But that surge of energy still needed one final push to fully erupt.

"How about one more?" Ethan said casually.

"Sure thing…" Ricky replied obediently, then turned to look at the last remaining girl.

"N-No… please! Don't! Somebody help me!" she screamed, shaking her head in terror, her whole body trembling. She was completely broken—paralyzed by fear.

To her, these two weren't human.

They were monsters.

Ricky didn't hesitate. He swung the katana in a clean arc, cutting her down where she stood. She hit the floor with a dull thud—dead before she could even scream again.

But just before her life slipped away, a wisp of black resentment rose from her body, like smoke, and drifted into Ricky's chest—absorbed straight into the dark mark between his brows.

His aura shifted again, growing darker, heavier.

"Not bad…" Ethan murmured, eyes narrowing as he finally understood.

Ricky's ability was to absorb resentment—grudges, hatred, pain—and convert it into power.

Grudge Eater.

It hadn't fully awakened yet, but it was building, slowly but surely.

Knock knock knock! Knock knock knock!

"Dorian? Is everything alright in there?" a voice called from outside, followed by more knocking.

It was one of the house servants.

Ricky turned toward the door, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Captain, I got this one. Let me handle it."

"Stand down," Ethan said sharply, stopping him in his tracks.

He was starting to notice something… off.

This kid was getting a little too into the killing.

"Don't kill unless there's a reason. We're not butchers. We're not demons."

"We're… not?" Ricky blinked, confused. His grip on the katana loosened slightly.

Apparently, there was more to this killing thing than he thought.

Ethan, already sensing the servant's approach, waved his hand. In an instant, all the blood and bodies in the room vanished—swept away into his storage space.

Then, with a flick of his mental energy, he conjured an illusion—an exact replica of Dorian, down to the smirk.

The illusion walked over and opened the door.

Outside stood a middle-aged maid, looking concerned.

"Dorian, sir… is everything alright?"

"I'm fine," the illusion said smoothly.

"It's just… I thought I heard someone screaming for help," she said, frowning.

Dorian waved it off with a lazy smile. "Nothing serious. Just got a little… rough while playing."

"Oh…" The maid nodded, though her expression was skeptical.

Kids these days… what kind of games are they playing?

"From now on, unless I say otherwise, no one comes in. No interruptions. Got it?"

"Of course, sir! Understood!" she said quickly, bowing her head before walking off with a nervous smile.

As soon as the door shut, the illusion shimmered and dissolved into a cloud of glowing psychic particles.

Ricky's jaw dropped. "Captain… what the hell was that?"

"A psychic illusion," Ethan explained, now wearing the face of the mercenary Dane. "Never trust your eyes. They lie. Always. Remember that."

"Always?" Ricky's heart skipped. He glanced at Ethan's current form, a flicker of doubt creeping in.

Did that mean… even now?

"I get it now. Thank you, Captain."

"…"

With that handled, the rest was simple.

Ethan pulled out Dorian's communicator. Sure enough, Trent's contact info was right there—along with a recent call log.

Trent had asked Dorian for money not long ago.

Dorian hadn't given it to him, just made some excuse about needing a few days to gather the funds.

So now, all Ethan had to do was reach out to Trent, get him talking, and find out where the secret Guard Mech lab was located.

But stealing a Guard Mech wouldn't go unnoticed.

And this place—this Inner City—was the heart of human civilization. Escaping from here wouldn't be easy.

If he went through with this, he wouldn't just be stealing a weapon.

He'd be declaring war on humanity itself.

"The closer I get to the target," Ethan thought, eyes narrowing, "the more dangerous it becomes."

He looked out the window.

The city stretched out before him—clean, orderly, efficient.

What this place needs… is a little chaos.

Ethan's thoughts were quiet, calculated. Then he turned his gaze toward Ricky.

"I've got a job for you."

"Anything for you, Captain! I'd walk through fire if you asked!" Ricky said without hesitation, eyes burning with loyalty.

Ethan waved his hand, and several vials appeared in his palm—each one filled with a thick, dark red liquid that shimmered like blood under the light.

The infamous Zombie Virus.

Ricky's eyes widened. He didn't need an explanation—he already knew this was big. Really big.

"This…" he muttered, staring at the vials. His gut twisted. He could already feel the weight of what was coming.

"What? Getting cold feet?" Ethan asked, voice calm but sharp.

Ricky's hesitation vanished in an instant. His eyes hardened. "No way. I'm not scared of anything anymore. Not even death."

"Good." Ethan nodded. "Take these. When I give the signal, you'll spread the virus across the city. Hit as many places as you can. The more chaos, the better."

He tossed Ricky a communicator. "I'll ping you when it's time."

Ricky caught it, then tucked it into his waistband. "Got it. Even if I die doing this, I'll make sure the whole city burns."

With that, he turned and left the villa, the vials clinking softly in his coat pocket.

…

The night air outside was crisp, almost cold.

But the Inner City was still buzzing—neon lights flashing, music thumping, laughter echoing through the streets. Drunk partygoers stumbled along the sidewalks, shouting and singing, completely oblivious to the storm brewing in the shadows.

Peace had lasted too long. People had forgotten what it meant to fight for survival.

Ricky walked among them, his thin frame blending into the crowd. He pulled his coat tighter around him, eyes scanning the streets.

He used to dream of this place—of its luxury, its beauty, its promise.

Now?

He saw it for what it really was.

Rotten. Hollow. Fake.

"Let it all burn," he muttered under his breath. "Let them all die."

…

Back in the villa, Ethan pulled out Dorian's communicator and opened the contact list. He found Trent's name and fired off a message—short, simple, and effective.

"I've got the money."

Sure enough, within seconds, a reply came through.

"My dear cousin! You actually got it? Send it over, quick!"

"It's in gold bars," Ethan replied.

Trent's response came fast—and excited.

"You're the best! Seriously, you're a lifesaver. Anything you need, just say the word. We're family for life, bro. Can you bring it to me now?"

"Of course."

Ethan smirked. Some things never changed. Even on alien worlds, nothing opened doors faster than money.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Trent replied, followed by a location pin.

Ethan checked the address. It was a high-end private club—something like a luxury lounge for the ultra-rich. The kind of place where spoiled elites gathered to drink, gamble, and show off.

"Wait for me there," Ethan messaged back.

Then, without a sound, his body faded from the villa.

The once-lively mansion was now silent. Empty. A tomb.

When Ethan reappeared, he stood in front of a sleek, modern building glowing with soft golden lights. His appearance had shifted—no longer Dane, but Dorian once again, down to the last detail.

He scanned the building with his senses. No high-level Awakeners inside. Just rich kids playing pretend.

At the entrance, two bodyguards stood waiting.

"Hey! Dorian, finally!" one of them called out, grinning.

"You kept us waiting, man," the other added. "Trent's inside. He's been hyped all night."

Ethan smiled, stepping forward with the easy swagger of someone who belonged.

"Let's not keep him waiting, then."

...

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