Upon hearing the chaos erupting in the main hall, Isaac rushed out from the backroom, only to be greeted by a hail of bullets. He barely ducked in time, his heart pounding as the shots whizzed overhead. His eyes darted to the center of the room, where Calisto’s lifeless body lay in a pool of her own blood. Fear gripped him, his body trembling as he took in the horrific scene. The knights’ voices echoed in his ears.

“Ordinus, data check,” Dalas commanded, while Hanna and Antonio backed away from the bar, the tension suffocating.

As the two regrouped, Viktor fired another volley of bullets, one hitting Hanna squarely in the shoulder. She stumbled behind a cluster of overturned tables, trying desperately to heal the wound with her magic. But no matter how hard she focused, the injury refused to close. The bullet was a specialized one, designed to disrupt mana flow within contractors, leaving them vulnerable and exposed.

“Target one, identity confirmed: Antonio Espada, contractor. Target two, identity confirmed: Hanna Wells, contractor. Target three, identity not determined: status unknown,” the Ordinus device reported coldly.

Outside, the bar patrons scattered, their panicked screams filling the streets.

“Fuck, they’ve got us pinned!” Antonio spat, frustration and fear twisting his features.

“Now, you filthy contractor trash,” Dalas sneered, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. “We can still resolve this peacefully. Just come out with your hands behind your heads, and we’ll be civil.”

“Soul,” Hanna and Antonio whispered in unison, summoning their weapons.

Antonio struck the tables with his ornate black gauntlet, shaped like a twisted flower, sending them flying toward Dalas with brute force. Dalas dodged nimbly, snatching two suitcases from beneath his seat. He tossed one aside, pulling a lever on the remaining case. It unfolded into a massive, floating energy blade—the infamous Techno great-sword—hovering ominously above its handle with the help of an antigravity module.

Without hesitation, Dalas charged into Antonio’s range, swinging the blade with deadly precision. The heavy weapon slammed into Antonio’s shoulder, forcing him to the ground as the blade dug deeper into his flesh.

Meanwhile, Hanna darted from cover, her silver rapier flashing as she lunged at Viktor. But Viktor, with his cold precision, dodged every thrust effortlessly. He moved like a dancer, weaving in and out of her attacks with a chilling grace. His twin energy blades extended in his hands, and with a calculated ferocity, he pressed the assault. Hanna found herself overwhelmed, her body cut by a dozen shallow gashes, her defenses faltering.

“I invoke!” she cried out in desperation, trying to summon her full power. But nothing happened. Only pain throbbed in her arm where the bullet remained lodged.

“That won’t work,” Viktor said calmly. “You’ve both been tagged by our disruptors.”

Hearing this sent a surge of panic through Isaac. He lifted his head over the counter, barely peeking at the battle unfolding before him.

Suddenly, the door burst open again. A new figure stepped inside—a man in his mid-twenties, with short, pale-blond hair and cold gray eyes. He wore a black coat over combat gear, his shins and forearms protected by armored plates. In his hand, he dragged a massive, glowing great-sword, its edge gleaming ominously.

“Arthur!” Viktor called out, kicking Hanna hard in the stomach and sending her flying toward the newcomer.

Arthur raised his sword, driving it straight through Hanna’s abdomen without hesitation.

The sight made Isaac’s blood boil. Rage overtook him, and he roared, “Soul!” Summoning his ornate gladius, he charged at Dalas with reckless abandon. Dalas, in a flash, released his grip on the great-sword embedded in Antonio and stepped aside, narrowly avoiding Isaac’s attack.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Hanna, gasping in pain, slid off Arthur’s blade and crawled to a corner of the bar, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Viktor followed her, his pistol trained on her head.

“Nothing personal,” he muttered, chambering a round.

Just then, another figure burst into the bar. Bertold, the weaponsmith, arrived, carrying the finished weapon meant for Zeke. Without a moment’s hesitation, Bertold pulled out a shotgun and fired at Viktor, forcing him to retreat.

Viktor deflected the blast with a flick of his wrist, deploying a standard-issue knight shield—a shimmering force field that absorbed the shot.

Meanwhile, Isaac was struggling against Dalas, who danced around him like a seasoned warrior. Dalas’s movements were fluid, his large frame belying his agility. He circled Isaac until he reached his weapon again.

“Blade!” Isaac shouted, sending a sharp blade of water hurtling toward Dalas. The knight leaned back, gritting his teeth as the water barely grazed him.

“I’ll borrow this,” Dalas sneered, pulling the great-sword from Antonio’s shoulder with a sickening squelch.

He swung at Isaac, shallowly cutting him with each swipe. It was clear to Isaac that he couldn’t win this fight. He was outmatched in both skill and strength.

“I invoke,” Isaac whispered desperately, just as Dalas raised his pistol to fire.

In an instant, Isaac’s face twisted into a grotesque mask—a ghastly, bone-like shell that replaced his own features. His right arm and legs were encased in the same eerie armor, his eyes turning blank and lifeless. He charged forward in a berserk rage, his newfound strength overwhelming.

Dalas parried, but the force of Isaac’s attacks shook him. “Arthur, cover me!” Dalas yelled, reaching for his second suitcase.

Arthur lunged at Isaac, slashing with his great-sword, but Isaac dodged effortlessly. His voice, now dripping with madness, taunted, “Aren’t you a funny sack of flesh? Let me show you something funnier.”

With a twisted grin, Isaac called out, “True-soul!” His weapon dissolved into golden light, reshaping itself into two powerful curved wrist blades that bound to his forearms.

He lunged at Arthur, his movements now faster and more lethal. Arthur struggled to keep up, barely holding his ground against the onslaught.

Dalas opened his second suitcase, unfolding a net-like structure that wrapped around him, forming a translucent armor made of force fields. He rushed at Isaac, holding him in place as Arthur tried to strip away Isaac’s invocation piece by piece.

“Fuck you, knight scum!” Bertold roared, firing another round at Dalas. But before the weaponsmith could react, Viktor’s thrown blade pierced his chest.

Antonio, fueled by a surge of determination, gathered the last of his strength and charged at Viktor, placing himself between the knight and Hanna.

A deafening crash came from above, drawing everyone’s attention to the roof. The Prowler landed softly in the center of the hall, his gaze sweeping over the carnage.

“What the fuck is going on?” he growled, striding toward Bertold.

Bertold, gasping for breath, handed Zeke the newly forged weapon. “Kid, take this,” he whispered, his voice fading. “It’s yours. Use it well.”

Zeke took the sword, and the moment he touched it, he knew what needed to be done. The weapon pulsed with energy, as if it longed to be with him, as if it had waited for him. Without hesitation, Zeke thrust the blade into his own chest. No blood flowed, only a bright blue light. The weapon dissolved into his body, leaving behind a mark over his heart—a dragon’s desire etched into his skin.

“Wait here,” Zeke whispered gently to Hanna, who lay bleeding in the corner. “You’ll be fine.”

A fierce grin spread across his face. “Now, let’s have some fun,” he growled, charging at Viktor with a small black blade. But Viktor easily deflected every strike.

“I take it you’re the Prowler,” Viktor said with disdain. “Aren’t you a little weak to be a guardian?”

He kicked Zeke, sending him crashing to the ground. Meanwhile, Dalas and Arthur continued to overwhelm Isaac, knocking him unconscious.

Zeke staggered back to his feet, summoning a second blade from his arsenal. He fought all three knights at once, but they were unimpressed by his efforts. He was beaten down, crawling toward the exit with the last of his strength.

“I guess the rumors were true—you’re not much of a fighter,” Dalas sneered.

“Calisto!” Zeke screamed, his voice hoarse with desperation, before stumbling out the front door.

Arthur followed in pursuit, but before Dalas could leave, the bar’s doors slammed shut.

Calisto stood in the center of the room, her presence commanding. “I didn’t say you could leave,” she said calmly, pulling the ribbon from her hair.

As her hair cascaded down, her gray lips turned crimson, her tired eyes hardened into orbs of steely determination. Her gray locks darkened to midnight black, a shockwave of power radiating from her. The two knights felt their stomachs churn with unease.

“Now, boys,” she giggled, her pupils swirling into two black holes, drawing them in with the force of the abyss, “why don’t we play for a bit?”