"Damn it, how does it feel like KK knows this factory better than we do?! He vanished again!"
"Eyes up! KK's on the catwalks—track his movement! Fire over there! Watch your lines—don't let the rounds ricochet and hit our own!"
In the midst of Maelstrom's frantic shouting, something dropped from above.
"Shit—grenades again!"
Karl tossed down another volley without a hint of concern for the factory's structural integrity. To the gang members below, it felt like what infantry must've felt during an air raid.
No one likes having shit rain down on them—especially not explosives.
"Does this guy have an entire armory strapped to his back?!"
As fire and shrapnel tore through the air, Karl launched himself after Royce.
He'd caught the comment—"carrying an armory."
Not quite.
Those grenades were the last of his gear. Apart from his phone—also throwable in a pinch—he had no other explosives left. And the reason he lobbed them all at once?
He was lazy.
Unlike his more methodical allies—especially V, who could carve his way through a crowd one body at a time—Karl had no patience for that. If he was dealing with a mob, he'd either hack them all at once or clear them out with a barrage. Going target by target was too damn tedious.
So long as they weren't directly blocking his path, Karl didn't care if they ran. The rookie who once made a point to clean out every enemy was gone. Now he was a seasoned merc who knew how to save effort when it counted.
Unless you were a Scav.
He hated Scavs.
Even Maelstrom only got the "deal with it if convenient" treatment.
But Karl's version of "convenient" was more than most could handle.
Explosions rocked the floor, sending over a dozen Maelstrom gangers flying. Their bodies slammed into machinery and scaffolding throughout the factory.
Royce kept running.
He heard the blasts and the screams behind him, but his expression didn't change.
No one who'd climbed this high in Maelstrom had a soft heart. Losing foot soldiers meant nothing. What mattered now was getting to that thing.
He'd originally brought it in case things with Brick went sideways. The ambush had gone too smoothly, so it stayed untouched in the back. Now, with KK in play, it was the perfect solution.
"Core connected."
Royce reached the unit he'd stashed at the rear of the factory, spun around, and linked in. As the system initialized, he looked up—and saw KK standing ten meters away, watching him.
"So it's just an exosuit. Was hoping for something more impressive."
As Karl's eyes swept over Royce, data flickered across his optics:
Name: Simon Landell.
Criminal History: Extensive.
Gear: Centaur-Class Military Exoskeleton.
Centaur-class?
Militech hardware. Rare as hell.
That Maelstrom even had one—let alone let Royce use it—was surprising.
Now standing upright, Royce loomed nearly 2.3 meters tall, fully armored, projecting confidence and defiance. Karl's gaze sharpened slightly.
Behind him, a hacked auto-turret—one Karl had infiltrated on entry—rose from the floor. But instead of aiming at Royce, it turned toward the Maelstrom reinforcements pouring in and opened fire, cutting them off.
"I usually don't bother with small fry."
Karl eyed Royce's left arm—a charged plasma weapon—and the heavy shield mounted on his right.
"But you seem confident. Let's see if it's justified."
"See? The fuck you mean see? Who the hell do you think you are?"
The exosuit had clearly juiced Royce's confidence. He glared at Karl.
"KK, huh? I've been itching to try you. And here you are, walking right into it."
Sure, plenty of people in Night City would piss themselves just hearing KK's name.
Royce wasn't one of them.
Anyone with some faith in their own muscle—even if they didn't want to fight KK—had at least thought about it. Wondered what it'd be like. Tested the edge.
KK—the name whispered as the next urban legend of the merc world. Street-raised. No corpo strings. Just skill, chrome, and guts.
Even the former Animals boss, Savage King, once itched for a fight—but never got the chance. That ambition died with time.
But Royce? He wasn't letting the opportunity slip.
Take down KK, and Royce wouldn't just be Maelstrom's boss—he'd be the boss. A legend. Not even the Red Era leaders would match him.
His plasma gun finished charging. Thanks to the suit's power systems, it only took a second before he fired—releasing a red-hot, cubed energy blast.
Obvious telegraph.
Karl sidestepped with ease… then realized the shot wasn't aimed at him.
BOOM—
Behind him, the auto-turret and the entry gate exploded, buried under twisted steel and rubble.
Karl analyzed the damage.
Enough force to reduce a car to scrap.
The weapon reminded him of a tech rifle. Probably ran on similar principles. Judging by the charge, it might even have sustained-fire capability.
That shot hadn't been about killing him.
It was sealing the space.
A duel.
Royce wanted a one-on-one.
It wouldn't take Maelstrom long to punch through the rubble. But Royce was confident. He thought he could end it before they got in.
It would seal his rule—victory over KK.
But…
Karl smiled faintly.
He was just as confident.
Time was short.
But more than enough.
He slowly raised both arms. A sleek pistol slid from his sleeve and dropped smoothly into his grip.
Its name: Kenshin.
The name once belonged to a famed Sengoku warlord—a Buddhist monk and general.
But to Karl, it held a different meaning.
"Modesty and trust."
Or, as he preferred:
"Modesty and confidence."
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