A reward of half a million dollars!
The sum was far too tempting.
Several opportunistic bystanders, eyes gleaming with greed, began inching toward Fenric. They intended to capture him and claim the bounty.
Fenric remained perfectly still.
Just as one of them drew close, a burly black man lunged at him from the side.
Fenric flicked out his hand—clean, precise. A neat hole appeared in the man's forehead, and he collapsed in a heap.
His companions, shocked but determined, pressed in from all sides, attempting to surround Fenric.
They were already dead men.
Whoosh!
Fenric's fist slammed into a bald man's skull. Blood and brain matter burst outward like a grotesque spray.
The others followed swiftly, each one dispatched with a single blow. Wherever Fenric struck—chest, neck, or temple—the outcome was the same. Death.
In the blink of an eye, several corpses lay scattered across the pavement.
"Ahhh!!!"
The crowd erupted in screams. Terrified onlookers fled in all directions. Some had already called the police.
Within minutes, a large unit of armed officers arrived.
This time, they were no ordinary police.
They wore full combat gear: helmets, bulletproof vests, submachine guns, riot shields, even shoulder-mounted missile launchers.
Anyone familiar with the American security forces would recognize them instantly—
The Counter-Terrorism Task Force.
Normally, such forces would never be deployed for civilian incidents. But Fenric was no ordinary criminal. After all, of the hundreds of officers who had faced him that morning, only a dozen survived. The scale of the massacre had already reached the White House.
Now, capturing Fenric was a matter of national urgency.
The task force swiftly evacuated civilians and formed tight ranks around him.
Overhead, the thunder of rotor blades filled the air.
Two helicopters hovered above, Vulcan Gatling guns locked squarely onto Fenric.
Faced with such firepower, Fenric suddenly laughed. He raised his hands and shouted:
"I surrender!"
"..."
"..."
"..."
The surrounding officers nearly choked on their own blood.
They had prepared for an all-out war, ready to expend lives and ammunition to bring this monster down. And now, without a fight, he offered to surrender?
The anticlimax was maddening.
Still, with his compliance, they had no excuse to open fire. Orders were orders.
"Sir, turn around, hands behind your back where I can see them!" a policeman barked.
Fenric obeyed smoothly.
Behind his calm expression, an idea flickered. If he acted outside the expected script, Death would be unable to predict him—just as he couldn't predict Death's own moves.
Clink!
The cold bite of handcuffs snapped around his wrists.
Fenric cast a sidelong glance at the bar on his wrist. The red hue had begun to fade.
He smiled.
There's hope after all.
If he could drag things out, survive for eight days, he would return to Samsara's space and secure his "Super God" evaluation.
But not everyone welcomed his surrender.
A white officer stormed over, face twisted with rage. He raised a clenched fist.
"This is for my fallen comrades!" he roared, driving the punch toward Fenric's abdomen.
Crack!
The officer let out a blood-curdling scream. He staggered back, clutching his hand. Every finger bone had shattered on impact.
Fenric hadn't even flinched. His body, reinforced by Armament Haki, was harder than steel.
"You can keep trying," Fenric said with a faint smile. "I won't dodge."
His words only enraged the man further. With his good hand, he drew his pistol and pressed it against Fenric's forehead.
"You bastard! Laugh one more time!"
Fenric's grin widened. "Go ahead. Pull the trigger."
"Jamie!"
A gruff voice thundered from behind. An older police chief strode forward, fury in his eyes.
"What the hell do you think you're doing!?"
The officer froze, trembling, before reluctantly lowering his weapon. He dropped his gaze in shame.
"Take him away!" the chief snapped.
Fenric was transferred to the city's police headquarters.
As a high-priority felon, he was placed in an isolated cell.
It was bare and cramped, furnished with nothing but a single chair. The walls were reinforced steel, thick and unyielding.
Fenric's eyes lit up the moment he stepped inside. Satisfaction spread across his face.
This was perfect.
By procedure, the next step would be a trial and sentencing—a process that would take days.
And days were exactly what he needed.
Eight days. That's all. Then I'll leave this curse world with my Super God evaluation.
"Oh, Death…" Fenric chuckled softly. "What will you do with me now?"
On his wrist, the bar glowed green. Safe.
For now, Death's hand couldn't reach him.
The day passed uneventfully. No food, no interrogation, no guards lingering outside.
Fenric survived the sixth day in silence.
The seventh dawn arrived. Just two more days remained.
But that morning, the heavy door of his cell creaked open.
Several men entered, dressed in immaculate suits and ties, exuding the polished aura of government elites.
"Hello," one of them said evenly. "We're with the CIA. We'd like to talk."
Fenric's eyes flicked to his wrist. The bar remained green. He relaxed slightly and leaned back in his chair.
"What is it you want to talk about?"
"First, sir," the lead agent said, "would you mind introducing yourself? We've investigated thoroughly, but your record is completely blank. It's as if you appeared from thin air. Who are you really?"
Fenric smiled slyly.
"Oh, my name is Fenric. From North Korea. Came here illegally. Long Live General Kim Jong-un, the Shining Sun~"
"Smuggled?"
The agents exchanged skeptical looks.
Even illegal immigrants left traces—records, networks, scraps of evidence. This explanation was paper-thin. Still, they let it slide for now.
The lead agent adjusted his tie.
"Mr. Fenric… we're here on behalf of the President."