Hiroki stood his ground, both chakram halves held visible in his hands, drawing the Perfect Worker's attention. It was perfect misdirection – while his opponent focused on the obvious threat, another chakram half was already curving through the shadows behind him. The blade struck true, tearing through the Perfect Worker's pristine shirt and into flesh beneath. As the weapon ripped free and returned to Hiroki's call, something dark and viscous – not quite blood – oozed from the wound.
Before the Perfect Worker could fully process this first hit, the second chakram half descended from above like a falling star. It buried itself deep in his thigh, the impact finally breaking that mechanical perfection of his stance. The blade pulled free at Hiroki's command, returning to his grip as the Perfect Worker stumbled for the first time, his pristine posture finally faltering.
The Perfect Worker touched his wounded side, looking at the dark stain on his fingers with an expression of mild surprise. "Unauthorized damage to company personnel," he said, his voice still maintaining that artificial cheerfulness despite a new underlying tension. "This will require extensive paperwork."
The truth behind Hiroki's deception revealed itself – in the chaos of flying blades and fire, he'd forged another chakram, split it, and launched its halves into strategic positions. What made this truly clever was how he'd muted their essence signature, dampening their arcane presence to near-invisibility. By drastically reducing their power, he sacrificed raw force for stealth, turning them into ghost blades that sliced through the Perfect Worker's awareness. The tradeoff had worked – even a weaker hit was better than no hit at all.
When the Perfect Worker stumbled, his immaculate composure cracking for just a fraction of a second, Hiroki struck. He rocketed downward, leading with a kick that the Perfect Worker managed to dodge – but that was exactly what Hiroki wanted. The first kick was a feint, and his second leg was already whipping around in a devastating roundhouse, charged with compressed essence that had been building in his muscles since he began his descent.
The impact caught the Perfect Worker square in his wounded side. There was a satisfying crack as the kick connected, sending the once-pristine figure hurtling toward the warehouse wall like a business-casual missile.
But Hiroki wasn't finished.
Before the Perfect Worker could even impact the wall, Hiroki's hands were already moving. He compressed essence between his palms, condensing it into a sphere of pure heat and power. The orb hummed with barely contained energy, white-hot and hungry. As the Perfect Worker crashed into the wall, Hiroki released his creation.
The explosion was spectacular. The orb detonated on impact, turning the industrial wall into abstract art. Steel beams twisted like melted candy, concrete crumbled, and the entire section of wall collapsed inward, burying the Perfect Worker under tonnes of superheated debris.
Through the settling dust and smoke, Hiroki could hear something that sounded disturbingly like a customer service voice recording: "We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please hold..."
"Kid..." Arkan's voice was thick with unexpected emotion. "That was some seriously fine-tuned essence control. And those kicks? Perfect form."
"Stop being weird," Hiroki muttered, but couldn't quite hide his grin. "You're acting like a proud dad at a soccer game."
They stood there, staring at the pile of smoking rubble, neither quite willing to approach it. The silence stretched uncomfortably.
"You know," Arkan finally said, "in movies, this is always the part where—"
"Where the villain springs back to life the moment the hero turns their back?" Hiroki finished. "Yeah, I know."
"So shouldn't we check?"
"See, there's a reason movie heroes don't do that," Hiroki said, idly scratching his cheek. "It's the same reason I never checked my test scores right after an exam I kind of studied for. That anxiety of not knowing if you failed? Way better than the confirmation that you're a dumbass."
"Sounds like you speak from extensive experience," Arkan observed dryly. "The dumbass part, specifically."
Hiroki shrugged. "Whatever. We need to get to Abeni, and—"
A sound cut through the warehouse – concrete shifting, metal groaning. The rubble where they'd buried the Perfect Worker began to move.
"I told you so!" Arkan's sing-song voice echoed in Hiroki's head. "I literally just told you so!"
"Yeah, yeah," Hiroki grumbled, turning back to face the stirring debris. "Movie logic wins again."
The debris exploded outward as the Perfect Worker emerged, transformed. Gone was the corporate poster boy – in his place stood something rawer, more primal. His once-pristine hair hung in singed strands around a face that maintained its uncanny beauty even through the burns and cuts. His shredded clothes revealed muscles that rippled with barely contained power. He'd morphed from a corporate success story into a union striker's fever dream – all coiled strength and barely contained fury, the embodiment of labor pushed too far.
"Oh shit," Arkan's voice held genuine alarm. "We've really pissed him off now."
Heavy breaths escaped the Perfect Worker's lips – not from exhaustion, but from something closer to anticipation. The façade of humanity had cracked, revealing the truth Hiroki had sensed all along: this was a wraith, bound and shaped by the territory's will into this twisted parody of workplace perfection.
"I'm afraid I'll be working overtime," the Perfect Worker announced, his voice still maintaining that customer service lilt despite the savage gleam in his eyes. "All of my hours. At once."
The words didn't register at first, then horror bloomed across Hiroki's face as understanding hit. He turned to run, but it was already too late. Just like when he'd first arrived, his body betrayed him.
The Perfect Worker's essence erupted – not in waves this time, but in a devastating flood. The arcane energy around them churned and twisted, corrupted by his power. It hit Hiroki like a spiritual avalanche. His speed vanished, his instincts dulled to nothing, his concentration scattered like leaves in a storm. Even his connection to his own power grew faint and fuzzy.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Through dulled senses, Hiroki saw the Perfect Worker move – no longer walking, but gliding through the essence-thick air like a shark through bloody water. His approach was inevitable, unstoppable.
The Perfect Worker's fist connected with Hiroki's jaw, but something was different about the voice that followed – a hollow, administrative tone that seemed to echo from somewhere beyond the warehouse. The supervisor, speaking through his perfect puppet while it systematically dismantled its target.
"How uncouth to expose one's abilities," the voice mused as another blow sent Hiroki's world spinning. Each punch landed with mechanical precision, not meant to send him flying but to keep him trapped in this nightmarish moment. Through the haze of impacts and that crushing spiritual weight, the supervisor continued his monologue.
"But since this vessel has already expended its full potential, I suppose I can illuminate you." Another strike, this one driving the air from Hiroki's lungs. "This is Worker's Dread."
The Perfect Worker's assault never ceased as the voice explained, each hit punctuating the horror of his words. "That leaden feeling in your gut when the alarm rings at 5 AM. The suffocating pressure when your supervisor dumps another urgent project on your desk. The soul-crushing weight of mandatory overtime after you've already worked extra hours."
A particularly vicious blow made Hiroki's knees buckle. "The gradual death of dreams as you trade your passions for more shifts. The realization that this – this grinding routine – is all there is. All there ever will be."
The Perfect Worker's movements became almost balletic in their violence, a deadly dance of corporate oppression given physical form. "I've taken that eternal despair – decades of countless workers sacrificing their lives to the grind – and condensed it into this space. Your spirit will be broken by the infinite workday."
Hiroki's body felt like lead, his thoughts moving through molasses as that overwhelming dread pressed down on him.
Despite the barrage, Hiroki remained upright, swaying but defiant. He spat blood, a crimson splash against the concrete, and managed a bloody grin. "Shouldn't you be fighting Abeni right now? Must be losing pretty bad if you've got time to chat." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Bet she didn't want to hear your tragic backstory. Takeshi probably couldn't care less either. So you're dumping it all on me, thinking I'll be your therapist?"
The Perfect Worker's response was another flurry of strikes, but now his sad smile took on a more sinister edge. "The second ability is called 'Overtime Charge.'" His fist connected with Hiroki's ribs. "Time and a half."
Understanding flickered across Hiroki's battered face even before the explanation continued.
"Five minutes of uninterrupted strikes," the Perfect Worker said, each word punctuated by another blow, "and my power increases by one and a half times."
The transformation was palpable. After the first five minutes, each hit carried the force of a sledgehammer. Another five minutes passed, and the impacts became like wrecking balls. Five minutes more, and each strike exploded against Hiroki's body with devastating force, the air itself cracking from the impacts.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, Hiroki struggled to mount any effective defense. His attempts to reverse the charge fell flat, his depleted stamina leaving his movements sluggish and weak. Even his special abilities failed him – he couldn't muster the energy to boost his attacks, and his echo technique, usually so reliable for reading incoming strikes, was useless with his focus scattered to the winds. Still, he fought on, throwing desperate counters that the Perfect Worker brushed aside like annoying insects.
The fight ended as it had before – with Hiroki dangling helplessly in his opponent's iron grip. The supervisor's voice emerged from the Perfect Worker's mouth, dripping with cold disdain.
"All I wanted was to exact my revenge in peace. Why did you people have to interfere?"
"We..." Hiroki choked out between labored breaths, "we were just told to eliminate a rogue wraith. Nobody mentioned any of this other business."
The Perfect Worker's grip tightened slightly. "Then tell me – what personal vendetta do you have against me? I've never harmed an innocent soul. What I do here is justice, pure and simple." His voice took on an edge of righteous fury. "These mindless drones you're so eager to protect? They're the ones who destroyed my life, who tortured me endlessly. Every single one of them deserves what's coming."
Hiroki let out a strained laugh. "A grudge? I'm not sure I have one. I'd like to think I'm decent enough, but I'm no stereotypical hero with an unshakeable moral code." His eyes narrowed. "But I've worked jobs like this before. I know how it goes – everyone turns into an asshole because they're all scrambling for scraps. The system breaks people."
His gaze swept across the desolate facility. "But you know what I find interesting? The boss of this place – whether it was a factory or warehouse – is nowhere to be found. You're picking off the little guys, but the one who profited from all this suffering gets away clean."
"The boss was never my enemy. I never even met them," the Perfect Worker responded coldly.
"And that's exactly the problem, isn't it?" Hiroki's voice grew stronger despite the crushing grip on his throat. "A worker suffers, and the boss never even shows their face. All this pain, all this torment, and they probably never set foot in here. But you can bet they made their profit."
He fixed his eyes on the Perfect Worker, seeing past the construct to the supervisor controlling it. "I might not know the whole story, but in the end, I think you're not so different from the employees who tortured you. You're perpetuating the same cycle – hurting others for your benefit while the real owner lives free and easy. You've become just another cog in this rotten system."
Suddenly, clarity sparked in Hiroki's eyes. A plan crystallized in his mind, born of desperate inspiration.
"Arkan!" he called out, his voice stronger despite the chokehold. The wraith materialized beside him in an instant. "Arkan, become my crucible!"
The wraith responded with a crisp salute before erupting into brilliant flames. Its form expanded and transformed, morphing into a massive, ornate cylindrical vessel that gleamed with mystical energy. The elaborate patterns etched across its surface pulsed with power.
"Sorry about this," Hiroki said, his grip tightening on the Perfect Worker's arms that held him. "But I've been holding back too long."
All this time, he had been keeping his essence tightly contained, compressed like a coiled spring ready to explode. Now, he did the opposite. Instead of maintaining that suffocating tension, he let everything loose at once. The crucible began to rotate, and white-hot flames burst forth from every direction, enveloping both combatants in their searing embrace.
Where the Perfect Worker's grip had once burned cold with domination, Hiroki's touch now blazed with unbearable heat. The release of his fire, intertwining with his arcane essence, created a swirling inferno around him. As the flames danced and surged, Hiroki felt energy returning to his limbs, his thoughts becoming sharper. The heat wasn't just a weapon – it was rejuvenating him, burning away the fog of exhaustion and bringing newfound clarity to his mind.
s the inferno raged around them, Hiroki emerged like a demon risen from the depths of hell itself. The Perfect Worker watched as the flames licked and danced around his opponent's form, the intense heat beginning to affect even his enhanced structure.
"I summon my blades from the forges of my crucible!" Hiroki's voice rang out through the maelstrom of fire.
From within the rotating crucible emerged a weapon of breathtaking beauty – an immaculate blade that caught and reflected the surrounding flames. Its wide body gleamed with an otherworldly sheen, and its ornately decorated hilt sparkled with embedded jewels that seemed to pulse with their own inner light. Beside him, the transformed Arkan continued to rumble and churn, streams of flame trailing from its cylindrical form like molten ribbons.
Hiroki could feel the emptiness within him now – he had expelled everything, every last drop of his power and essence into this final display. His opponent, too, showed signs of having reached their limit, both warriors having pushed themselves beyond their usual boundaries.
"Time to finally end this," Hiroki declared, raising the magnificent blade. The statement wasn't a boast or a threat – just a simple acknowledgment that they had reached the point of no return. One way or another, this conflict would reach its conclusion.