The Multiverse Hunter

"Where!!?" The last Korean's panicked howl cracked through the static of his helmet's comms. Inside his visor, the combat HUD flickered with half-formed red squares, searching desperately for a lock. Every muscle in his neck strained as he scanned the haze, hoping his low-grade AI would find something — a silhouette, a muzzle flash, any flicker of heat.

But hope meant nothing to the hunter waiting in that smoke.

A shape coiled beneath the roiling haze — then exploded upward like a cannon blast. A black boot slammed into the player's armoured midsection, smashing through ballistic plates and compressing reinforced alloy like tin foil. The sheer force lifted his entire body clear off the dirt, armour servos whining as they tried to counterbalance too late.

UGHHHH—!

Pain ripped through him — ribs cracked like old driftwood. The AI triggered a failsafe, pistons locking around his core, servos whining at full torque. A hidden spike shot from the armoured elbow, a gleaming monomolecular blade lunging for Ali's neck with mechanical speed.

But speed was relative — and Ali's instincts were not relative. They were final.

He pivoted — not far, just enough. The spike sliced air an inch from his throat as his boot crunched down on cold steel. The abandoned high-caliber sniper beneath his heel flipped into the air — a perfect arc.

Ali's hand snapped up. The sniper dropped into his right grip like it had always belonged there. His black eyes — hollow voids behind that smooth gold mask — locked onto the struggling player's helmet. He inhaled once, steady as a monk in a temple.

Through the visor, the Korean's pupils shrank. That empty black stare was the last thing he would ever see.

BANG

The sniper's thunderclap echoed off the valley walls. The bullet slammed through reinforced carbon polymer like a hammer through glass. The helmet erupted — an ugly pop of skull fragments, flesh, and splintered tech spraying backward in a grisly arc. The limp corpse spun and hit the dirt like a dropped sack of iron.

Ali didn't watch it fall. His mind and body were already moving — that primal, predator sense flaring bright. Instincts so sharp they sliced through time itself.

He slipped sideways in a single smooth pivot just as a shotgun barrel clapped, the scatter shot ripping a hole in the haze a hair's breadth from his ribs.

The squad leader — still alive, bleeding, helmet cracked — stumbled out from the swirl of gray, the stump of his right dripping dark onto the torn grass. His shotgun fused to his remaining arm clattered, barrels twitching at Ali's chest.

Desperation made him brave. Fear made him sloppy.

Above them both, steel whispered. A flash of perfect cold geometry — a katana sweeping down through the drifting smoke, edge first, a line of surgical death. The Latina's Sharingan eyes glowed crimson in the dark — tracking every twitch of Ali's spine, the faint play of tension in his shoulders.

A perfect strike. Unavoidable, by any sane measure.

Ali didn't flinch.

CRACK

He didn't use the barrel. He drove the sniper's butt stock straight into the leader's face. The metal slammed through cracked polymer and bone alike, crumpling the helmet inward with a wet, muffled crunch. Sparks burst as the exo-suit's backup batteries fried under the force. The man's neck snapped, body folding at the knees like a puppet cut from its strings.

Ali's right hand rose — calm, unhurried — index and middle fingers open. They met the katana's blade mid-fall, catching the razor edge just above his crown. Steel screamed in protest. But the blade stopped. Dead cold.

The Latina's Sharingan spun, analysing every micro-fracture in that frozen moment. Her brain screamed impossible. She'd driven great amounts of chakra into that cut — enough to cleave through armour or a concrete pillar.

He stopped it with two fingers. And black veins coiled up his forearms like oil serpents under skin, feeding the pressure back into the blade.

Ali's eyes found hers — void under gold. No tremor, no tension, no mercy. He admired her eyes...

He flicked the katana aside. Let it go. Opened both arms wide — a motion so fast the air popped where his elbows snapped out. His wingspan blotted out her flanks. Her Sharingan mapped the angles in perfect clarity.

Time thickened around her heartbeat. For the Latina, the Sharingan laid bare the trap — but knowing the path of the scythe did not change the swing.

One heartbeat to decide if she'd live — or how she'd die.

'Do I duck under it? But what if he tracks me lower and catches me? Maybe I jump back — but will I escape fast enough? Should I push in and stab him?'

The swirl of strategies flickered through the Latina's Sharingan like phantom flames, each option mapped out in the crimson mirrors of her eyes. Panic would've crushed a lesser fighter here — but her hours on blood-soaked training grounds stitched cold discipline into her spine. She didn't freeze. She calculated.

Time snapped forward like a drawn bowstring. Ali's arms closed in — iron arcs of flesh and black-veined power, poised to crush bone and soul alike. She abandoned her katana in a heartbeat, letting the blade clatter into the haze. A kunai bloomed in her right palm with the ease of breath, and her left hand blurred through frantic seals — a sequence she'd only half-mastered in training. Her Sharingan roared with chakra, guiding her trembling fingers as orange embers sparked into a living flame at her wrist. One chance.

The kunai carved forward, tip laser-focused on Ali's throat — a final jab at survival. The flame at her palm readied to explode — if she could live long enough to release it.

GRAB

Reality ended with the sound of ribs snapping. Ali's massive arms closed like twin steel gates around her midsection, locking her inside a coffin of muscle and raw inhuman force. Her kunai struck home — steel burying itself in his gut, hot blood seeping over her hand — but Ali didn't flinch. He didn't even twitch.

She felt the flame flicker on her palm, the seals complete — so close, so close to burning him to cinders. But her breath never left her throat to see the chakra release.

CRACK

Ali's grip flexed once — enough to shatter every rib, snap her spine in half like a brittle stick, and turn her lungs into wet paste. Her Sharingan eyes flickered with flicks of light, trying desperately to hold the world — but then the lights went out. The chakra died. The flame vanished. And her entire torso caved inward as blood ran from her nose, mouth, ears, every pore — leaking warm across his forearms.

Ali let the corpse fall — limp, boneless, a ruin that only seconds ago held so much feral talent and precious bloodline.

"Vermin…" The word slid from his mouth. He stepped through the smoke — a reaper leaving another carcass in his wake.

[Reward for Killing a Player: 20 PC]

[Reward for Killing a Player: 20 PC]

[Reward for Killing a Player: 20 PC]

[Reward for Killing a Player: 25 PC]

[PC: 41102 > 41187]

ROAAAAAAAAAR

A gut-churning bellow tore the battlefield apart, vibrating inside every armoured chest plate and echoing through every steel helm. Every knight on both sides froze mid-swing — blades clashing midair, spears halting inches from throats — heads twisting skyward in dread.

High above, a titanic shape tore through the sunlit clouds — a monster of scales and wrath, its scarlet hide blazing like a living comet. Abeloth plunged downward — a living nightmare of crimson wings and molten fury. The wind howled around him as he spread his jaws wide, heat lines dancing off his tongue.

One Cinder knight threw down his blade and sprinted across the trampled grass, armor rattling with every step. "DRAGOOOOOON!!!" he shrieked, voice cracking under the weight of primal terror. Men tripped over each other in the churned dirt, clawing at fleeing comrades as if sheer panic might spare them the fire to come.

Kale Nolan felt the truth hammer into his skull like a blacksmith's mallet — the lie, the betrayal, the game they'd all fallen into. His eyes snapped to the towering Black Knight of Cinder, who stood calm behind his massive sword plunged point-first into the soil. Blue aura flared like a tidal wave around that blackened blade — a wall against the incoming inferno.

Kale knew what was next. He braced — both boots dug deep, his ancestral longsword angled skyward. His own aura bloomed bright orange — a flickering barrier between the dragon's hellfire and the few men still loyal enough to stand beside him.

Above, Abeloth's lungs contracted — a rolling tremor of living magma. And then he unleashed.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH

A torrent of fire, rained down on flesh and steel alike. The sky seemed to split under the sheer force — the ground beneath blackened to scorched ruin in the blink of an eye. Rows of knights disappeared under molten sheets, armour plates bubbling, screams choked off behind sealed helmets as molten rivulets of steel fused to bone.

Some tried to run — but found only the same doom. Some raised shields and met vaporisation head-on. A handful survived the first exhale — their aura shields sputtering under the relentless blaze, eyes wide with horror as comrades turned to red ash around them.

The Black Knight of Cinder weathered the storm like an iron pillar, blue aura a defiant flare that split the fire in two. Kale Nolan's sword whistled through the rising embers, cleaving away flame that dared approach him, a lone sun of searing orange holding back hell itself.

Up the hill, Thomas and Edwin barely registered the apocalypse around them. Their clash of aura and magic was its own battlefield — one that no inferno could breach, where the taste of vengeance and the memory of a stolen bride outshone the heat of dragonfire.

[Personal Mission: Defeat the Knights Captain of House Cinder (0/1)]

[Reward: Item — Slave Knight's Black Armour]

[Personal Mission: Defeat Baron Kale Nolan (0/1)]

[Reward: Item — Kale Nolan's Ancestral Longsword]

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