Ex rank talent Awakening: 100% Dodge rate

"Bravo..., that's Nemesis...," Daemon muttered softly, the name escaping his lips like a ghost long feared.

He couldn't believe his teammates were actually pointing fingers at him. At Nemesis. The one they all owed their lives to—whether they wanted to admit it or not.

But they didn't understand. They didn't see what Daemon had seen.

A shiver ran down Daemon's spine as the memory came unbidden—bloodied pavement, the suffocating heat of an inferno, and the last screams of his fellow officers. He had been a police officer once. Brave. Trained. But that day—that mission—they were ordered to guard the commissioner from a group of rogue anomalies. One of them turned out to be Nemesis. Only, Nemesis wasn't rogue. He was judgment.

Daemon remembered the way his comrades had died, screaming, pleading—some reduced to ash, some dismembered without even seeing the attack. Nemesis hadn't even looked angry. That was what haunted Daemon the most.

And now here he stood…alive because Nemesis had spared him. Or maybe, overlooked him.

"And? He is the reason our teammates died! How daft can you be, Daemon?!" Bravo shouted, stepping forward, his eyes burning with grief-fueled rage. The others began to murmur in agreement, slowly aligning behind him.

Daemon flinched. The fear wasn't gone. It never left.

"I see," Greg's cold voice cut through the growing tension, sharp as the edge of a blade. "So you blame me for the death of your teammate, huh?"

He stood still for a moment, golden eyes narrowing as if weighing everyone in the group.

"That's all right," he muttered, then raised his hand and pointed. "You. Come over here."

Daemon froze.

"M…Me?" he asked, his voice a whisper. Inside, his heart thundered like a war drum. Was this it? Was he going to die for speaking out of turn, for knowing too much—or too little?

"Yes, you," Greg confirmed, voice carrying a weight that made even the wind pause. "Move quickly. I don't have all day."

Daemon gulped. The others watched in stunned silence, the fire in Bravo's eyes dimming slightly as realization started to creep in. This wasn't a game. This was Nemesis.

"Y-Yes!" Daemon stammered, nearly tripping over himself as he rushed forward, heart hammering wildly in his chest.

Greg grabbed Daemon by the shoulder with ease, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing. A moment later, his wings unfolded in a magnificent flare—black as night and crackling with silent power.

The wind screamed as the two shot into the air. The players below looked up, mouths agape, as Nemesis perched himself atop a thick tree branch nearby, settling like a predatory bird of myth. Daemon was beside him, standing awkwardly, eyes darting nervously between Greg and the ground far below.

"You! Where do you think you're going?!" Bravo yelled from below, voice shrill. "We need an explanation!"

Greg didn't even look his way. His gaze was fixed far beyond, golden eyes glowing faintly, peering into something only he could perceive.

It was useless paying attention to dead men.

That's all they were to him now.

Because from the edges of the forest, the scent of corruption wafted through the air. His newly evolved senses picked up the approaching tide of death. Shadow slaves—dozens of them.

Greg's lips curled into a cold smile.

These fools had spat on the hand that saved them. Let them face the world without it. He didn't even feel like lifting his sword for them anymore. Shadow slaves were unworthy, and so were the ungrateful.

Killing them himself would only leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

Let them die.

Eric's eyes twitched. His breath came out in short, sharp bursts. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but where? Where could he possibly go that those things wouldn't find him?

His talent—Eagle Eyes—was a blessing in battle, but right now, it felt like a curse. A curse that gave him a front-row seat to the inevitable end.

He saw them before anyone else.

A tide of darkness.

Swarming. Writhing. Consuming the forest floor with unnatural speed. Each one radiated a malice that choked the very air.

And there were so many.

Too many.

"We're going to die… we're going to die…" Eric mumbled, his voice trembling as he stared into the approaching abyss. He clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as if he could rip the vision from his mind. "We're already dead..."

His teammates watched him, confused.

"Eric?" one of them called, stepping forward cautiously.

But Eric didn't hear.

He was beyond logic now, consumed by pure, bone-deep fear. His legs shook like twigs in a storm. His thoughts were static. Panic made his vision blur—except for one thing.

The tree.

And the figure on it.

Nemesis.

He sat there like a god of war in slumber. Wings folded, gaze unreadable, golden eyes tracking the field like a beast waiting to be roused.

Eric stared at him.

His thoughts slowed.

Greg—Nemesis—was the only thing that wasn't trembling in this hellish scene.

That… that was salvation.

Eric forgot. He forgot the accusations. The blame. The hatred his own team had flung like knives. All he could think about was living.

One step. Then another.

His body moved before his mind could catch up.

"Eric?" his teammate called again, louder. "Where are you going?!"

Eric didn't reply.

He was walking toward the tree, muttering beneath his breath, voice cracked and dry. "Please… please, save me too…"

The others stared, some concerned, some incredulous.

"He's snapped," one whispered.

"Is he begging Nemesis?" another asked.

"Has he lost his mind?!"

Eric didn't hear a word.

His legs felt like lead. His mouth was dry. But his knees dropped to the ground as he reached the base of the tree, tears already streaming down his cheeks. He looked up at the man sitting lazily on the branch above like a war deity looking down on an altar of sacrifice.

Nemesis didn't move.

He just stared, golden eyes glowing.

"Please… I'm begging you…" Eric sobbed. "Save me…"