The silence in the factory was deafening—thick, heavy, alive. No one spoke.
Larry's mouth went dry as he stepped back from the blood-soaked wall.
"'We Are Coming'..." he muttered. "What the hell does that even mean?"
The metallic stench clung to their clothes, their skin, and their thoughts. Every breath tasted like rust and fear.
Timothy clenched his fists. "This wasn't just a killing," he said, his voice low and tight. "This was a message... meant for us. Phase Two has ended. We're in the final phase."
Max turned away, swallowing bile. "What the hell did they recreate?"
No one answered. The others just stared at the scene.
When they stepped outside, the crowd was already restless—furious voices rising over sirens.
"You're with the Association, right? Then where's Vilex?" someone shouted.
"He swore to protect us! Two days and people keep dying—what is he even doing?"
Max muttered under his breath, only Larry and Timothy hearing. "Technically... he's here."
Timothy sighed and stepped forward, hands raised. "I assure you, we're doing everything we can. He'll get to the root of this. I promise."
As they walked toward the car, Timothy's thoughts twisted.
I swore to protect them. Is that what they think of me now? That hood... it hides more than my face. If only they knew what I've done. Still... I have to make things right.
The car door slammed shut. The engine roared. They drove off into the bleeding dusk.
Elsewhere, inside a moving car, Al-Daeem and his allies talked.
"Boss," Silas called. "Now that we're in the final phase, do you think we'd win? And, um… are there strong people in this city that can take us?"
Al-Daeem smiled. "You asked quite the question, Silas, so listen to the answer." His voice grew louder. "Everyone, listen—this is to you too."
He cleared his throat and said, "We'd win. Not by a landslide, but yes, we'd win. Who we're up against are no jokes; they'll bring all they have to this too, but I'm sure we'll prevail. Our main objective is to bring this city to the ground and let it burn. I know the Hero Association won't just watch us destroy one of its beloved cities. I can't take the Association down—even a god knows his limits—but I'm not troubled by that."
His face hardened as he said the next line. "I want to see these people suffer the same way they made mine suffer… bleed the way they made mine bleed… and die the way they made mine die."
Silas tightened his grip on his blade, his face full of loyalty. "Sir, I'm sure each and every one of us will do what we can to achieve your goal, sir."
The boss smiled. "Good."
****
Sitting in a small outdoor café buzzing with quiet chatter were Raymond and Derick.
Derick chewed noisily, bits of food tumbling from his mouth. "You know," he said, words half-muffled, "you didn't have to follow me around."
Raymond sighed, lowering his phone with a look of pure disgust. "Have some manners, you idiot. Shut up, eat, and then talk."
Derick only grinned, still chewing. "Nope. I already told you—I'm fine. You don't have to worry so much."
Raymond's patience thinned to ice. "I said shut up! Didn't they teach you manners at home? Don't make me freeze your throat. Just eat and pay me back my money."
Derick chuckled, wiping his mouth lazily. "You talk too much for someone who stalks people for lunch."
Raymond glared at him, the air around his hand turning faintly cold. "Keep talking, and you'll be eating ice cubes next."
The tension broke when Derick burst into laughter, loud enough to draw stares from nearby tables. Raymond shook his head and looked away, though a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
At that same moment, a sleek black car rolled to a slow stop across the street. Its tinted windows reflected the sunlight—until one of them lowered.
Inside sat Al-Daeem, a faint smirk curling on his face as he caught sight of the two heroes.
"Well, would you look at that," he murmured, eyes narrowing with intrigue. "Members of the opposition. What a coincidence."
Silas leaned forward from the back seat. "Should we deal with them, boss?"
Al-Daeem's smirk deepened, a glint of wicked delight in his eyes. "Oh, absolutely. Let's pay them a visit."
Raymond sighed, worry furrowing his brow. His grip tightened on his phone.
"What's wrong?" Derick asked, noticing the look.
Raymond handed the screen across. The bread slipped from Derick's fingers as he read. Raymond tapped the table, voice low. "In the past few hours—another hundred dead. They recreated what Tim did. It's getting worse."
A cold, steely voice cut in from the shadows. "I told Timothy phase two would be the Slaughterhouse," Al-daeem said, unhurried and cruel. "If this worries you, wait until phase three. You'll wish you'd never left Starc City."
The menacing voice came from behind Derick.
Without hesitation, the cool-headed, ponytailed Raymond said, "Derick, duck."
Derick blinked. "What?"
That single word made Raymond's jaw tighten. "I said duck!"
This time, Derick reacted fast—he dropped his head low just as Raymond thrust his right hand forward. His closed fist opened, and a sharp-tipped icicle burst from his palm like a bullet leaving a gun.
It sliced through the air toward the man sitting behind Derick—but before it could hit, a blade flashed. With one clean motion, the purple-eyed Silas cut the icicle in half.
Al-Daeem felt distressed; his smile slowly faded as he sank into thought.
I sense a strange aura here... it's definitely not from these nincompoops. It's best we leave.
"On second thought, Silas, we should go. We need to make preparations."
"Sir, I think we should handle these two for what they tried to do," Silas argued, turning to his boss. But the look he met from Al-Daeem sent shivers down his spine. He immediately bowed, apologizing.
"Sorry, sir. We'll be leaving now."
Raymond and Derick watched the exchange. But then, the ponytailed Raymond snapped, his voice sharp.
"You plan to leave—and you think we'd just let that happen? What do you take us for, fools?"
Al-Daeem's reply was calm and cutting. "Yes, you're fools."
That one word lit a fire in Derick. He rushed forward to attack, but Silas darted straight at him.
With perfect precision, Silas's blade pierced Derick's belly. Blood slipped from his mouth, soaking his black shirt in red.
Silas was about to pull his blade free, but a strong hand gripped his, locking it in place. Derick smiled through the pain, blood dripping from his grinning teeth.
"You think a stab will put me down? I've had worse done to my body."
His grip was tight—too tight. Silas struggled to pull free, but it was useless.
Raymond wasn't panicked; he'd seen Derick's regeneration before. Still… what happened next shocked even him.
Al-Daeem's patience snapped. "Silas! Why are you wasting my time? Do it already!"
"Sorry, sir!" Silas barked. He glared at Derick. "A stab couldn't bring you down, right? Then this should."
He moved fast. Silas feinted a kick; when Derick raised his arm to block, his grip loosened. That opening was all Silas needed.
He seized his blade and, with a swift upward slash, cut through Derick's body—splitting him clean up to his head. Derick dropped instantly.
Raymond froze, kneeling beside his fallen ally. His breath came out cold and shallow. He pressed his hands against the lifeless body.
Silas looked down on them and said flatly,
"The boss wants to leave—that's the only reason you're alive. Otherwise, you'd be lying in two pieces right next to him."
With that, Silas turned and followed Al-Daeem to their vehicle. Moments later, the car vanished down the road.
Raymond could only kneel there, begging under his breath, waiting—hoping—that Derick would regenerate.