Chapter 168 : A Veiled Presence
Slowly and steadily, in this manner, Moon and Kai continued their duties, having taken on the roles of security guards for the bank. The days turned into weeks, and time flowed onward like a relentless river, carrying with it the mundane routines and quiet tensions of their undercover lives.
Their assignment, however, was far from easy. They were subjected to their own share of hard times, moments that tested their resolve not against physical threats, but against their own consciences. Stationed at the heart of people's most desperate financial struggles, they became unwilling spectators to countless tragedies. They witnessed families fracturing under the weight of debt, saw the light of hope extinguished in the eyes of fathers who could no longer provide, and heard the choked sobs of mothers pleading for mercy. It was a daily parade of heartbreak.
And yet, despite the profound empathy they felt, their hands were tied. To intervene, to show even a sliver of compassion, would be to break their cover. Any act of kindness could be misconstrued as a security lapse, fostering a bad impression of the bank's stringent policies. More critically, it would erode the bank's trust in them, jeopardizing the entire operation. And so, clad in the impersonal uniforms of their roles, they were forced to become the villains in these personal dramas. They had to stand firm, their faces masks of stoic indifference, while inside, their souls wrenched with every plea they had to deny.
This enforced cruelty bred a festering resentment within them. Their hatred for Rivan, which had somewhat faded after their last encounter, now returned with a vengeance. It was no longer a mere memory of past grievances; it was a white-hot fury, amplified tenfold by the daily moral compromises he had forced upon them. He was the architect of their current misery, the reason they had to harden their hearts against the suffering of the innocent.
Meanwhile, in a different sphere of their world, the grand Interracial Tournament thundered on, its intensity escalating as it entered its third phase. The format had shifted, pitting combatants in dynamic 2v2 battles, where synergy and strategy became as important as individual might.
In one such arena, amidst the roaring crowds and flashing energies, stood a figure who was an island of unsettling calm. He was a tall, imposing specimen, standing at a height of nearly seven feet. His body, a mass of solid, powerful muscle, was almost entirely concealed by a voluminous brown leather robe that draped from his broad shoulders to the ground. The robe seemed to swallow the light, hiding his form and any distinguishing features in a shroud of drab anonymity.
This competitor had forgone his true identity, choosing instead the ominous and evocative moniker: GLUTTONY. It was a name that promised a voracious, insatiable hunger, yet his performance in the tournament thus far had been curiously… restrained.
As the number of contestants dwindled, the level of competition naturally rose, and even his above-average performances began to attract a trickle of attention. There were flashes of effortless power, movements that were almost too fluid, suggesting a deep well of untapped strength. An aura of profound mystery clung to him, a chilling, palpable silence that seemed to absorb the noise of the arena itself.
Yet, for the most part, the spectators and analysts dismissed him. His victories were competent, even solid, but they lacked the spectacular, overwhelming dominance that would mark a true contender. He won, but he did not devour. He was placed in the category of a "dark horse" at best—a mildly interesting anomaly, but not a primary threat. After all, in a universe where the Celestial Race was universally acknowledged as the pinnacle of power, a merely "above decent" fighter in a dusty robe was hardly worth a second glance. The true champions, radiant and formidable, commanded all the gaze, leaving the one named Gluttony to his silent, patient waiting.
As the third phase of the tournament progressed, the competitor known as Gluttony seemed to be dogged by a relentless streak of misfortune—or so the commentators and spectators were quick to declare. The brackets were announced, and a collective wave of pity and morbid curiosity swept through the audience. It appeared to be the most one-sided match of the round, a veritable death sentence for Gluttony's team. For standing across the arena, radiating an aura of pure, untouchable supremacy, were not one, but two members of the Celestial Race.
To make matters worse, Gluttony's own partner, assigned to him by the random lottery of the tournament, was a woman from one of the lesser-known, lesser-respected races. Her appearance was ethereal, reminiscent of the mythical sirens of old, with delicate features, luminous eyes, and a haunting, melodic quality to her very presence. She was undeniably beautiful, but in the context of this brutal competition, beauty was a cheap currency. Her spirit, however, was shattered even before the first bell. She was already mired in a deep, visible depression, her shoulders slumped in defeat the moment her eyes fell upon her opponents.
And these were not just any Celestials. She could tell from the intricate, luminous galaxies that glowed faintly on their temples and the arrogant, almost bored grace with which they carried themselves. These two were scions of a royal bloodline, their power not just innate but refined and magnified by generations of supreme genetics. They were the aristocracy of the cosmos, and she was a commoner about to be crushed underfoot.
The fight was over before it began, not in reality, but in her mind. A sob caught in her throat as her hand trembled, reaching for the token of surrender at her belt. She would break it, accept the humiliation. There was no shame in yielding to such overwhelming force.
But in the fragment of a second before her fingers could close around the token, the tall figure beside her, who had been as still and silent as a mountain, vanished. He did not simply move fast; he ceased to exist in one point and manifested in another. To every observer—from the lowliest spectator in the cheap seats to the most seasoned analysts in their booths—it was as if reality itself stuttered.
Until this moment, Gluttony's performances had been a study in mediocrity. His recorded speeds had been unremarkable, peaking at a respectable but hardly earth-shattering Mach 100. The public had filed him away as a curiosity, not a contender. What they witnessed now, however, redefined their understanding of speed.
It was not a movement; it was an extinction of distance. He became a blur, a tear in the fabric of space, crossing the arena in a time so infinitesimal. Expert systems in the livestream, designed to track velocity, flickered and overloaded before settling on a reading that defied belief: 99% of the speed of light.
A stunned silence, followed by a roar of disbelief, erupted across the galaxy. Everyone knew this number—it was the theoretical absolute limit for any being confined to the Planetary Tier, a boundary that could not be breached without ascending to a higher state of existence. But to know it and to witness it were two different things. For even among the most powerful Planetary Tier warriors, achieving even 50% of light-speed was a legendary feat, a benchmark for Saints. To touch 99% was not just breaking a record; it was shattering the very ceiling of what was thought possible.
The two royal Celestials had barely registered the shift in the air. Their hands had not even begun to rise to summon their elemental dominions. There was no time for a grand display of power. In the very same nanosecond that Gluttony moved, a force of unimaginable magnitude struck them both. It was not a punch or a kick, but a wave of pure, concussive energy that bypassed their natural defenses entirely.
The next second, the arena was half-empty. The two Celestials weren't knocked out; they were instantly, involuntarily teleported by the arena's automated safety systems, materializing dazed and disoriented in their private healing chambers. They stared at their own hands, then at each other, their minds refusing to process the reality. It wasn't just a defeat; it was an erasure. They had been removed from the match without ever comprehending how or why.
The world, watching the livestream on a trillion different screens, was frozen in collective shock. The cameras, now operating in ultra-slow motion, panned back to the center of the arena. The blur resolved back into the form of Gluttony, standing exactly where the two Celestials had been a moment before.
And then, he did something that sent a deeper, more primal chill through the universe than his impossible speed ever could.
As the dust settled and the silence became deafening, he reached up with a deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness. His large, powerful hands went to the clasp of the heavy, nondescript brown leather robe that had shrouded him since his first appearance. With a single, fluid motion, he unclasped it and let the garment fall from his shoulders to pool at his feet on the hard arena floor.
For the first time, his true form was revealed to the cosmos.
A commentator, his voice a strangled gasp that was picked up and amplified across the galactic network, uttered the words that were dawning in the mind of every sentient being watching:
"By the ancient stars... H-he... He is from the Parasite Race!"
The words hung in the air, a verdict and a prophecy all at once. The Parasite Race—a name spoken only in whispers, a legend of a species so terrifyingly adaptive, so consumingly hungry, that their very existence was a cosmic threat. And now, one of them was not just here, but he had just demonstrated that he could move at the absolute limit of physical law. The tournament was no longer a sport; it had just become a hunting ground.
The revelation was not merely shocking; it was a fundamental tear in the accepted fabric of cosmic history. The single, gasped identification—"Parasite Race!"—echoed across the stars, carrying with it a weight of impossibility and dread. The universal, instantaneous reaction that followed was a silent, collective scream of a single, bewildered question: How? How is this race still alive?
Weren't they extinct? The history vids, the sacred texts, the very annals of the major races spoke of a glorious, unified campaign—a Great Purification. The Celestials, in a rare alliance with other major powers, had risen up to scour the universe of this existential threat. The Parasite Race was said to have been not just defeated, but utterly erased, their home systems sterilized, their genetic legacy cursed to never again take root in the fertile soil of reality. It was a closed chapter, a victory so complete it had become a foundational myth.
So, was this Gluttony the last of his kind? A lone, surviving relic hiding in the dark corners of the multiverse? Or were there more? Were the legends of their complete annihilation a lie, a comforting tale told to children to ward off the nightmares? Had a seed of that ancient, consuming evil survived the holy fire?
This burning question, this terrifying uncertainty, did not just plague the two Celestials but
Moon and Kai, who had their own complicated history with the entity now known as Gluttony. It echoed in the strategic war rooms of the Celestial Imperium, in the clandestine meetings of the Shadow Syndicates, and in the humble abodes of every species that had once lived in fear of that name. It was a question for the entire multiverse. Anyone with even a cursory knowledge of galactic history felt a cold knot of fear form in their stomach. The monster under the bed, long believed to be a fairy tale, had just stepped out into the light.
Meanwhile, in a quieter corner of the cosmos, Kai was seeking a moment of solace. Perched on the terrace of his safehouse, the sprawling city lights stretching out beneath him like a captive galaxy, he held a bottle of cheap, bitter beer. The night air was cool, a stark contrast to the heat of the day and the simmering tension of his undercover life. He was lost in thought, the weight of playing the villain at the bank pressing down on him, when a sharp, intrusive chime broke the silence.
His personal device, resting on the worn arm of his chair, lit up with a priority alert. The message was stark, devoid of embellishment, its simplicity making the content all the more terrifying:
BREAKING NEWS: A BEING FROM THE PARASITE RACE IS STILL ALIVE, IDENTIFIED IN THE TOURNAMENT AS 'GLUTTONY'.
For a single, suspended moment, Kai was utterly still. The bottle halted halfway to his lips. His mind, fatigued by the mundane horrors of his day, struggled to process the scale of this new, cosmic-level catastrophe.
"Hein?" he muttered into the night, a soft, disbelieving exhale. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated shock.
But then, something shifted. The initial shockwave passed, and a slow, knowing smile began to creep across his face. It wasn't a smile of joy or amusement, but one of grim resignation and a touch of dark irony. He let out a short, breathy laugh, a hollow sound that was swallowed by the city's hum. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, the ghost of the smile still playing on his lips.
"So, he finally decided to reveal himself?" he mused aloud, as if conversing with the stars. This was no random occurrence; it was a deliberate, calculated move. Gluttony had chosen this grand, galactic stage to tear off his disguise and announce to the universe that he was not gone, that his kind, or at least he, had endured.
Kai took a long, slow swig from his bottle, the beer now tasting of ash and consequence. He looked out over the neon-drenched skyline, a landscape of countless lives blissfully unaware of the storm that had just been unleashed.
"This would make his life more trouble than ever," Kai reasoned, a part of him feeling a petty sense of schadenfreude. The combined might of every major race would now be focused on one target. Hunters would become the hunted. "I hope he just forgets about us."
It was a fragile, desperate hope—a wish tossed into the vastness of the night, that in the colossal hurricane about to be unleashed upon Parasite, two former acquaintances like Kai and Moon would be but insignificant specks of dust, swept away by the winds and forgotten.
to be continued…