The building smoldered behind him, smoke and ash curling into the already tainted sky of Party City. Red stepped out of the blown-open side of the second-story building, clawed gloves flexing at his sides, his glowing white eyes narrowing against the chaos ahead. The air was thick with decay, death, and now, awareness.

  He glanced back once. The girl had been saved. White and Orange were still inside, finishing their sweep, and he could hear the static flicker of White's frequency shielding vibrate through the walls like a gentle hum against the screams outside.

  Red turned away.

  "That eliminates the element of surprise for me," he muttered, voice low beneath his breathplate. His tone was more annoyed than worried.

  He crouched briefly atop the fractured stairwell landing, one armored hand brushing the ground as if feeling for vibration.

  "Boelow no doubt knows there are intruders now," he said aloud to himself, eyes cutting toward the eastern sector. Beyond the glow of the undead parade and rhythmic strobe lights, he could already sense it—a presence withdrawing. Heavy. Intentional. Cowardly.

  Boelow was running.

  Red rose, cracking his neck with a tilt. "Coward. You're not going to get far."

  He leapt from the shattered second story, landing with a dull crunch on the pavement below, cloak flaring behind him as he dashed into the alley shadows. Music roared in the distance, laughter echoed from nearby rooftops—but Red was a ghost in motion.

  His team's targets hadn’t even entered the city yet. But Red was already hunting, and he had found his target.

  The Hunt Begins

  Disguised beneath a battered hooded cloak, Red prowled through the dense crowd, slipping past the pulsing mass of rotting partygoers and sentient revelers. His eyes locked onto Boelow—towering and unmistakable—slipping into an alley like a shadow trying to escape the light.

  The moment was now.

  The cloak dropped.

  Red exploded forward.

  With a Ground Pound, he shattered the road beneath his feet, the shockwave flattening a score of undead dancers. His Dash Strike came immediately after, propelling him through a wall of staggering party zombies, his shoulder cracking bone and splitting torsos like dry wood.

  Boelow turned at the edge of the alley. His bloated form rippled with unnatural muscle, veins glowing with ghostly, corrupted energy. The Guardian Armor, no longer wearable by the grotesquely oversized monster-lord, floated ominously at his side, rotating like a predator sniffing blood. Boelow hissed—part beast, part tyrant—and ran.

  Red gave chase, darting through alleys and over rooftops, punching and kicking through anyone or anything in his path.

  The Hybrid Guardians

  Boelow wasn’t alone. As he ran, monstrous lieutenants emerged—feral creatures enhanced by the detached Guardian Armor, which fused onto them like parasites. The armor wrapped around their chests and heads, creating warped, knight-like monstrosities.

  The first lunged at Red from a balcony. Red met it mid-air.

  A Rapid Barrage followed by a devastating Meteor Punch blew through its armored chest, sending the corpse crashing into a food stall in a burst of rotten limbs and sparks.

  The second came from the side, faster and smarter.

  It ducked under Red’s attack, tackled him through a wall, and pinned him momentarily—but Red’s Vault Strike flipped him overhead, and with a Spiral Uppercut, Red launched the armed monster skyward. Mid-air, he chased it down, unleashing a flurry of combo punches that broke its skull clean open before it hit the ground.

  Blood steaming on his armor, Red surged forward.

  The Final Confrontation

  He found Boelow alone in a secluded courtyard—walled off from the main street, lit by flickering red lanterns and the burning sigils of cursed graffiti. The air was suffocating, choked with the scent of brimstone and decay. Boelow stood like a bloated god of rot, positioned before a decayed altar of skulls.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  His body was grotesque, blackened and cracked, glowing with magma-like veins that pulsed with corrupt energy. Horns jutted skyward in cruel spirals, framing his massive, sneering face. His glowing red eyes radiated hatred. In both hands, he gripped the Staff of Dominion—half weapon, half relic, all nightmare.

  With a bellowing roar, Boelow struck first. The Staff of Dominion unleashed a massive Devouring Swipe, its impact shaking the courtyard. Red brought up both clawed gloves to guard. Sparks and ash flew as the blow sent him skidding backward, cracking the stone beneath his boots.

  Boelow snarled. "You think you'll take my staff, too? Like the others?"

  Red straightened, eyes burning with quiet fury. "No," he growled. "I'm taking your staff—and your life."

  Boelow grinned, revealing cracked, yellow fangs. He roared again, this time summoning the Illusory Veil. A dozen ghostly versions of himself flickered to life, shifting erratically, all moving with deadly precision.

  Red didn’t blink.

  He closed his eyes. Listened.

  Stone cracking. Weight distribution. Breath control. Only one of these monsters was real.

  Then—movement.

  Red vanished in a blur. Dash Strike.

  He hit the real Boelow square in the chest, shattering more of his molten armor. Boelow roared in pain, his glowing veins flaring with rage. He swung the staff wildly, but Red had already disengaged.

  The Staff of Dominion lit with power again. Boelow hurled an energy blast—twisting, pulsating red energy that exploded on impact. Red dove through the flames, rolling up to his feet.

  "You're quicker than the rest," Boelow growled. His body began to harden—his cracked skin turning into jagged black plates, like volcanic obsidian. He slammed the base of the staff into the ground and a shockwave of necrotic energy burst outward.

  Red was hit—sent flying into a wall—but he recovered fast, armor scratched, claws sparking.

  Boelow fired again. This time multiple blasts from the staff, each brighter and faster.

  Red zigzagged between them, avoiding direct hits, only catching glancing blows. He charged up, fists glowing red.

  Spiral Uppercut.

  It connected.

  Boelow's jaw cracked sideways, sending him stumbling. But the monster recovered quickly, and from his torso, tendrils exploded outward. Flesh Anchor.

  Red was caught mid-motion. The pulsing, sinewy ropes wrapped around his limbs, pulling him toward Boelow.

  But Red activated Surge Mode.

  His aura ignited. A red inferno.

  Muscles bulged under his armor. His claws glowed with energy. With a snarl, he snapped the tendrils like twigs.

  He dashed forward again. Meteor Punch—impacting Boelow’s hardened shell, cracking it deeper. Then Rapid Barrage—fist after fist after fist, all slamming against the weakening exterior.

  Boelow screamed, staggering under the force. He hardened again—but slower this time.

  Red was too fast.

  He faked a left—Vault Strike behind. A spinning kick to the spine. Boelow stumbled.

  Red leapt into the air. Crater Smash.

  The impact cratered the courtyard. Boelow fell to one knee.

  Breathing heavily, eyes still burning, Boelow raised the staff again. The Guardian Armor came out of nowhere, finally dethatched from its last host, now unhinged and furious, launched itself at Red, attacking independently.

  It slashed, bit, and hammered. Red danced with it—using Blitz Feint to confuse its targeting systems. Counter Burst knocked it away.

  Red wasn’t done.

  With one final charge, he surged toward Boelow, the claws on his fists glowing.

  "You don’t deserve to rule this city."

  And then—Meteor Punch.

  The blow struck center mass.

  Boelow’s torso detonated outward, flames and viscera spraying across the altar. The Staff of Dominion clattered from his broken hands.

  What remained of the monster slumped forward, eyes flickering out.

  Aftermath

  The Guardian Armor fell inert.

  The cursed music in the city continued in the background as if nothing had happened.

  Red stood alone, his armor smoking, his clawed gloves cracked and pulsing from the final hit. Before him lay the Staff of Dominion, humming with residual energy, its fiery glyphs flickering like the heartbeat of a dying god. Nearby, the Guardian Armor, no longer aggressive, lay on the ground humming weakly—its core pulsing with fractured will. Masterless. Awaiting a new command.

  Red approached the staff, eyes narrowed. There was no hesitation in his step. No fear.

  As his fingers wrapped around the handle, a violent surge of energy erupted from it—blinding red light exploded outward, slamming into his chest. The courtyard shook once more. The Guardian Armor shrieked and darted forward, not in resistance… but in reverence.

  It split apart midair and launched itself toward Red, each plated section fusing with his body. Red gritted his teeth as the armor reshaped and restructured itself around him, bonding with his current suit like molten metal finding its final form.

  The Staff’s energy surged into him, flooding his mind with supernatural knowledge and control. Symbols of Boelow’s arcane legacy rewrote themselves onto Red’s armor as the staff accepted him as its new master.

  Horn-like fins extended from his new helmet, sleeker and sharper than before. Plates reconfigured with infernal symmetry. New crimson and black mesh spread like muscle over metal—refined, beautiful, terrifyingly divine.

  The transformation was violent, but precise—Red’s body didn’t grow; it refined. His armor now pulsed with arcane fire and precision tech, blending the brutal strength of the Guardian Armor with the agility of a Fair One.

  The final result was something more than just evolution.

  It was an ascension.

  Red stood taller, not just in posture, but in presence. His new form radiated quiet dominance. Power. Authority. He clenched his clawed fists—newly enhanced, sleeker, and reinforced. The staff magnetized to his back, folding into an elegant position behind him as if it had always belonged there.

  A low, reverberating hum filled the air. The undead partiers nearby—drawn by the noise—halted mid-dance. They watched. They felt the shift in power.

  Their king had fallen.

  A new master now held the staff.