The silence that followed the Deep Sea King's entrance was a physical weight, pressing down on every soul in the shelter. It was a vacuum, sucking away the last vestiges of hope. All that remained was the drumming of rain on the roof and the slow, ominous drip… drip… of water falling from the monster's colossal form onto the concrete floor.
The Deep Sea King took another ground-shaking step, his bulk blocking the ruined doorway, casting the entire front of the shelter into deep shadow. His bloodshot eyes, full of malicious intelligence, scanned the cowering mass of humanity. He was savoring it. This was his throne room, and they were his supplicants, awaiting their execution.
His gaze fell upon a young woman who had frozen in place, clutching a small child to her chest. She was close, an easy first morsel. A massive, webbed hand, large enough to crush her head like a grape, reached out.
The collective breath of the crowd hitched. This was the end.
And then, he moved.
It was not a blur of speed. It was not a heroic shout. It was a simple, deliberate step out from the deepest shadows at the very back of the shelter. A figure in a black hoodie, hands tucked casually into his pockets, walking forward with the unhurried pace of a man strolling through a park.
The Deep Sea King's hand paused inches from the terrified woman. His head tilted, his fanged smile faltering for a fraction of a second. This was not the reaction he expected. This was not fear.
Hakai moved through the crowd, and people instinctively shrank back, not to make way for a savior, but from the sheer, unsettling wrongness of his calm. His face was angular and sharp, mostly hidden by his hood, but his eyes were fully visible—white sclera that seemed to glow in the dim light, with red pupils that were fixed on the Deep Sea King with an expression of pure, unadulterated assessment. There was no anger, no courage, no desperation. Only a cool, analytical interest.
He came to a stop about twenty feet from the monster, finally speaking. His voice was calm, conversational, yet it cut through the heavy silence with the precision of a razor.
"Tell me," Hakai began, his head tilting slightly. "Does the title 'King' come from your strength? Or is it just something you gave yourself?"
The Deep Sea King straightened to his full, intimidating height, his confusion giving way to a fresh wave of rage. "Another insect? You dare question a king? I will enjoy crushing you."
Hakai's lips curled into a faint, provocative smirk. "Crushing is what you do to gravel. A true king forges his crown in the fires of worthy opposition." He slowly pulled his hands from his pockets, his movements fluid and relaxed. "So far, I've seen you break toys. Let's see if you can handle a tool."
The civilians stared, utterly bewildered. Who was this? He wasn't in a hero costume. He wasn't making a grand speech. He was… talking to the monster like a disappointed instructor. The woman he had indirectly spared scrambled back into the crowd, clutching her child, her eyes wide as she stared at the back of the black hoodie, at the blue serpentine dragon that seemed to watch the scene with her.
The Deep Sea King let out a roar of fury, the sound waves physically vibrating through the air. "I am the ruler of the deep! My strength is absolute!"
"Is it?" Hakai's smirk didn't fade. It widened, a flash of genuine anticipation lighting up his red eyes. "Then prove it. Don't just break the door. Break me."
He took a single, grounding step forward, his energetic composure shifting from calm to alive. It was a subtle change—his shoulders squared, his stance became fluid, and his gaze sharpened to an impossible degree. The air around him seemed to crackle with latent potential.
The monster, enraged by the arrogance, by the complete lack of fear, decided to end this nuisance with overwhelming force. He lunged, his fist a cannonball aimed to reduce this insolent human to a red smear on the floor.
Hakai didn't dodge. He didn't block.
He met the charge.
With a motion too fast for most to see, his own hand came up, not to catch the fist, but to redirect it, sliding along the monster's forearm and using its own momentum to unbalance it. At the same time, his other hand flicked outward.
Shiiink!
A near-invisible slash of force, an En technique, scored a deep, bleeding line across the Deep Sea King's pectoral muscle.
The monster roared, more in surprise than pain, stumbling past Hakai and skidding to a halt. He looked down at the clean cut, then back at the young man, who was already turning, his expression one of mild approval.
"Good density. Your hide is tougher than it looks," Hakai commented, as if reviewing a piece of artwork. "But your form is sloppy. You rely too much on your weight."
The secret was out. The shelter's secret wasn't a hidden weapon or a last-minute rescue. It was the phantom they had been sheltering in their midst. A force that didn't operate on hope or heroism, but on a simple, terrifying desire: the desire for a good fight. And as Hakai stood there, taunting a Demon-level threat, the civilians realized with dawning, mixed terror and awe that they were no longer just victims in a monster attack.
They were the audience for a gladiatorial match, and their mysterious savior was the one who had just stepped into the arena. The storm was no longer outside. It was standing right in front of them, clad in a black hoodie, and it was smiling.