The Japanese nation's Akatsuki Academy, built specifically for Blazers, had ample defensive facilities.
Because of this, it was also serving as a refuge for evacuees. But now, the White Eagle's highest combat power was attacking here—and the "Grand Professor's" target was Stella.
Charles couldn't fathom why the Professor would come after her, but all he needed to know was that the man before him was an enemy. Which meant he could just beat him down.
But the first to move was "Superman" Abraham. Even Charles couldn't track his movement; in an instant, he appeared behind Stella.
With Charles's dynamic vision, there shouldn't be anyone in this world so fast he couldn't see them—
—unless the opponent wasn't moving in a normal way.
It was a classic superpower: teleportation. And this was just one of Abraham's many abilities.
Tiny sparks crackled between Abraham's fingers as he reached for Stella's head.
By disrupting the brain's electrical signals, he could knock someone unconscious—a feat requiring extremely fine control. His intent was clearly to take Stella alive without harming her.
But pulling a stunt like that in front of Charles? That was underestimating him badly.
"Just a puppet—what do you think you're doing?"
Abraham's wrist was seized in an iron grip. Charles had seemingly teleported himself to Stella's side, halting the attack.
Stella, too, reacted immediately, leaping back to safety.
Charles hadn't hidden the truth about "Superman" from her, so she'd recognized him the moment he appeared.
What she hadn't expected was that Abraham would act so abruptly—and against her—causing her to be a fraction of a second slow.
Expressionless, Abraham glanced at Charles, and Charles felt a peculiar shock pierce into his mind, as if to shake his very soul.
"You don't even have a soul," Charles said coldly. "How could you hope to control mine?"
He yanked Abraham toward him and drove a knee into his gut.
The blow was heavy, making Abraham's pupils dilate slightly.
But before Charles could follow up, Abraham teleported again, opening the distance.
The reason Charles called him a puppet was because he sensed no "will" in the man at all.
Though Abraham displayed high-level combat instincts, there was none of the emotion—battle intent included—that a true fighter possessed.
Strong warriors weren't ruled by emotion in battle, but none of them were utterly, machine-like cold.
Perhaps that was why "Superman" could have every ability a true Demon possessed, yet still fall short in overall fighting power.
That emotionless state did have an advantage—it erased fear.
Anyone else would have already realized, from their brief exchange, the overwhelming gap between them and Charles, and would never have attacked again. But Abraham pressed on without hesitation.
In a flash, he was on Charles again, lightning and flame entwining his fist as it slammed forward.
Flames flared on Charles's arm as he counterpunched.
He didn't know exactly how strong the dead "Tyrant" had been, but this clone, Abraham, was displaying formidable power—easily on par with Stella when she wielded the dragon's might.
Clearly, Abraham's powers also included physical enhancement. Coupled with fire and lightning, it was enough to keep Charles's "Iron Fist of the Fire Dragon" from dominating outright.
A surge of magical pressure came from behind him, but Charles didn't react.
A second Abraham appeared at his back, hand shaped like a blade as it thrust for a vital point.
But he never landed the strike.
Stella, in her draconic state, intercepted him, catching his bladed hand and snapping the arm at an unnatural angle as if it were rotten wood.
Charles had to admit he'd underestimated her—among Demons, Stella's raw strength might truly be unmatched.
Her slit-pupiled gaze locked onto Abraham No. 2. A moment ago she'd almost been caught off guard, but now that someone had tried to harm the man she loved right in front of her, her fury could not be contained.
She punched, and the resulting shockwave swept everything nearby into the air—but Abraham had already teleported clear.
The broken arm was already restored—he'd used some form of regeneration.
Charles lashed out with a kick, but missed as well, his first Abraham opponent pulling back.
Retreating behind him, Stella said, "Superman is such a pain."
Charles nodded. With his arsenal of potent, practical abilities, Abraham was indeed troublesome.
"Careful," Charles said. "Superman probably has telepathy—something that lets him read our intentions. That's why he dodges before we even attack."
"Got it," Stella replied. "Then we do what you taught me before!"
Charles had trained her for a time, sharing tactics for enemies he'd faced—or imagined facing.
Countering mind-readers was one of the things he'd emphasized, and Stella had already mastered it.
Charles grinned, remembering those days of training together.
Then, in perfect sync, they both moved, becoming twin firestorms rushing at the two Abrahams.
The clones instinctively used telepathy to probe their intentions—but all they felt was an oppressive force like a dragon's roar.
They got no information at all—and were frozen for a split second under that crushing aura.
That was all it took to rob them of their chance to teleport away.
Abraham No. 1 took a punch to the face that snapped his neck. No. 2 was bent double by a body blow. Both were sent flying.
Even after downing them, Charles and Stella didn't relax.
Around them, more than a dozen figures in identical combat gear closed in.
Charles frowned. Every one of them was a "Superman." Just how many had the White Eagle made?
What he didn't know was that the reason Minami Torajirou and Saiguu Ningyin hadn't returned to Japan was because they'd encountered dozens of Supermen at the White Eagle base.
With mass production at this level, it was no wonder the White Eagle's ambitions had swelled so much.
Just then, a particularly distinctive figure stepped forward.
He was nearly as wide as he was tall, like a giant beer barrel.
The fat on his face did nothing to soften his features; combined with the yellowed teeth from drug use, it made him look even more repulsive.
"Well now, you two… a pleasure to meet you. I'm Karl Ahrens—"
He didn't finish. Charles was in front of him in a blink, gripping his throat and lifting him off the ground.
"You've got some nerve showing yourself to me. Do you think these puppets can protect you, Professor?"
Karl Ahrens, the "Grand Professor," seemed unfazed by the lack of air. In fact, he smiled.
"I'm not stupid enough to stand this close to someone like you."
As he spoke, several white spikes burst from his body—rigid, bony blades stabbing toward Charles.
Charles frowned and hurled the Professor away.
"A body double, huh? That's just your style."
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