“LET ME GO, YOU BASTARD!” Oliver’s scream wasn’t aimed at Lucyan, not at the Old King, and not at Claire. He was screaming at his own right hand. That hand, flesh and bone with nails blackened by the Devour effect, was gripping Claire’s ankle with inhuman force. The pressure was so intense that a sickening crack echoed from her leg. “Ver! It hurts!” Claire cried out. She was trying to drag Oliver’s paralyzed body toward the fractured portal in the ceiling, but he was holding her back. “It’s not me!” Oliver hissed, cold sweat mixed with blood streaming down his face. “The system... it’s rebooting! It’s taking over my motor nerves!” In his retina, red notifications flickered wildly, overlapping with the visual distortion caused by the glitch. [SYSTEM RECOVERY: 15%] [MOTOR OVERRIDE: RIGHT ARM - ACTIVE.] [PRIORITY COMMAND: RETURN TO THE THRONE.] The Hunter X System was panicking. It knew its host was trying to escape. It knew its host had already de

District 9, often called the Remnants, used to be a dumping ground. A place where discarded monsters, Mana Dust addicts, and hopeless humans piled together into a single filthy ecosystem. It smelled like germs, factory smoke, and despair. But tonight, it smelled different. It smelled like a slaughterhouse. Oliver dragged his ruined leg through a narrow alley choked with debris. Claire stayed at his side, acting as his living cane. Their breathing was heavy, struggling to filter oxygen from air thick with burning rubber smoke. “That’s the sound,” Claire whispered, cocking her Remington, its remaining rounds countable on one hand. “Gunfire. Screaming. They’re still holding.” Ahead, about two blocks away, stood the old bookstore, The Rusty Spine, the entrance to The Kennel’s hidden bunker. But now it was under siege. Hundreds of Ghouls, agile, gaunt, flesh-hungry corpses, crawled along the building’s walls like fire ants. They clawed at the reinforced door, shattered

The wind atop Hoover Dam howled, carrying cold mist from the dark Colorado River far below. But to Oliver, that chill was nothing compared to the coldness of the voice standing before him. It was his own voice. “Why so quiet, Ver?” Envy asked, now wearing Oliver’s form perfectly. He spun a golden Magnum around his finger, the same flashy flourish Oliver used when showing off. “You’re usually the one running your mouth about probabilities. What, you can’t see the numbers anymore, so now you’re mute?” The real Oliver, blind, limping, and bleeding, stood frozen. His left hand gripped Claire’s shoulder tightly. He could feel her trembling. “He…” Claire whispered, her voice hoarse. “He looks exactly like you, Ver. But… clean. No wounds. His eyes are clear blue. He’s like the movie poster version of you.” “The better version,” Envy corrected with a grin. “The version fit to be King.” Envy raised his gun. “Let’s test it. Who calculates faster. The Blind One or

The light hurt. Even in Wireframe mode, where Oliver saw the world as nothing but neon blue lines against a black void, the radiance pouring from Pride’s body still caused severe glitches in his digital vision. The image fractured, breaking into thousands of violently trembling pixels. Pride hovered one meter above the cracked concrete floor of the turbine chamber. His six wings of light stretched wide, passing through solid walls as if matter meant nothing. Each beat of his wings scattered particles of golden dust that looked beautiful, yet deadly. Pride’s hand still gripped Oliver’s throat. The grip did not feel rough. It felt gentle, almost like an old man guiding a child. But beneath that softness was absolute force, capable of crushing Oliver’s neck into calcium dust at any moment. “Do you see, Oliver?” Pride’s voice echoed, not through air vibrations, but directly within Oliver’s skull. “You tried to collapse this dam. You tried to kill us all with water. But

The white flaming blade in Pride’s hand descended. The motion wasn’t fast. Pride didn’t need speed. He wanted Oliver to see his death coming. He wanted Oliver to feel the heat of the blade drying the mud on his face before it cut through his neck. “Die in filth,” Pride hissed. “A fitting place for you.” Oliver didn’t close his eyes. His blind gaze, now only able to perceive faint shadows through the remnants of Wireframe, stared straight into the blinding light. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was just annoyed. Annoyed that he would lose to this arrogant “Variable,” not to the Dealer. “Come on, chicken wings,” Oliver thought. “Finish it.” The blade hovered a centimeter from his neck. The heat had already begun to blister his skin. In that fraction of a second that felt like eternity, time seemed to slow. Suddenly... WUSH! A soft slicing sound cut through the air. Not a bullet. Not magic. Paper slicing through the wind. TING! A stra