survivors.
She took a single step forward, bringing the iron rod up—and the remaining assassins broke formation, screaming as they turned and fled for their lives.