A foreboding warning crept into Stellan's head, forcing itself into his consciousness.
Candidate Name: Castellan Moss/_Dandy628
Health: 45.2/50
Mana: 25/25
Essence: 10/100
Experience: 25/100
Status:
→ Minor Bleeding (1:17 seconds left)
Health will continue to decrease until the timer counts down.
"SHIT!" shouted Stellan, stumbling and nearly tripping from the sudden vibration pulsing through his skull, disorienting him.
There were so many sensations overwhelming him, taking the reins of his body, pain radiating from his wounds and mostly fear which held primal and sharp.
They shot me! They really shot me?! He thought frantically, panicking in the commotion. The sense of dread crept up on him rather quickly, spreading like ice water through his veins. He was still yet to recover from Terry's failed attempt earlier, barely managing the incident by a long shot, yet now a different danger had emerged; one that he was absolutely sure wouldn't give him a second chance. An enemy that had far more ammo in store compared to a nine-round revolver, more professional, more deadly.
"TERRY! They're here!" He roared, both with the intent of warning and seeking aid, ignoring his voice cracking. He couldn't think of any other methods to preserve himself, his mind going blank with terror, so he shouted eagerly, desperately, for his coworker to at least show some effort in saving him, to at least attempt to help.
But he was wrong. Ever so deadly wrong.
He'd forgotten a crucial part that was blatantly obvious all along, a rule written in blood.
In this world, it's every man for himself.
Yet still he shouted, clinging to hope.
"Terry! Hide! They're entering the building!" Stellan continued to howl, warning his coworker who he hoped had finished his meal and could move. He rushed toward the reception desk in a panic, then headed for the stairway, but something unexplainable appeared before him, making him skid to a halt.
The stairway that had served as his connection toward the upper floors had somehow turned into two separate identical staircases..
Rather, he was unsure if there had been two of them in the first place, blaming the doubt with his disorientation. He scarcely remembered the layout of the ground floor clearly, and after a bit of quick mental recollecting, all while the panic from his pursuers pressed on him, he was certain that the other entrance wasn't where he'd left it.
Confused and running out of time, he had to make a choice: either the left stairway or the right, a split-second decision that had no time to be properly considered when bullets flew a few feet above him and to his side.
The near-misses made Stellan flinch hard and crouch low, covering his head and instinctively ducking. He twisted his neck sharply to see six armed men with intricate weapons; rifles and guns that he could vaguely recognize from movies. Making their forceful way toward where he stood, their boots pounding. Shouting and threatening him, paired with scattered gunshots to his dismay.
This made him act on pure survival instinct, rushing through the left entrance without proper consideration, climbing atop the foreign floor where he was unsure whether its interior matched his fading memory, everything looking the same yet different.
A few heavy marches of numerous boots later, the sound of it echoing ominously, the pursuers were now faced with the same dilemma Castellan had experienced.
The delicate matter of choosing the correct pathway through the shifting building.
"Split up…" said their leader, a mountain of a man wearing a sash of bullets across his chest, wielding a huge machine gun with one of his muscled arms ‘with little apparent trouble’ holding it steady. Veins were bulging prominently from the arm that was carrying the heavy weapon, thick cords of muscle protruding, but to him it was nothing to think of, just another tool.
"Three with me. The rest of you… follow that asshole and bring me his head," he commanded in a gravelly voice, collecting nods of agreement from the five soldiers who were also armed in similar fashion with rifles and pistols, yet not as heavily equipped or distinctive as the leader, who clearly outclassed them.
The separate group was clearly toned for manslaughter. One held a rifle that was modified for single blasts, tactical and precise.
Another wielded two pistols, just for the sake of aesthetic and intimidation.
And the one who was serving as the separate leader of this group equipped a long-chained rifle with a scope, the very same sniper that had shot Stellan earlier, who upon the misfire, marked him for death.
The leader of the raiders and his group rushed through the right stairway with purpose.
Among the two who were following him closely, one wielded a rifle etched with markings from a war in history, weathered and proven.
While the other brandished a machete, still unclean from the blood that was crusted and attached to the blade.
The group of six was divided into two with different paths but similar intentions, and that was to eliminate whoever was inhabiting the building.
One floor reached, and then another, clearing out corners systematically like what a trained infantry group was drilled to do with military precision. The leader of the raiders with his absurdly sized weapon led the pack aggressively.
The one in the middle was the machete wielder, who specialized in brutal melee combat and close-quarters kills. While at the rear was the rifleman, whose head turned back and forth constantly to check even the shadows' subtle movements.
A few more cautious steps in the stairway and the leader gestured sharply to his men to pause, raising a closed fist. They froze immediately.
He then closed his eyes and used a skill to identify their target, concentrating.
< Scent Tracking >
A skill that belonged to the genus of Amplification, enhancing the nostrils to intake aroma at a wide radius, turning him into a human bloodhound. It connected to the brain to visualize an image that could be deciphered by the caster creating a mental map of heat signatures.
By using this ability, the leader identified every living being inside the building, as well as their precise location, but was shocked by the result that he gathered seeing as his eyes snapped open.
There were only four life signals inside the building
Three of them in his group while another unknown reading remained still, three floors above them, isolated, unmoving and waiting. The number he'd collected didn't make sense. There were supposed to be at least seven heat signatures total, with three of them pursuing the other target who'd taken a different stairway who was actively hunting him.
"Stay sharp… we entered an illusion," the leader instructed in a low growl, which was confirmed by his two cautious comrades who heeded his words immediately, weapons raising, fingers finding triggers.
Their pace slowed down to a noticeable extent, boots moving carefully in an understandable decision seeing that they were not equipped to deal with someone from the 'Manifestation' genus, whose skill sets aligned with creating illusions and hallucinations to their tactical benefit.
A problematic class for those who specialized in direct combat which proved to be a nightmare scenario.
They scaled another floor cautiously, testing each step.
The leader's mana was slowly being siphoned away. The continued use of his tracking skills was the only indication of which path they should take to avoid any deadly hindrances or traps, serving as their lifeline. And soon they only needed one more floor before they would reach the caster.
Close now.
He's not moving… does he not know we're here? the leader asked himself in his thoughts.
His skill was still active, and the result still returned with a lone person stubbornly remaining still, dispersing his mana throughout the extension of the decrepit building like a fog.
They soon inched toward the corner of the stairway, moving like hunters stalking prey.
Only one more floor and they would be able to see who was responsible for the illusion, and to confront the caster. But the leader was cautious, stemming from his experience.
Why risk his own life when the trial was yet to end?
So he instructed one of his men, the machete wielder, to take point responsibility.
"Grab his attention. Once you do, find a safe spot to take cover while I shower holes inside the bastard's body…" the leader ordered in a low voice, tactical and cold, while the machete wielder listened intently, confirming the order with an understanding nod.
He gestured, raising his fingers as a signal before they proceeded to the next floor.
He then started to count deliberately.
1
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2
3
When the third finger was raised, the machete wielder shouted in pure insanity, both in attracting attention and because he was also genuinely loose in his mind.
The leader and the rifle wielder followed close behind, but soon stomped to hold their momentum in advance before abruptly skidding to a halt.
What happened next was beyond the pursuers' prediction.
A shout?
A plea?
Or a beg for mercy?
All notes ended with the same horrifying result. The crazed charge of the machete wielder ended in him walking in the skies running on empty air, resulting in him falling from a height no human being would survive. Due to a skillful manipulation, the caster had switched the passageway to his floor with a glassless window on the top. Bending the building's reality. Leading the crazed raider to his demise, his shout growing more distant the nearer he reached the ground.
Before the sickening splat of blood and shattered bone ended his pitiful life with a final impact.
Shocked and speechless, the leader then backed off instinctively. Taking a step away only to feel a cold barrel pressed at the back of his head. It was the rifle wielder, whose finger was dead set on the trigger, trembling.
What the leader saw as an act of treachery and betrayal, the rifle wielder, who was deep in an illusion, seeing something different.
A target, a big fleshy target which inflamed his desire to shoot.
But before he could press the trigger and end it, the leader swerved to the side with lightning reflexes, barely dodging the enraged bullet that cracked the dusty wall, chunks flying.
And in one heavy motion, he aimed the machine gun at the unknowing rifle wielder and blasted him with countless bullets.
Opening fire.
Riddling him with tens if not hundreds of holes that made his body dance grotesquely and contort from every recoil his flesh had to endure from the bullets piercing it. Until the machine gun finally went calm, stopping its mechanical fury, before smoke emanated from the overheating barrel.
Two men died in an instant, allies turned to casualties.
The blooded, pasty remains of the rifle wielder finally went to a splat when it collapsed on the chalky floor, finalizing the moment of the sound of meat hitting concrete.
Fury overtaking reason, the leader of the raiders beckoned, aimed at the ceiling.
"YOU'VE HAD YOUR FUN YOU CUNT! NOW COME DIE LIKE A MAN!" he roared, voice echoing, decreeing a challenge where none were there to receive it.
His skill < Scent Tracking > was still in full effect, still draining his mana. His reserves continued to be siphoned but it was far from touching his limits yet. He summoned a lesser mana pill from his interspatial ring, materializing it, popping it into his mouth quickly.
The bitter taste made him flinch, grimacing, but soon he felt the reinvigoration of his mana pool flooding back, returning energy that was well spent. But this was not enough to quell his burning anger, his rage still simmered.
In an act of violence, he then blasted the grimy ceiling with wild abandon, the machine gun pushed to its absolute limits. The numerous amounts of shell casings littered the floor, clanging loudly from the pressure of the trigger, flooding with heavy brass rain. While some of the shells rolled into the blood pool that came from the rifle wielder's corpse, settling in its crimson color.
He thundered like a crazed man, roaring like an animal as his weapon never stopped firing, rapid cylinders rotating in a mechanical rush. The machine gun fired and fired until it could no more, emptied, due to the bullets being completely spent.
This action was ill-advised tactically, but it yielded a concrete result nonetheless.
One: by shooting at the ceiling indiscriminately, the unmoving man who the leader deduced was the caster of the illusion had to relocate a few more floors above where he was. This was actually a respite, breaking concentration, since those who were in the Manifestation genus required tremendous amounts of focus the wider the scope of their skills; a matter that the leader had managed to break through with brute force.
Second was that this confirmed that his prediction was accurate. Seeing that after his target moved from his position, the leader felt that the mana clouding the building slowly dissipated like fog burning off, resulting in the illusion on his floor and the ones below him disappearing, as if it was reality reasserting itself.
With a smug expression and bloodshot eyes, he then rushed toward the stairway where the machete wielder had met his high-falling end, moving with purpose. His skill remained activated, mana still flowing, his strides heavy and determined. But with the deadly intent fueling his momentum, giving him frenzied energy, he didn't halt his advance, refusing to be deterred.
One floor scaled, legs pumping.
He searched left and right, swiveling his head, until his eyes managed to see hints and clues. A bedroll, well-worn. A rusted pot, used recently.
A small makeshift campfire, still warm. And some opened packets of seasoning and biscuits, crumbs scattered.
This confirmed the leader's intuition. Taking one small whiff was all it took to confirm his doubts, convinced that the lingering scent was unmistakable.
"Found you… cunt," he declared to the empty air.
His eyes subconsciously drift to yet another stairway ahead, a vision that was dark and looming. It was shadowed and ominous but his sight mattered less now.
His nose had never failed him yet in this world, this was his most reliable sense.
He'd already taken countless lives with his very methods, a perfect record if you will, and was eager to reap his rewards once he managed to return to the original world.
He sniffed the air deeply, a matter of double-checking the scent.
In a combat scenario, he knew the matchup. A Manifestor was ranked at the bottom end of the genus classification in direct battle, more suited for delaying tactics and misdirection rather than direct combat. Unlike the leader of the raiders who belonged to the Amplification genus, they were the jack of all trades, versatile and deadly. They had no particular boons yet no glaring weakness, a balance that served well in deadly battles, reliable.
He could taste it, the anticipation building.
His nose scrunched from the eager suspense, nostrils flaring.
The raid leader knew that all he needed to do was take five steps before he could see his target, that was all that was needed to confront him. He snagged the bullet belt from his sash and inserted it into the machine gun with practiced motions, loading it in hurried precision.
He tapped it twice firmly to ensure that any bullet shells weren't stuck or jammed, a common case for an experienced weapon maintenance. And with all matters of precautions cleared and checked, he continued forward confidently. When he entered the room, slowly stepping through, the man who was responsible for killing his men was standing in the middle of it, waiting casually.
"Took you long enough…" the figure calmly stated, his auburn hair falling across his forehead while white crumbs from a biscuit lined his lips, still chewing.
A rather oversized sleeved shirt covered his upper torso loosely, while some packets of preserved treats were peeking out of his multipocketed denim. The Man responsible for all his troubles was Terry, who stared eye to eye with the raid leader without giving a single blink. Neither ceded their gaze, a mental measure of what was to come, delicately sizing each other up.
"You killed my men," stated the raid leader flatly, still activating his skill to ensure that he wouldn't be ambushed from behind, maintaining his awareness.
"Technically… One of them killed himself, while you obliterated the other," Terry answered with a shrug.
"You saw that?" the raid leader asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Will give me nightmares for the coming nights…" Terry mocked.
Suddenly,
The raid leader laughed hysterically, as if he'd never laughed before in his life. The sound echoed in the room's interior like a lunatic, bouncing off walls, almost pinching his sides to stop his breath from exiting. This happened for a good few seconds, while Terry remained unbothered and calm, continuing to observe the strange ruckus, just waiting.
"I like you…" the raid leader commented, tears welling in his eyes before regaining his composure. "What do you think… you should join us," he then offered, extending the invitation, almost deceivingly friendly while Terry looked completely unamused.
"I don't know… I prefer to work alone," answered Terry, shaking his head slightly.
"I need capable guys like you. You don't have to worry about anything…" the raid leader negotiated, outstretching his hand like he had something to offer. "Booze, money… heck, even women. You just have to follow me," adding a sweetener to the deal.
Terry then smirked knowingly, his thoughts couldn't be deciphered from the raid leader's point of view.
“Still… I have to refuse. I don't do well in groups…" Terry answered..
As soon as the leader of the raiders heard this rejection, he sighed with disappointment; almost too real to be an act. He then raised his massive weapon, the machine gun was far from cooled down, the barrel still steaming hot, but it was enough for one deadly tantrum.
One last burst.
"That's unfortunate… I could have used a guy like you," the leader stated, shaking his head. He grumbled but seeing that Terry wasn't at the table for negotiation, he proceeded to press the trigger, ending the short lived conversation.
The machine gun whirred from the pressure of the trigger, starting. A portion of a rotation later, and a single shot erupted, crack of gunfire.
A thud of a body slamming on the concrete, a heavy impact, as well as some metal objects that made a commotion on the dusty floor clattered.
Flesh immobile and still, blood oozing from a freshly made hole in the forehead that was dark and wet. It was a satisfying detonation, splattering the brain matter, dismembering the memories it once held, ending the life of the raid leader whose eyes rolled upward, as if not believing that he was the one on the receiving end.
A piece of metal floated slowly through the air, enveloped with a faint cloud of mana glowing softly. Slowly yet surely, it floated toward Terry's opened palm, drifting like a leaf, until it was in his grasp..
It was a well-placed trap, executed during the stalling of the conversation, perfectly and skillfully timed. Terry had used his skill to place the revolver behind the back of the head of the raid leader, positioning it in utmost secrecy. It was masterful, as not a sound was made in its journey.
The skill < Scent Tracking > was effective, sure… powerful for hunting. But its limitation lay in its lack of sensing mana. It was only capable of discerning those who returned a physical fragrance or organic scents. With Terry dispersing an ample amount of mana throughout the building like a fog, the raid leader could not take note of the emerging revolver that swam through the air to the back of his head. Hiding it in the rubble before his enemy entered the room, concealed in a matter that only those who only had familiarity in the building could find.
Once the conversation ended, he'd signaled it to activate with a flick of his finger that was attached to an invisible weave that was connected to the trigger, boring a hole through the confident brute’s skull, taking his life in the process, resulting in a far from glorious death.
Terry then took a step forward and gazed downward at the man who'd offered him an alternate path, now unmoving and devoid of life, bleeding out the hole he just made. He then kneeled beside the body, pilfering a piece of paper from underneath the corpse's shirt, evoking a satisfied smile from the discovery before tucking it away.
Lastly grabbed the raid leader's hand and took off his ring before putting it in his denim pocket. It was quick and clean, like he had done this stand off and ended it far too many times.
"Right…" he muttered to himself, eyeing the unwieldy machine gun that was still in the corpse's slack grasp. Terry considered it for a moment, weighing the option, but declined with a shake of his head, stating mentally that it was too heavy for him and impractical.
He then stood up smoothly and entered the stairway, descending to where a different conflict was currently waging.
"Time to finish up the rest…" he muttered under his breath, before disappearing within the shadow.
