110: Chapter 110 The Witcher

The farewell party continued.

Gray had drunk too much and was slumped over the table, fast asleep.

Sheriff Brown had left at some point, leaving half a glass of whiskey behind.

Otis sat next to Sean, drinking glass after glass; his face was flushed, and he became talkative.

He began to recount stories from when he first met Sean...

On his first dispatch, Sean didn't even know how to drive a police car and nearly crashed into a fire hydrant.

The first time he handled a domestic violence case, Sean got hit in the head with a slipper by the family's old lady.

The first time he fired his gun, he missed, and the bullet flew into the neighbor's chicken coop.

Every story drew roars of laughter from everyone, and Sean laughed along with them.

Max stood behind the bar, wiping glasses and listening to the stories with a slight curl at the corner of her mouth. Caroline was listening too, glancing at Sean from time to time with a mix of curiosity and admiration in her eyes.

By the time the farewell party broke up, it was nearly dawn. Gray was carried off by two colleagues. Otis stood up, swayed a bit, steadied himself, and patted Sean on the shoulder. "I'm heading out."

Sean nodded. "Be careful on the road."

Otis turned to leave. After two steps, he stopped and said without looking back, "Sean, you're a good cop. No matter where you go." He pushed open the door and walked out.

Sean sat at the bar, watching the closed door.

The lights in the bar were still dim, and the air still smelled of alcohol and fried food. Max came over, cleared the glasses from the bar, and wiped it clean.

"Not leaving yet?" she asked.

Sean stood up. "Leaving now."

He walked to the entrance and pushed open the door.

The night breeze blew in, carrying the humidity unique to New Orleans.

He glanced back; Max was standing behind the bar, watching him.

Caroline was also standing nearby, giving him a wave.

Max called out, "Take care, Officer."

Sean nodded. "Take care."

As the farewell party ended, Sean stood at the bar's entrance, the night breeze blowing with that characteristic New Orleans dampness.

He pulled out his phone to call a ride, but his fingers tapped the screen twice without hitting the right spot.

He had drunk too much and his head was a bit foggy, but he wasn't completely out of it yet.

He leaned against the wall, took a deep breath, and thought for a moment...

The manor was too far; it wasn't safe to drive back, and he'd have to wait for a ride.

His apartment, however, was close—right on the edge of the French Quarter, about a ten-minute walk away.

He hadn't been back in a long time; ever since moving into Hill Manor, that run-down apartment had been empty.

The keys were still in his pocket; he had never taken them off.

Sean pushed open the door. One of the hallway lights was broken, and dim light filtered through the stairwell window, illuminating the dust-covered steps.

He went up to the third floor, pulled out his keys, and struggled for a while before getting the door open.

It had been so long that the lock was a bit rusty.

When the door pushed open, a scent wafted out from inside.

It wasn't the smell of mold, nor that stuffy odor of a place uninhabited with no air circulation; it was a different scent, one he couldn't quite place.

But—

His [Intermediate Magic Power] suddenly jolted in his mind!

Sean's drunkenness vanished instantly!

He stood at the door, hand still gripping the handle, his entire body tensed.

Moonlight shone through the window, casting a grayish-white glow on the floor.

The apartment was quiet—unnaturally quiet.

Sean's expression turned serious, all traces of alcohol gone.

He stood in the center of the living room, slowly turning as his gaze scanned the surroundings like a scanner—

Ceiling, walls, floor, doors, windows. Magic power spread out in all directions like an invisible net, capturing every trace of abnormal fluctuation.

Sean scanned everything once and confirmed there was nothing in the room.

But that aura was still there—

Something had definitely come looking for him!

It wasn't just passing through; it had come specifically for him!

A chill ran down Sean's back.

If he hadn't gone to Los Angeles, if he had returned to the apartment that night, what would he have encountered?

He didn't know.

But he knew that thing would come back.

Because the aura it left behind was still there, like a dog marking its territory by urinating on a tree root.

Bang!

Just as Sean was thinking, the window suddenly shattered.

It wasn't smashed from the outside; it exploded from the inside.

Glass shards flew out like bullets. Sean ducked to the side, his hand already drawing the gun from behind his waist.

A Glock 19, safety already off, muzzle pointed toward the window.

Moonlight flooded in through the broken window, illuminating two figures.

Two men stood on the windowsill, one tall and one short, both dressed in dark clothes and carrying an air of being travel-worn.

The tall one had blonde hair, a long face, and a serious expression; he held a short blade that glinted coldly in the moonlight.

The short one had black hair and was scruffy with stubble; he held a revolver pointed at Sean.

The look in both of their eyes was the same...

It wasn't the look of a cop, nor the look of a criminal—it was the look of a hunter!

"Don't move." The short one spoke, his voice raspy with a Southern accent. "Put the gun down."

Sean naturally did not put the gun down, simply asking in return, "Who are you?"

"Demon Hunters," the tall one said, his voice younger than the short one's and colder. "You have the aura of a demon on you. We need to check you."

Demon Hunters?

Sean had a faint suspicion in his heart, but he still kept his finger lightly on the trigger. "Check?"

"Put your hands up," the short one said. "Don't make us say it a third time."

Sean didn't raise his hands.

He looked at the two men, his mind racing.

Demon Hunters—he had heard the term in the American TV show 'Supernatural'.

Two brothers driving a black Impala, traveling across America to hunt all sorts of Supernatural things.

They weren't cops, they weren't FBI; they were hunters.

Their method was simple: find the monster, kill the monster.

In that show, there were two brothers, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester.

They fit the image of the two men in front of him perfectly.

"I said, put the gun down," the short one spoke again, the muzzle of his revolver rock-steady.

Sean tried to reason with them. "You've got the wrong person. I'm not a demon."

"You have the aura of a demon on you," the tall one said. "We're here to confirm it."

"How?"

The tall one raised the short blade in his hand, the edge glinting coldly in the moonlight. "By taking a bit of blood."

"And if I refuse?" Sean asked.

The short one didn't speak, his gun still perfectly still.

The tall one took a step forward, the tip of the blade coming closer to Sean. "Then we'll take it ourselves."

Sean sighed.

He didn't want to hurt these two.

They weren't bad people; they were looking for that demon, they just had the wrong person.

He could use his gun, he could fight, he could knock them down.

But he didn't want to... he had another way.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

[Intermediate Magic: Telekinetic Release]

An invisible force surged from his body like a giant unseen hand, slamming into the short one's chest.

The short one didn't even grunt as he flew backward, hitting the wall. The revolver slipped from his hand, bounced twice on the floor, and slid under the sofa.

The tall one was stunned. Before he could react, Sean had already turned toward him.

Another wave of telekinetic force struck the tall one's wrist. The short blade flew out of his hand, flipped several times in the air, and landed on the floor with a clink.

The tall one clutched his right wrist, his face full of shock.

He looked at Sean as if he were looking at a monster...