Chapter 132: Kill The Smashers

Chapter 132

The door creaked open.

Each step that followed wasn’t loud—but every one of them carried weight, pressure, and intent. As if the very air itself bent to the rhythm of the intruder’s footsteps.

Kalen, slumped in the far corner of the room, let out a weak, dark chuckle. Her voice was hoarse, but laced with bitterness.

"Took you long enough," she muttered. "So... you’ve finally come to erase me, haven’t you?"

She raised her head slowly, strands of her dark hair clinging to her bruised face. Blood had dried at the edges of her lips. Her hollow eyes met the man standing before her—Lord Buster.

His face twisted with barely-contained fury, the veins in his neck and temples pulsing as he stared down at her.

"Why didn’t you do it?" he asked. His voice was deep—so deep it seemed to rumble through the walls.

Kalen met his gaze calmly, but her heart was thudding violently in her chest. She knew what kind of punishment awaited those who disobeyed Buster. And she knew better than anyone that death... would be mercy.

"I spared her," Kalen said softly. "She had every chance to kill me, but she didn’t. I returned the favor."

"In what damn principle of the Smashers is that allowed?" Buster snapped, his voice cold as iron.



"I don’t follow those principles anymore," she replied. Her voice no longer trembled—it was eerily steady. "The Smashers are monsters. You made them that way. And I refuse to be one of your monsters any longer."

That was all Buster needed to hear.

In an instant, his hand wrapped around her throat. With monstrous force, he hoisted her off the ground and slammed her against the wall—once, twice, then a third time. The concrete cracked. Blood sprayed from her temple.

But she didn’t scream.

The true agony came from his grip tightening around her neck, crushing her windpipe. Her face turned yellow, then a ghastly shade of purple. Her limbs twitched, her lungs burning for air.

"You don’t decide your fate," Buster growled, his eyes glowing with primal hatred. "I do."

Just when her vision began to fade—just when the darkness began to pull her under—he released her.

Kalen crumpled to the floor like a broken doll, her head smashing against the concrete with a sickening thud. More blood spilled beneath her.

A lesser being—human or awakened—would’ve died then and there.

But not a Smasher.

"You think death is your escape?" Buster sneered as he turned away. "No. That would be too kind."

He stepped toward the door.

"The others will punish you. Not me. The rest of the Smashers will tear you apart slowly. Piece by piece."

Kalen’s breath caught in her throat.

Terror replaced the pain.

The rest of the Smashers... they weren’t like her. Or Argon. They were machines in flesh—merciless, obedient to Buster’s will. Automatic weapons in human form. If Buster was a monster, they were his hounds. And nothing gave them more joy than collective torture.

Her fingers trembled.

"No... No. Not them..."

Her body froze as her mind spiraled. Images of what they’d do to her—what they had done to others—flashed through her mind like a fever dream.

"I’d rather die," she whispered, barely audible. Her voice was dry. Hollow. Desperate.

Her eyes lost their color. Her lips trembled.

"I’d rather die than fall into their hands."

She pressed her bleeding head against the cold floor, her breath shaky and uneven.

"I wish they’d all just die..." she muttered under her breath, too weak to scream, too shattered to cry.

And then... silence.

Somewhere Else...

The room was vast and dimly lit, humming with quiet power.

Sleek, metallic walls were lined with massive digital screens, each displaying different sectors of Maurina City. From street-level surveillance to thermal scans and energy readings, every inch of the city was under watch. Dozens of floating drones buzzed silently in the corners, feeding constant data to holographic panels suspended mid-air. Along the walls, glowing cores pulsed in sync with the electrical systems—an integration of beast cores and machine only possible through advanced tech-evolution.

Security was airtight. Reinforced doors sealed with both biometric and arcane locks. Surveillance orbs floated overhead, scanning for threats with blinking red eyes. The whole place felt like the brain of a living machine—one designed for control, calculation, and countermeasures.

Three figures stepped inside.

Each of them was instantly recognizable to anyone who followed the rankings of the world’s elite defenders.

The first, with fiery red hair and casual crimson-white attire, was The Undying Flame, S-Class Rank 3—a living embodiment of heat and destruction. His very presence radiated warmth.

The second wore a long black overcoat over a rugged frame, his thick, wild brown hair brushing the collar. This was The Beast, Rank 2—a man whose raw strength alone could level buildings.

The third was calm and poised. His short black hair was neatly styled, and a sleek one-eyed goggle covered his right eye, blinking with data feeds only he could read. Dressed in a sharp blue longcoat over black trousers, he was Lord Tech, S-Class Rank 4—the genius behind most of the technological marvels used by the Hero Command.

They stood before a curved console filled with glowing glyphs and floating symbols, silently observing the moving images of Maurina City on the central holoscreen.

The Beast grunted as he stared at the vast surveillance map. Every alley, every building, every crowd—it was all here, neatly cataloged and tracked. It felt... unnatural.

"I don’t get all this," he said bluntly. "But I know a stronghold when I see one. You built all this in a few hours?"



Lord Tech didn’t look up. He simply smirked.

He was always astonished by how Lord Tech could build such sophisticated technology in just a few hours. The man was a true genius—if he was considered second-best, then no one alive could ever claim the title of first.

With a few fluid motions, Lord Tech approached a large cylindrical chamber at the far end of the room. He input a series of rapid commands. The chamber hissed, then exhaled a puff of white mist. The outer casing parted, revealing a thick glass tube inside—floating within it, a glowing pink shard, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

The Evol Shard.

"So that’s where you kept it," The Beast muttered, eyes narrowing. "For something that powerful, this setup doesn’t seem... indestructible."

"I wouldn’t recommend trying to rip it open," Lord Tech replied dryly, "unless you want a detonation equivalent to a small star imploding."

The Undying Flame finally spoke. "So why show it to us now?"

Lord Tech turned to them both, his voice sharp and precise. "Because keeping the Evol Shard hidden is no longer helping the plan."

The two men blinked. "What do you mean?" asked the Flame, frowning.

"I mean," Lord Tech continued, "starting tomorrow—and until the final day of the Tournament of Power—it will be put on full display."

Both The Undying Flame and The Beast looked at him, confused.

He sighed. "Do I always have to explain everything?"

"Yes," The Beast said flatly.

Lord Tech ignored the jab and went on. "The Cursed Organization is already in Maurina. I’m sure of it. But they’re laying low, avoiding attention. Too calculated. Too careful."

He tapped the glass.

"Put the Evol Shard out in the open, and that changes. Their greed will override their discipline. They’ll make a move. A mistake. And when they do—we’ll catch them."

The two nodded, understanding his strategy. But Tech wasn’t finished.

"That’s only the first problem," he continued. "The second... is everyone else."

He turned to face them fully.

"The Evol Shard doesn’t just tempt the Cursed. It tempts everyone. Mercenaries. Rogues. Hidden factions. If it stays on display for too long, it will create a frenzy. And not even we can contain the chaos if Maurina erupts."

The room fell silent for a moment.

"Then what’s the plan?" The Undying Flame asked.

"We accelerate the tournament," Lord Tech said. "Condense the schedule. Push through the matches faster than planned."

"And once the tournament ends..." The Beast clenched his fist, eyes glowing. "We bring the Cursed to justice."

Lord Tech nodded.

"Exactly."

The three stood in silence, the hum of the chamber and the pulse of the Evol Shard the only sound in the room.

In another city, on a distant continent...

Inside a dimly lit bar that stretched wide like a forgotten hall, only two figures occupied the room. The place, though lined with cozy seats and polished tables, felt hollow—its silence thick and suffocating.

One man sat alone in a plush, high-backed chair near the center. He had short black hair, a heavy black coat draped over his broad shoulders, and a single eye patch covering his left eye. His posture was calm, his gaze unreadable—but his presence distorted the air itself. It wasn’t fear that filled the room, but reverence. This wasn’t an ordinary man. He was an assassin. And not just any assassin—an S-rank. Beings whispered about in the darkest corners of the world. Existence that even Class S heroes feared.

Kneeling in front of the man, forehead pressed to the floor, was a trembling man clutching a large metallic case. It creaked open to reveal stacks upon stacks of cash—easily hundreds of millions in yen. Yet no amount of money could mask the fear in his shaking voice.

"...Why did you request to see me?" the one-eyed assassin asked, his tone steady and emotionless.

The kneeling man didn’t dare raise his head. "I... I need your help," he stammered. "To kill some people..."

"How many?" the assassin asked, calm as ever.

"I—I don’t know... maybe ten or more."

A pause. Then the assassin’s voice, like a blade dragging across stone:

"Coming to me unprepared... not knowing who you want dead? That’s not bold—it’s suicidal."

The man’s heart pounded like a war drum. In desperation, he slammed his head against the ground again and again, smearing blood across the floor.



"Please! You’re the only one who can do it! They have to die!"

The assassin tilted his head slightly. "How strong are they?"

"T-They’re monsters," the man said, voice cracking. "All of them. Too strong... They killed everyone I loved... they left nothing behind..."

His voice cracked further as his emotions finally burst through the surface. He sobbed uncontrollably, fingers digging into the floor.

"Please... please... they need to die. Someone has to stop them. Someone like you."

"Who are they?" the assassin asked bluntly.

The man looked up, eyes bloodshot and filled with rage.

"The Smashers," he whispered, voice laced with pure hate.

"Please... kill the Smashers."

To be continued...

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