As the old man swung his sword, its blade gleaming with lethal intent, a jolt of pure fear shot through me.

My heart pounded against my ribs, a frantic rhythm of impending doom.

The primal urge to run screamed in my mind, but panic clamped down, paralyzing any coherent thought.

I was a tattered mess—body battered, spirit drained.

I had no strength left to devise a plan or execute any grand maneuver.

Desperation clawed at me, raw and visceral, as I stared death in the face.

In that split second, survival instincts took over, a desperate, last-ditch reflex that I barely understood myself.

The world blurred around me as I acted on pure impulse, the only thought in my head a singular, desperate command: teleport.

With a rush of energy, I felt my surroundings dissolve, the oppressive presence of the old man fading as I willed myself away from the brink of death.

My senses stretched thin, and the familiar vertigo of displacement took hold.

Whenever I teleport, the process demands precision—a delicate dance with the fabric of reality itself.

First, I must set the spatial coordinates of my destination, a mental pinpointing of where I need to appear.

I close my eyes and visualize the exact spot, every detail sharp in my mind's eye.

But there's a catch—space coordinates are not static.

They shift every second, influenced by the ever-changing environment.

To lock onto the right spot, I rely on my spatial recognition ability, a heightened sense that allows me to perceive and calculate these coordinates in an instant.

It’s a complex task, one that involves mentally mapping out the space around me, but through practice, it has become almost instinctive.

My mind traces the contours of the world, sketching invisible lines of connection.

Despite the apparent complexity, the entire process is incredibly swift.

It rarely takes more than a heartbeat, provided I'm not attempting a teleportation spanning kilometers.

But this time, the immediate pressure made it impossible to set any coordinates.

The old man's sword was a breath away, a whisper of death ready to claim me, and I couldn't focus enough to pinpoint a safe destination.

Panic clawed at my thoughts, tearing through my concentration.

Teleporting without setting coordinates is fraught with risks.

First, the range of the teleportation would be drastically reduced.

Secondly, and perhaps more dangerously, I'd end up in a random location.

The peril of materializing inside a wall or over a precipice loomed large.

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Desperation clouded my mind, leaving me no choice. I willed myself to teleport, bracing for the unknown.

In an instant, the world warped around me, colors and shapes twisting into a nauseating blur.

I felt the disorienting sensation of being flung through space, a helpless projectile caught in the tide of reality.

My heart pounded in my ears, and a chill ran down my spine as I surrendered to the chaotic pull.

I reappeared in a large hall, suspended mid-air.

Gravity reclaimed its hold, and I plummeted to the ground with a bone-jarring thud.

Pain exploded through my body, a raw, searing agony that threatened to steal my consciousness.

I forced myself to focus, eyes swimming with tears as I took in my new surroundings.

"You...!" The old man's voice echoed, tinged with surprise and anger.

I looked up through the haze of pain to see him at a distance, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Despite the rough landing, luck was on my side—I had teleported far enough away from him.

My heart pounded in my chest, relief mingling with the lingering fear that clung to me like a second skin.

For a moment, I was safe, and the crushing weight of imminent death lifted slightly, allowing me to breathe.

As my eyes adjusted to my new surroundings, I noticed the devastation behind me.

The ground bore a deep, vicious scar from the old man's sword, a dark gash that marred the stone floor.

The sheer force of the attack was evident, and a shudder ran through me as I imagined what would have happened if I had tried to block it.

At best, I would have lost a hand—perhaps worse.

The realization hit me hard, a mix of relief and horror flooding my senses.

I truly was lucky.

My mind replayed the moment over and over, each iteration reminding me of how close I had come to a gruesome end.

A smirk tugged at my lips, a brief moment of triumph amid the chaos.

"Goodbye," I muttered, my voice steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through me.

I glanced at the old man's face, his expression a blend of surprise and frustration, savoring the fleeting satisfaction of my escape.

His eyes, wide with disbelief, locked onto mine, a silent testament to my unexpected survival.

With one last effort, I teleported outside the building, the cool night air hitting my face as I reappeared.

The sudden change in temperature was a shock, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the hall.

My legs moved on their own, driven by survival instincts as I sprinted away from the danger, my heart pounding like a drum, echoing in my ears with each frantic beat.

But as I fled, the relief of escape was tempered by an uneasy feeling in my gut.

The night's chill couldn't quell the simmering dread that something far worse loomed on the horizon.

My mind raced, thoughts spiraling into uncertainty.

Little did I know that this encounter was just the beginning of a very interesting—and possibly perilous—chapter in my life.

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[Nexus Headquarters—meeting hall]

In a large, dimly lit office, several officers sat around a polished mahogany table, the atmosphere tense and thick with unspoken anxiety.

The shadows seemed to stretch across the room, intertwining with the officers' rising dread.

At the head of the table sat a man whose presence commanded the room—Robert, the head of Nexus officers and the strongest hero of the present age.

His every gesture, from the crisp lines of his suit to the steely glint in his eyes, radiated authority.

"So, you're saying you failed to catch him?" Robert's voice cut through the silence like a blade, cold and precise.

His gaze swept over the officers seated before him, each one avoiding his eyes, the weight of their failure pressing heavily on their shoulders.

The room seemed to shrink under his scrutiny, the air thick with disappointment and fear.

"He killed many influential people in our country," Robert continued, his tone a blend of frustration and barely restrained anger.

"Businessmen, politicians, doctors... these were individuals vital to our nation's stability. Their absences are leaving gaping holes that we are struggling to fill, and it is not enough. Our country is suffering."

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing into slits of barely contained rage.

"And you're telling me you failed to catch him? Are you serious?" His voice rose, echoing off the walls with a ferocity that made the officers flinch as if struck.

The words hung in the air, heavy and accusing, amplifying the tension that already threatened to suffocate the room.

The room fell silent, the officers shrinking under Robert's intense scrutiny.

The gravity of their failure hung like a noose around their necks, each one acutely aware of the repercussions of their inadequacy.

Robert's disappointment was evident, his eyes burning with a fierce resolve that seemed to sear into their very souls.

This was more than a mission—it was a matter of national security, and they had let him down.

The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, as Robert's steely gaze bore into each of them.

The unspoken weight of their collective failure pressed down, a crushing force that none dared to challenge.

"I'm sorry. It was completely my fault. I wasn't careful enough and let him slip away," Roman, the old officer, admitted, his voice heavy with remorse.

His lined face bore the marks of years of service, but today, it was etched with regret, his eyes downcast under the weight of his confession.

Robert's eyes flicked to Roman, his expression hard and unyielding.

"I don't want your sorry. I want results. Do any of you have any idea how to catch him?" His voice resonated with authority and frustration, cutting through the room like a whip.

"Yes, sir. I do," came a confident voice from the end of the table.

It was James, a younger officer known for his strategic mind.

His posture was upright, his eyes bright with determination.

"Very well, tell me," Robert demanded, leaning forward slightly, his interest piqued but his patience thin.

"With your permission, sir, may I explain a few things first?" James asked, his tone respectful yet firm, the intensity in his eyes unwavering.

Robert's impatience was evident in the tightness of his jaw.

"Is that important?" he asked sharply, his voice a low growl of irritation.

"Yes, sir," James affirmed, meeting Robert's gaze with unwavering determination, the air between them charged with unspoken resolve.

"Okay. Go ahead," Robert granted, leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on James, the room's tension momentarily shifting to anticipation.

"George!" James nodded and called out.

His assistant, George, entered the room flanked by a few officers.

They moved with purpose, quickly setting up a projector, a screen, and spreading out several documents on the table, the air buzzing with the sound of preparations.

As the lights dimmed, a hush fell over the room, the officers' faces illuminated by the soft glow of the projector.

The hum of the machine filled the silence, a prelude to the unfolding strategy.

The projector cast a bright beam onto the screen, the images slowly coming into focus—a mosaic of maps, surveillance photos, and charts filled with intricate data.

James stepped to the front, his demeanor focused and intense.

And so he began his explanation.