Chapter 93: Predator’s Hunt

Chapter 93: Predator’s HuntChapter 93

"Why?"

The man asked, voice barely more than a whisper. He was too broken—physically and mentally drained—to speak properly. His bloodshot eyes trembled with the weight of despair as he stared up at the monster in human skin.

The figure before him only grinned wider, shadows dancing across his twisted expression.

"Simple," the man replied coldly, voice laced with amusement.

"You were all prey... and I’m the predator that came to claim his hunt."

The dying man’s eyes flickered with pain—and something else. Regret.

Regret for ever admiring this thing. Regret for once calling this monster a role model.

"You’ll regret this..." he muttered, the fire in his voice flickering back to life for one last moment. "You’ll get what’s coming to you... Buster."

The name hung in the air like a curse.

And then—CRACK.



His skull was crushed in Buster’s palm like wet clay.

The body dropped limply to the ground.

Buster stood still for a moment, surveying the devastation around him—the once-thriving city now reduced to ash, rubble, and corpses. A crooked smile slowly stretched across his face.


"Damn... that felt good," he muttered, flexing his blood-streaked muscles. Then he turned and walked out, each step echoing through the empty streets. The symbol etched across his back—a red X pierced by a black spear—glowed faintly under the moonlight.

The mark of death.

---

Hours Later...

Buster arrived at a massive, iron-forged structure that towered like a fortress. Unlike other Class S heroes, he didn’t belong to any official guild. No, Buster had built his own team.

They called themselves The Smashers.

To the public, the Smashers were seen as a rogue group of heroes who handled dangerous missions, took down assassins, and filled the gap where order faltered.

But the truth?

They were chaos incarnate.

A gang of battle-hungry delinquents sponsored by Buster himself—each one an A-rank powerhouse awakened through brutal, often illegal methods. And they thrived on destruction.

As Buster entered, the Smashers greeted him casually, unfazed by the blood still caking his body. It wasn’t unusual. Violence was as routine to them as breathing.

He stripped off his bloodied clothes and headed for the showers, letting the hot water wash away the remains of his latest massacre. None of the others said a word. They were used to it. Many had done the same—or worse.

Clean and refreshed, Buster gathered the Smashers in the central hall.

"I’m going to the Tournament of Power," he announced, a glint of excitement in his eyes, "and I’m getting my hands on the Evol Shard."

The room went silent. Brows rose in surprise, but their faces remained largely expressionless—empty gazes, trained to suppress emotion. They’d seen too much. Done too much.

Everyone knew the rule:

Class S heroes weren’t allowed to participate.

Buster snorted at their lackluster reactions.

"Relax. I’m not entering myself," he said, waving a hand. "I’ll be sending two of you."

A few Smashers straightened, suddenly more alert.

"I want you to compete. Win the Evol Shard. Take every prize they offer. And while you’re at it..."

He grinned, sharp and wicked.

"...tear the place apart."

"Argon. Kalen."

Two figures stepped forward without hesitation.

Argon—a short-haired man with cold brown eyes and the presence of a coiled serpent.

Kalen—a short-haired woman whose quiet stillness was more terrifying than any battle cry.

Both emotionless. Both killers.

Both terrifyingly competent.

"You’ve got two days. Pack light. We head to the Middle Continent."

Buster chuckled, dark and eager.

"There’s power waiting... and plenty of chaos to spread."

_ _ _

Somewhere else

Two figures moved silently through the dense forest, their expressions calm and focused. They wore deep crimson armor, the letter C emblazoned on their chests—a clear symbol of their allegiance.

They were members of the Red Vanguard.

"Still can’t believe Lord Ferris went alone to confront the Obsidian Guild," one of them muttered, glancing at his partner.

The second man simply shrugged. "It’s Ferris. He’s our leader for a reason."

Everyone in the Red Vanguard knew Ferris was no ordinary warrior—his strength was the stuff of legend. But even so, taking on the Obsidian Guild alone? That was borderline suicide.

The Obsidian Guild was one of the oldest surviving factions, rumored to have been founded by several S-rankers who perished during the Sendok Calamity. There were no S-rankers left among them now, but nearly every member was an A-ranker—and they numbered in the hundreds.

Still, Ferris had made the decision. And as two of the Red Vanguard’s strongest, these men chose to back him up.

Unlike most guilds nestled safely within cities, the Obsidian Guild stood apart—isolated and independent. It rarely aligned with others, but when it did... chaos followed. Eliminating them had become a top priority.

As they reached the heart of the forest, both men stopped abruptly.

Silence.

An eerie, unnatural silence.

A knot of worry twisted in their stomachs.

"Could Ferris have... lost?" one whispered.

They quickened their pace, urgency creeping into their steps. But as they pushed deeper, entering the guild’s territory—structured like a miniature city—they found nothing.

No sentries. No scouts.

No bodies.

No blood.

Just... emptiness.

"It’s like the place has been abandoned for years..." the first muttered, unease prickling at his neck.

They searched every corner, every corridor. Still, no sign of life.

Then, a faint glow caught the second man’s eye.



He tapped his partner and pointed toward a distant building outside the main guild compound. It was large, looming, and bathed in a constant, pulsing red light.

They walked toward it. Step after step, the glow intensified, almost breathing—alive.

As they neared the entrance, the first man hesitated. His instincts screamed caution.

"Something’s not right..."

But the second man didn’t wait. He gripped the handle and pushed the door open.

Inside stood a familiar silhouette.

"Sir Ferris!" they both said, quickly bowing.

Ferris didn’t speak at first. His face was unreadable.

"...Let’s go," he said at last, turning and walking past them without another glance.

The second man followed immediately.

But the first lingered, drawn to the room beyond the doorway. The glow had vanished now, replaced by a suffocating darkness.

Still... something felt off.

He stared for a second longer before his skin began to crawl, and he turned, hurrying to catch up with the others.

Moments later, as the trio disappeared into the forest, the clouds parted and moonlight poured through the high windows of the building.

What it revealed was pure horror.

A mountain of corpses stretched toward the ceiling, bodies piled grotesquely atop one another.

But it wasn’t the number that was most disturbing—

—it was the state of the dead.

Each one had been completely drained.

Not of just blood.

But of everything.

Only hollow husks remained, their faces frozen in expressions of agony.

_ _ _

Unknown Location

A man with red hair, clad in sleek black armor, stepped into a massive, dimly lit chamber. The air was heavy with power. At the center of the room floated a solitary figure—his long crimson hair drifted weightlessly around him as streams of elemental particles spiraled into his body like ribbons of light.

He wore a fusion of an armored suit and a flowing black robe—an outfit that radiated both mystique and menace. Fire, water, earth, lightning, and more—all elemental forces gathered toward him, dissolving into his form as though the world itself offered him tribute.

Striker, the red-haired man who had just entered, stood silently at the threshold. He had seen this process once before. Yet, even now, it unnerved him. The sensation, the sight—it felt wrong, unnatural... inhumane even.

The glow began to fade. The last of the particles vanished into the man’s body as he slowly descended to the ground, eyes closed until his feet touched down. Then, they opened—calm, sharp, unreadable.

"What do you want, Striker?" the man asked without turning, his tone flat and cold.

His name was Magus, one of the Dark Emissaries, beings whispered about in both reverence and fear. They were the pinnacle of destructive force—each one capable of decimating armies alone. That very power was why their relationships were complicated. They didn’t work together. They didn’t need to. And they certainly weren’t friends.

Striker gave a casual shrug.

"Take it easy, Magus."

He smirked, trying to provoke a reaction.

"You still act like some kind of robot."

Magus gave no response—no glance, no shift in expression.

Striker clicked his tongue.

"Tch. Cold as ever." He shook his head before continuing.

"I’ve got a message from the boss. Thought you should hear it directly."

He relayed the message with minimal flair. Magus remained still, but a faint flicker of surprise passed through his eyes.

Striker noticed. And internally, he chuckled.

He’d had the same reaction when he first heard it.

---

A Few Hours Earlier

In a dim chamber deep within the sprawling fortress, a man with violet hair swirled a glass of wine with practiced grace. His posture was relaxed, refined. His presence—commanding.

Across from him sat Striker, brows furrowed, clearly uneasy.

"Drake, are you seriously planning to attend the Tournament of Power?"

The man—Drake, the leader of the Cursed Organization—nodded, calm as ever. His gaze was distant, calculating.

Striker leaned forward, voice low and tense.

"You know it’s a setup. The Hero Association just wants to bait us out. If they capture you... the entire organization could collapse."

Drake didn’t respond immediately. He took a slow sip of wine, then set the glass down with a faint clink.

"Of course it’s a trap," he said evenly.

"But we need the Evol Shard. Without it, Project: Ultimate won’t progress."

He smiled faintly, as though amused by the obvious.

"The Hero Association severely underestimates what we’re capable of."

Striker looked confused. His instincts screamed caution, but he couldn’t ignore the confidence in Drake’s voice.

Drake leaned forward, eyes gleaming as he explained his plan.

And as the details unfolded, Striker’s expression shifted—from skepticism, to shock, to awe.

By the end, he was chuckling.



"They won’t know what hit them." Drake’s voice was calm, but the threat was unmistakable.

"The Hero Association will walk right into our hands."

---

Back to the Present

Magus turned slightly, observing Striker, who stood with his eyes closed, a faint smirk on his face.

"Why are you smirking?" Magus asked flatly.

Striker opened his eyes and let out a quiet, dark chuckle.

"Just thinking..." he muttered, turning to leave.

At the doorway, he paused.

"With three Dark Emissaries and Drake’s plan in motion, the Hero Association doesn’t stand a chance." He smiled wickedly.

"They’re about to fall right into their own trap."

To be continued...