One Bright Light || Episode 12 "No Power" Part 1/2

  Katana Man and Sawatari stared at the figure now fully revealed before them—the one the emergency broadcast had warned of. The Death Hunter. And in that moment, they understood the reason behind the alarm’s urgency

  they deemed him so dangerous they issued a full evacuation notice. And now, standing mere feet from them, the reason behind that chilling announcement had revealed himself.

  The Spatz members, hardened veterans with nerves of steel and countless confirmed kills under their belts, stood rooted in place, fingers trembling over their triggers. Despite their elite training, not a single one dared to shoot. Their instincts screamed at them not to move, not to provoke what now stood before them. There was no chaos, no immediate threat—just the sheer oppressive presence of the man. It was enough to paralyze.

  Then, through the thick air and the metallic scent of blood, came a sound—heavy breathing, ragged and forced. A harsh rasp broke the stillness like a dagger sliding through silk.

  Hhhhhaaaaa—hhhhaa...

  And yet…

  A wet gasp bubbled up from his throat.

  He breathed.

  All eyes snapped back to the mangled body of Black Pope. He shouldn’t have been alive. His arm was gone, carved off cleanly at the bone. His cassock-armor was shredded, revealing exposed ribs and blasted muscle. Through the gaping cavity in his chest, his heart was visible—silent, unmoving, like a shattered relic in a broken shrine.

  But then—a cough.

  A horrible, wet, choking cough that sprayed a splatter of dark blood across the pavement.

  The Black Pope gasped, convulsing once as if yanked back into his body from some unknown abyss. His back arched, fingers twitching like a dying insect. His mouth opened in a garbled, broken attempt at speech, and through crimson foam and ragged breath.

  Her mind was screaming, "That’s impossible... he was already dead. There’s no devil power that can mimic that. Not like this."

  And yet here he was—alive, or something grotesquely close to it.

  Beside her, Katana Man's eyes narrowed, reading the battlefield with deadly clarity. His hybrid instincts were on edge, his breath slow and measured. He didn’t need to be told—they had stepped into something far greater than themselves.

  And still... the Death Hunter didn’t move.

  He just stood there, the contrast of his weapons—Death and Life—weighing in either hand like a divine scale ready to tip. The wind barely touched him. The sun couldn’t quite reach him. He was a pause in reality, a stillness before something irreversible.

  Every second stretched like glass—brittle, sharp, and moments from shattering.

  Sawatari’s hands trembled violently as she slammed her palm against the Emergency Distress Signal embedded in her wrist—a last resort only reserved for events beyond protocol, beyond planning. A sharp click confirmed transmission. The signal pulsed once in red before launching into the ether, a call to arms meant only for the most damned, the most desperate:

  "SEND HELL. WE NEED IT."

  And still… the Death Hunter hadn’t moved.

  He stood there, statue-still, the twin weapons Death and Life hanging at his sides like justice rendered in metal. Then—a breath. A slow exhale, drawn out like a sigh from the underworld. The air seemed to lean in, holding its breath with him.

  Then came the shift.

  In one deliberate, almost gentle motion, the Death Hunter raised Death. The pristine white barrel gleamed like bone in sunlight, catching no blood, no grime, no reflection of the horrors that surrounded it. It was leveled with surgical calm toward the twitching, mangled form of the Black Pope.

  His eyes changed.

  Gone was the hollow dullness of a man burdened by decades of war and death. In its place, the bright gleam of childlike innocence bloomed in his right eye. The kind of look a boy might have while aiming a toy gun in a field, pretending to play hero. But this wasn't a game.

  This was an execution.

  The way he aimed—carefully, deliberately—it wasn’t an act of hatred or wrath. It was pity. A mercy. The kind of look you give a mortally wounded animal, broken and breathing through pain it should’ve long escaped. The Pope's body trembled, spasmed weakly, the remaining eye wide with a frozen, soulless expression.

  Then—

  CRACK.

  But it wasn’t the gunshot that shook them. No, it was the wind—the wind roared around them as if the world itself recoiled from the moment. A howling gust tore through the battlefield, louder than any bullet, louder than the scream of dying men.

  The Pope’s head exploded.

  It wasn't a clean death—it was obliteration. His skull burst apart like a ruptured melon, bone shrapnel and strings of flesh launched against the nearby wall in a grotesque spatter pattern. Segments of gray matter splattered onto the floor like raw meat hurled at concrete, while his blood painted wide arcs of violent crimson across the ground and debris.

  And yet—not a single drop touched the Death Hunter.

  The blood moved around him.

  The gore that should've painted his coat and boots curled away at the last moment, as if repelled by some unseen will—like even death itself knew better than to touch him. The floor beneath him remained pristine, as though the laws of reality bent to preserve his sanctity. He was untouchable. Unstained.

  Unstoppable.

  Black Pope's body collapsed with finality this time—no twitching, no gasping, no coughing. Just a ruined shell of a man whose soul had finally been let go. Whatever infernal force had kept him tethered was gone.

  He is actually dead now.

  "RUN NOW!"

  Katana Man’s voice ripped through the paralyzed silence like a whipcrack.

  And then—he moved.

  A sonic boom followed his departure, the air itself screaming in his wake as the hybrid devil launched forward at breakneck speed. The wind howled, reacting violently to his presence, warping around his frame as he charged toward the unmoving figure of the Death Hunter.

  With a snarl twisted in pure adrenaline and fear, he brought both arms forward—Muramasa blades unsheathed and fused to bone—ancient steel humming with cursed bloodlust. The instant before impact, time seemed to slow… and then the crunch of divine steel meeting something softer than expected.

  The blades pierced.

  Straight through the Death Hunter’s skull.

  It was too easy. Like stabbing melted wax.

  Katana Man’s breath caught—his instincts screamed with unease—but it was too late.

  The Death Hunter didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t scream.

  Didn’t react at all.

  Instead, as if moved by a separate will, his left hand rose—calm, deliberate—and pressed the glowing barrel of Life directly to Katana Man’s head. The cold metal kissed his temple behind his featureless devil-hybrid mask.

  BOOM.

  But the bullet didn’t hit him.

  It struck the wrong man.

  A Spatz soldier, just meters away, had turned the key in a nearby cargo truck—prepping it for a desperate escape. The moment the engine coughed to life, his skull exploded like a balloon under a hydraulic press, painting the windshield red. Bone, brain, and helmet fragments showered the cabin.

  The truck lurched with a heavy jolt, wheels screeching as it shook under the sudden loss of its operator. Another Spatz soldier—less frozen, equally horrified—ripped open the driver’s door, unbuckled the ruined corpse with trembling fingers, and flung it out like dead weight. Blood smeared across the side mirror and doorframe. He climbed in fast, teeth gritted, slamming his boot on the pedal, gears grinding in protest.

  Back at the center of hell, Katana Man twisted his blades inside the Death Hunter’s skull—but something was wrong.

  The wound didn’t bleed.

  Didn’t pulse.

  Didn’t react.

  It was like stabbing into a mannequin that could kill you back.

  A mechanical click echoed beneath the wind.

  The Death Hunter’s right arm rose. Smooth. Effortless.

  "Death" was aimed point-blank at the blade protruding from his own skull.

  There was no hesitation.

  CRACK.

  The shot hit the cursed Muramasa steel dead center, and the force behind it was unnatural.

  The blade shattered—split clean in half like snapped glass, sending shards of cursed metal in every direction. Some ricocheted off Katana Man’s mask, others embedded into the ground, sizzling like burning coals.

  The Death Hunter moved again.

  Still wordless. Still calm.

  Now Life turned downward, the barrel aiming against Katana Man’s stomach—like a god deciding whether to extinguish a spark or let it burn a second longer.

  The hybrid froze.

  His breath caught.

  He felt it—death wasn’t a threat.

  It was a promise.

  WEEE WWOO WEEE WOOO!!

  A screeching siren and the sound of a powerful engine tore through the desolate streets of the evacuated city

  The streets were dead.

  The buildings—shattered, bullet-marked husks.

  And cutting through that empty urban graveyard came a machine that howled like justice itself.

  VVRROMM!!

  From the thick mist, a muscle car burst into view

  It looked like a modern Mustang—sleek, muscular, and obsidian black, fitted with reinforced white armor plates. The iconic red-and-blue siren bar atop the roof screamed with authority, while a stylized chrome badge gleamed on the door:

  S.P.A.T.Z — replacing the emblem of any American state patrol with a gold-plated insignia, forged from authority and blood.

  This wasn't just a police car.

  It was a weapon.

  The windshield wipers scraped against the blood splattered across the glass—likely from the last poor bastard who tried to stop it.

  Inside, the cabin was dark. Lit only by the LED glow of a command console.

  As the man they called Judgeman.

  Draped in a dark navy uniform that fused American law enforcement precision with military-grade S.P.A.T.Z Uniform, he exuded the cold, brutal elegance of someone who had once been on the wrong side of war… and now ran it like a courtroom. His every movement screamed command. Sharp gloves gripped the leather wheel as he drifted around a corner at 90 MPH, the rear tires screeching out a black cloud behind him.

  His car’s tactical comm radio crackled to life with a burst of static.

  “Good afternoon, Judgeman. Have you started the mission?”

  The driver didn’t flinch. The camera inside the car showed his masked profile—black, featureless, tactical. Voice cold.

  "Negative."

  “Ah… the serious tone,” the voice teased. “Let me guess. One of your followers got attacked? Heard H.G.O. tore through them. A couple dead already, right? You’re not planning to lose any more, I assume.”

  The onboard camera turned from the dashboard to Judgeman's face.

  The screen flickered for a moment.

  Judgeman didn’t blink. His eyes were fixed on the road, and his voice held firm:

  “Correct.”

  “Well, look at you. It’s always nice to see the old Judgeman back on duty. Funny how life works, huh? A German man who works for the Spatzanel a war criminal turns into a righteous lawman… who just so happens to be a World-Class mercenary with an international bounty.”

  The voice chuckled at its own joke.

  Judgeman did not.

  “Kidding, kidding. I know you’re always right, Mr. Judgeman. This is your redemption arc, huh? Just remember, it’ll all be worth it if you keep the girl alive. She's priority one. Not just your loyal freaks are in danger—she is too.”

  The camera angled closer to Judgeman again.

  He nodded once, gravely.

  “Understood.”

  Then, without taking his eyes off the road, he released one hand from the wheel and reached up..

  Shhhhtk.

  The quiet hiss of the hidden compartment sliding open echoed faintly through the dim room. Judgeman’s gloved hand reached inside with deliberate precision, fingers brushing past neatly aligned gear until they landed on what he sought. He drew out a sleek pair of black, mirrored sunglasses, their surface catching the overhead light in a sharp glint. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slid them onto his face, the lenses swallowing the light and emotion alike.

  Then came the cap—stiff, dual-branded with American and German insignias stitched in bold embroidery, a fusion of authority across borders. He placed it firmly on his head, adjusting the brim with two fingers. It settled perfectly And last but not least, he lifted a sleek black mask—matte, angular, and unforgiving. With a smooth pull, he secured it over the lower half of his face, the material molding perfectly to his jawline. It cloaked his expression in silence and shadow, leaving only his eyes completing the look.

  “Good luck, Mr. Judgeman Ill see you tomorrow” the voice said.

  As he reached down and straightened the golden badge on his chest—polished to a mirror shine.

  Whether it was earned, gifted, or probably stolen—only Judgeman knew.

  What mattered now was that it meant something.

  As he slammed his boot onto the gas.

  The engine roared to life, a thunderous growl that shattered the silence like a war cry. Flames briefly spat from the exhaust

  The needle on the speedometer surged past 120... then 150... then 180 mph. Wind howled against the frame as the beast pushed toward its max—202 miles per hour. The chassis hugged the road like a predator locked onto its prey

  Just ahead—through the crimson-smeared windshield—Death Hunter came into view, still standing tall, dark, and unshaken.

  The hybrid’s body was already failing, as he stood up as a huge gaping hole is in his chest as it bleeds staining the pavement.

  Life's barrel still smoked.

  Further ahead, the cargo truck began to move—spitting diesel and desperation—ready to escape with the wounded. The driver barely had time to react when—

  THAWM! THAWM!

  Two precise shots cracked the air like thunder.

  Each one punched into the engine block with pinpoint accuracy.

  The truck’s heart exploded.

  Steam, fire, and fragments blew out from the hood, black smoke coiling into the sky. The wheels locked. The metal beast was dead before it could escape.

  And then came the impact.

  CRRRAAAASSSHHH!

  Judgeman’s Mustang plowed through the wreckage like a torpedo.

  Glass, steel, and concrete shattered as the vehicle rammed through the side of the Death Hunter—and directly crashing into a office building.

  The entire front end crumpled into rebar and stone. The alarm siren wailed a final metallic scream as dust and sparks rained over the twisted steel.

  Inside the wreckage, Judgeman sat still—unmoving, unharmed.

  He was here.

  And Judgement was coming.

  **WEEE-WOOO... WEEE-..**

  The shrill siren of the police car—once a blaring war cry—now whimpered and choked, its audio system coughing static through warped speakers. The armored vehicle hissed steam from its shattered nose, the metal plating gouged, blackened, and smoking from the catastrophic impact. Bits of concrete and steel clung to the hood like debris from a demolition.

  Inside the shattered cabin, **Judgeman** moved.

  Metal creaked.

  Click.

  He calmly unbuckled his seatbelt.

  the sound sharp like a blade being unsheathed. He turned his head toward the open gun case beside him, the LED flickering over its precious contents. His gloved hand reached down into the open weapon cradle beside him—the Gun Case, sealed with biometric locks that had already recognized his presence mid-crash. Nestled inside, resting on velvet black foam, was **Verdict**.

  The custom SPAS-12 shotgun was a monster—sleek, brutal, and uniquely his. Its matte black frame glinted faintly under the shattered dashboard lights, and glowing crimson accents lined the barrel vents like veins pumped with wrath. The phrase “GO TO HELL” was etched in blood-red along the barrel’s length in a jagged serif font, flanked by faint silver Latin scriptures burning softly under stress

  Judgeman grabbed it with authority.

  The grip flared to life under his fingers, biometric veins lighting up like war paint. The tactical gavel-stock shifted slightly in his hand, adjusting to his hold. The gun recognized its wielder.

  And Judgeman raised it.

  Directly ahead, just beyond the windshield—**Death Hunter** stood.

  Judgeman tilted his head slightly. The sound of creaking steel came from the front of the wreck, where Death Hunter still writhed beneath the crushed frame—trapped beneath the weight of the vehicle.

  One of his eyes looked like it belonged to a seasoned war veteran—stoic, rigid, emotionless.

  But the other... the other eyes was that of a boy. Innocent. Confused. His eye shimmered like glass, twitching at the pain, yet unflinching at the same time.

  **Half his body was crushed beneath the hood of the police car.**

  But he didn’t scream.

  He didn’t beg.

  He stared at Judgeman with something worse than hate—**resignation.**

  **“Final ruling, Death Sentence”** Judgeman muttered.

  He pulled the trigger.

  **BOOM.**

  **Verdict** roared like a courtroom collapsing into hell.

  The custom-made slug tore through the shattered bulletproof windshield like paper, the glass exploding into fine particles that danced in the mist.

  The shot struck **Death Hunter’s torso up to his face**, embedding itself deep—flames erupting from the wound, licking up his skin and his clothes. The cursed shell ignited something inside him.

  Something old.

  Something unnatural.

  The ejected shell clanged onto the floor of the car like a ceremonial gavel.

  **Justice Served.**

  And yet—**Death Hunter didn’t fall.**

  Flames seared his muscle.

  The scent of burning flesh poisoned the air.

  But he didn’t fall.

  **Death Hunter moved**.

  His charred fingers pressed against the crushed hood.

  His body—didn’t even seem to register the damage, as if the sentence itself had no power over him.

  As he planted one foot against the police car’s ram bar.

  **Then—he pushed.**

  **The entire vehicle shifted.**

  Sparks shot from the undercarriage as wheels scraped broken tile. The weight of the SPATZ machine trembled—and then—

  **SCRH**

  **SLAM!!**

  The car was launched backward like a toy kicked by a titan.

  Concrete and glass exploded as it flew in reverse, crashing through the remains of a storefront and **slamming into the side of a second building**. Debris cascaded onto the roof like a wave of stone.

  Outside the wreckage, **Death Hunter walked forward**, half of his body is in flames. One eye looked dead as if the pain killed it, the other eye gleaming brightly with joy.

  CRASHHHHHH—!!

  The police vehicle exploded through a second building’s side like a battering ram flung by the gods. The entire car spun midair, metal groaning under the strain, before it smashed into the ground sideways. It screeched to a halt with a twisted wail of steel on stone, embedding itself partially into a fractured concrete column CRRRAAAANGGHH—!

  Inside, the dashboard cracked. The windshield frame bent inwards.

  **Judgeman's head snapped slightly to the side—but he was still there. Still strapped in. Still holding Verdict.**

  Warped metal screamed like a death knell as the SPATZ Mustang tilted to a final halt..., jammed into the skeletal remains of a once-cozy restaurant. The front wheels spun in the air—useless—while the whole car leaned sideways, cradled awkwardly in the broken frame of the building. Smoke poured from the undercarriage, mixing with the flour-like haze of collapsed drywall and ash. Shattered kitchenware lay strewn among overturned tables, flickering menus, and burst gas pipes. What had once been a late-night diner was now a ruinous courtroom.

  where justice was blind—but the judges were not.

  Then a beat of silence.

  Then—

  Click.

  The driver’s side door unlatched and opened upward in a slow, reluctant groan like a coffin lid.

  Judgeman emerged.

  His frame unfolded from the wreck like a ghost rising from a crypt—shoulders squared, spine straight, not a tremor of pain or hesitation in his movements. He dropped to the ground and landed on one knee, with heavy finality, his polished boots crunching into broken tile, glass, and burning embers.

  A pair of mirrored sunglasses, untouched by the carnage, rested on the bridge of his nose, obscuring his eyes and lending him the cold detachment of a machine built for justice or ruin.

  His uniform, a blackened fusion of American law enforcement armor and German military regalia, draped him like war-born royalty. A Sam Browne belt hugged his frame beneath his uniform, its tattered coattails fluttering behind him.

  His golden badge?

  Still immaculate.

  Untouched.

  Shining like it had never been dirty a day in its life.

  He raised his head slightly, casting a long shadow over the ravaged restaurant interior—lights dangling on half-cut wires, sparks raining in chaotic rhythm, and heavy dust rolling like smoke through sunlit holes in the ruined ceiling.

  He walked.

  One deliberate step at a time.

  Crunch.

  Crunch.

  Boots pressing down into glass, porcelain, charred wood, and ceramic—grinding it all to powder beneath each step.

  Above him, the restaurant’s ceiling lights dangled like hanged corpses, swaying gently, shorting in and out—casting ghostlight through the dust-choked air. Glass panels trembled and fractured. Hanging fans spun, broken, creaking like execution gallows in windless silence.

  He whistled a slow, solemn tune—"Der Letzte Befehl"—The Final Command.

  A forgotten German funeral march, dragged from a time when men died with honor and enemies burned in silence. Each note floated through the air like a dying breath, breathy and hollow, echoing off shattered concrete and steel.

  From his hands, Verdict—the SPAS-12—drifted with smoke. The barrel glowed faintly, like the incense burners of old cathedrals after an exorcism. Its frame was still hot from discharge. It hissed with heat. It reeked of judgment.

  And across the rubble-strewn street—

  Death Hunter walked through fire.

  The flames clung to him like mourning cloth, but he wore it like armor.

  The flames licking up his chest and face didn’t fade. They didn’t even flicker.

  The cursed shell had embedded itself deep into his body, igniting something primal, but not in the way Judgeman expected.

  There was no scream.

  There was no agony.

  There was only that face.

  Half burned. Half calm.

  One eye was dead—gray, unfocused, and glassy like a corpse left in the sun.

  The other eye burned with a terrifying joy. Not madness. Not fury. Something worse: clarity.

  He didn’t twitch.

  He didn’t limp.

  He just walked, like an executioner taking his time with the blade already raised.

  And as he stepped over fire and fractured furniture, Judgeman’s voice cut through the ruin like the edge of a guillotine:

  "The law sees no salvation in monsters... only sentencing.”

  “...only a verdict.”

  Death Hunter said nothing.

  His silence was not that of contemplation or mercy.

  It was the silence of something that no longer needed to speak.

  As if both Life and Death had been sewn into his flesh—and were now simply tools, held casually in each hand.

  Two men. Two forces of nature

  One who kills to preserve order. One who preserves order by killing.

  One forged in authority, clad in the ceremonial rites of punishment.

  The other birthed from raw murder, where justice and sin blurred into instinct.

  Judgment Versus Execution.

  They walked toward each other, slow and unwavering, boots crushing ash and splintered dreams. The air between them bent under pressure—charged with the hum of fate colliding with fury.

  Not a duel.

  Not a battle.

  But a reckoning of ideals.

  And only one would walk away believing they were right.

  Both titans took slow, menacing steps toward one another.

  Each stride was a statement—a declaration written in boots crushing glass and steel. The air between them trembled, thick with the scent of gunpowder, scorched flesh, and old vengeance. Every heartbeat was a drumroll to destiny.

  Judgeman pumped Verdict with a slow, thunderous CLACK-CHK—SHUNK, the action echoing through the bones of the ruined cityscape.

  Smoke hissed from its chamber, glowing faintly red as if smoldering in divine fury. Dust and ash flared up around his boots like spirits stirred from their graves.

  Across the flame-scorched battlefield of shattered porcelain and melted storefront glass, Death Hunter

  **Death Hunter**, extended both arms outward. In each hand, he held *Life* and *Death*—twin handguns that gleamed with infernal light and spiritual rot, their opposing names engraved in ancient script along the barrels. The two weapons formed a perfect X in front of him, the crossed barrels glowing faintly as if aligning the scales of judgment.

  Yet Judgeman did not falter.

  Because the law does not yield.

  The law does not kneel.

  Even for a god—a prison is possible.

  And for an immortal?

  The sentence is eternal.

  Judgeman would be the Warden of his damnation

  Then—

  **BANG.**

  **Death Hunter** pulled both triggers.

  The bullets, formed from the twisted black flesh of a devil long since consumed, ripped through the air like thunder cracks. They screamed, vibrating with hell’s own fury—breaking the sound barrier with sonic booms that rattled the debris-strewn walls.

  But Judgeman only narrowed his gaze behind mirrored lenses.

  Because he saw them.

  Tally marks. Hundreds. Thousands.

  They carved themselves across **Death Hunter’s** flesh like etchings on a gravestone—each one a sin. But every mark was crossed out, struck clean as if judgment had already been passed.

  **Premeditated murder.**

  **Mass execution of future threats.**

  **Eradication of terrorist bloodlines before their birth.**

  Crimes. All of them.

  And above each mark, one word burned into the air like a celestial decree:

  **“EXECUTION.”**

  Before the bullets could strike Judgeman, they vanished—consumed by the very justice **Death Hunter’s** sins had demanded.

  Judgeman raised **Verdict**.

  **BOOM. BOOM.**

  Twin blasts of fire and steel.

  Empty shells screamed against the tile as they hit the floor, spinning like fallen coins.

  Smoke spiraled from the barrel.

  But **Life** and **Death**—they didn’t drop.

  They didn’t even flinch.

  **They were fused to him.**

  Cursed weapons, latched to his flesh and soul, as if his arms no longer held them but *were* them. Their metal groaned, not from damage, but from hunger.

  **Death Hunter** raised **Life.**

  **BANG.**

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  Judgeman slid aside—barely.

  Then he was upon him.

  Metal boots thundered. He surged forward like a gavel crashing down.

  **Verdict** pressed into **Death Hunter’s** stomach—point blank.

  **BOOOOOM.**

  The blast tore a crater through muscle and bone. Smoke and viscera exploded outward as **Death Hunter** stumbled back, his insides painting the wall behind him.

  But he didn’t fall.

  He looked up.

  The barrels of **Judgeman’s** shotgun rose, calm and decisive.

  Pressed to his temple.

  Click.

  **BOOM.**

  Another blast.

  The explosion snapped **Death Hunter’s** head

  But he didn’t go down.

  And then he felt it.

  Something unnatural.

  The Presence.

  It wasn’t fear—Judgeman didn’t feel fear. It was weight. A metaphysical gravity pressing into the air around him like invisible chains tightening with every breath. A pressure that did not belong to man, god, or devil. It was ancient, oppressive, and wrong.

  He had been forged in the fires of duty. He had delivered judgment with Verdict in hand, dozens of sinners dragged kicking to the Reaper’s cold embrace. He knew the signs. He felt when souls were ready to be taken. He was the executioner's herald, the one who cracked the gavel so the scythe could fall.

  But now…

  The Reaper was not here.

  No cold presence waiting behind him.

  No shift in the spiritual wind.

  No beckoning silence.

  Just… absence.

  Judgeman narrowed his eyes behind the mirror lenses.

  For the first time, Verdict felt light in his hands.

  Judgeman’s jaw tensed. His grip on Verdict slowly tightened, the metal creaking beneath his fingers. This is wrong. His justice was absolute. His duty was to deliver souls—to guide them to the scythe of the Reaper.

  It was as if the Reaper himself had refused this bounty.

  Then—

  A cold click.

  The barrel of Death pressed against the side of Judgeman’s head.

  Judgeman froze.

  It hadn't been there a second ago.

  No sound. No shift. No scent.

  Nothing had betrayed his presence—none of Judgeman’s heightened senses, trained through decades of war and damnation, had caught even the faintest whisper of movement.

  It was impossible.

  His instincts roared.

  Judgeman spun with machine-like speed, elbow lashing outward like a piledriver of divine will. A blow meant to shatter bone, rend muscle, and turn skull into pulp like a sledgehammer.

  His arm was caught mid-motion—effortlessly.

  A grip like iron clamped around his forearm, halting his blow like it was nothing more than a child’s tantrum. He turned, eyes narrowing behind mirrored lenses that now reflected the impossible.

  Death Hunter.

  Standing there. Alive. Unscathed.

  Not even a scratch from the shotgun blast that had ripped open his gut. Not a trace of the temple shot that should’ve ended him. His skin was smooth. His aura… impenetrable. Like time had rewound and erased his injuries, or perhaps had never allowed them to happen in the first place.

  His sentence—ignored.

  His judgment—nullified.

  That’s why the Reaper hadn’t come. That’s why there was no cold shadow waiting beyond the veil.

  Because even Death refused to approach this man.

  Because even Hell would not open its gates.

  For the first time in his long, blood-stained existence, Judgeman faced a case that didn’t make sense.

  "Is this man... above law?"

  The question carved itself into the folds of his mind like a chisel striking marble.

  He had sentenced immortals. Cast gods from their thrones. Buried legends in pits of fire and silence.

  Never—not once—had the world above denied him his role.

  But this…

  This was different.

  This was rejection.

  Not just of his authority, but of the very concept of justice itself.

  The divine machinery—the great chain of judgment, punishment, and passage—had halted.

  Judgeman had sentenced warlords to eternal damnation, had shackled devils in chains forged from divine commandments, had dragged immortals down screaming into judgment.

  And yet—this one?

  This thing that wore the flesh of a man?

  Not even the heavens acknowledged him. Not even the pits of Hell had opened their maw to collect his soul. He stood outside the order—beyond the design.

  A flaw in the cosmic machine.

  And for the first time…

  Judgeman wondered if his power meant anything at all.

  He tried to remember the man he was trying to become—a better one. A hero, even.

  But those thoughts were fragile things, smothered under the crushing weight of the atrocities he had once committed in the name of “order.”

  He didn’t have time to answer.

  He barely had time to breathe.

  The air grew heavy—soaked in inevitability. His breath slowed. His limbs locked. Not from fear, but from something more ancient than fear.

  He had killed millions.

  Enemies. Sinners. Innocents, too. Collateral. Necessary. Or so he told himself.

  But now—every one of those souls weighed on him, like chains pulling him beneath the surface of something deeper than guilt.

  He felt the barrel of Death lift.

  Not quickly. Not with cruelty. But with patience. With certainty.

  He could see the barrel of Death rising—slowly, steadily—from the man’s hand. At first, it gleamed: polished, pristine, like a sacred relic forged in heaven’s crucible. Its surface shimmered with faint halos, immaculate in form, as if it had never missed, never failed, never lied.

  But then—

  As it leveled with his face, the barrel began to change.

  The divine polish cracked. Hairline fractures webbed across the steel like aging porcelain. Its silver sheen blackened, tarnished by something older than sin.

  Rust spread like a plague, bubbling with rot, corroding the metal in real time—as if the weapon itself had gazed into his soul and found no paradise waiting.

  It knew.

  And in that moment, he understood—this gun didn’t just fire bullets.

  It showed you your afterlife.

  And for him…

  It was decay. It was silence. It was nothing.

  And Judgeman understood.

  "Its Over"

  And it wasn’t waiting to fire. It was waiting for him.

  To accept it.

  To step forward into the end of his own story. A story no longer written by his hand, but by the man who stood before him—quiet, unblinking, unholy.

  Death Hunter.

  He didn’t speak. The gun didn’t tremble. No dramatic flourish. No final warning.

  Just inevitability.

  The barrel touched Judgeman’s forehead with the softness of a hand reaching out in comfort— Not to drag him down, But to guide him.

  Like Death itself was asking gently:

  “Are you ready?”

  And for the first time in his existence, Judgeman had no answer.

  Only the press of metal. And the quiet realization that this…

  This is how it ends.

  In silence.

  Suddenly—

  A deafening crash shattered the silence, not the crack of a gunshot, but the violent explosion of glass erupting inward like a bomb had gone off.

  Something—someone— tore through the restaurant window like a cannonball of flesh and steel, moving at such inhuman speeds that he was nothing but a blur of light and screaming force. Only the glint of polished metal, flashing like a dying star, betrayed his approach.

  Judgeman barely had time to register it.

  The blur collided with him like a freight train, an unstoppable force slamming into his side. His body was lifted clean off the ground, sent flying like a ragdoll across the street.

  He smashed through walls, shattered concrete, bent steel beams, and ripped through the skeletons of abandoned buildings as the brutal momentum carried him helplessly along—

  Until he finally crashed into the skeletal remains of an office building, rolling and skidding across the ground like a discarded toy.

  For a few long, aching moments, there was only the sound of crumbling debris and the desperate rasp of his own breathing.

  Judgeman coughed, a sharp, wet sound that splattered blood across his sleeve.

  Pain screamed through his battered body, but somehow—somehow—he pushed himself up.

  Judgeman staggered forward, a sudden sear of pain ripping through the muscles of his back as if a blade had sliced clean through his uniform. Warm blood welled up beneath the torn fabric, seeping through the dark cloth in thick, sluggish streams, painting a grim trail down his spine. Each step ignited fresh agony, his nerves screaming with every motion—but he clenched his jaw and pressed on. There was no time to falter. Not now. Not when everything depended on his endurance.

  Blinking through the dust and light, he saw it:

  The hall of a broken office building, afternoon sunlight pouring in through the gaping wound in the wall he'd crashed through.

  Shards of glass and metal framed the scene like the teeth of some ancient beast.

  And there—slumped against the wreckage—

  His savior.

  Katana Man.

  The hybrid groaned, pushing himself upright with trembling arms. His entire body shuddered from the aftermath of moving at such reckless, suicidal speed. His breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving.

  He looked half-dead.

  His Muramasa blades, usually pristine and deadly, now glinted weakly in the fractured light—

  One of them torn completely in half, jagged at the break like snapped bone.

  A massive, gaping hole was punched straight through his chest, ragged and smoking, with a single length of intestine grotesquely dangling from the wound.

  Blood soaked through bandages hastily wrapped earlier, now peeling away and useless.

  Death Hunter’s earlier assault had already savaged him, but this—this desperate move to save Judgeman—had pushed his body to the absolute limit.

  Judgeman didn’t hesitate.

  Despite the way his ribs groaned and fractures howled under his skin, he moved—snatching Katana Man under the arms, hauling the hybrid up to his feet.

  Katana Man coughed violently, blood spraying across Judgeman’s coat, but he managed to stay upright with support, his feet dragging heavily on the ruined floor.

  No time to waste.

  Without looking back, Judgeman ran.

  Every step was agony, but he moved with mechanical precision, adrenaline turning his battered muscles into pistons of raw survival.

  They had to disappear—had to vanish before Death Hunter closed the distance.

  They fled through the hollow corridors, the sunlight behind them flickering like a dying flame—

  Hiding in the skeleton of a world that no longer offered them protection.

  And behind them, unseen but felt in every quivering breath, was the certainty:

  Death was still coming.

  Judgeman bounded up the ruined stairwell, boots slamming against cracked concrete, every step rattling the chains of Verdict strapped to his side. The heavy weapon clattered and groaned with each movement, as if protesting the frantic escape.

  His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, each inhalation scraping the inside of his chest like sandpaper.

  There was no time.

  No time to plan. No time to think.

  His mind—usually a fortress of logic and procedure—now burned with raw instinct.

  He hadn't been given a second chance by the heavens just to waste it.

  A second ago, he had been standing at the precipice of oblivion—Death Hunter’s gun at his forehead, his fate sealed.

  But fate had blinked.

  And now, every heartbeat, every painful stride up those stairs, screamed one truth into the core of his being:

  He had to act.

  He had to decide.

  Judgeman clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding as he carried the half-conscious Katana Man beside him. The hybrid’s blood left a trail behind them, a thin red ribbon weaving through the stairwell like a morbid thread tying them to the predator below.

  Judgeman’s mind raced.

  If that man—that thing—was truly beyond divine law, if he existed outside the natural order of judgment and consequence—

  Then Judgeman would have to rewrite the law.

  Even if the cosmic machinery refused to acknowledge the Death Hunter, even if Verdict itself screamed in denial,

  he would impose a new order.

  His own.

  He would forge a new truth: what was right, what was wrong, carved not from divine command, but from his own conviction.

  Even if this twisted judgment didn’t bind Death Hunter directly,

  even if it didn’t seal him the way it had sealed gods and devils before,

  it would still shape the battlefield.

  It would give them an edge.

  A sliver of control in a situation spiraling beyond mortal comprehension.

  Judgeman gritted his teeth harder, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

  "This time..." he thought, dragging Katana Man up another flight, his vision tunneling with desperation and grim resolve.

  "This time, the law bends for me."

  At the very least, he could level the playing field.

  At best—

  He might just find a way to kill the unkillable.

  "There’s a bag of blood in my coat," the hybrid muttered, voice hoarse and breaking under the weight of exhaustion. "Let me drink... I'm losing too much blood..."

  Judgeman didn’t hesitate.

  Judgeman finally reached the second floor, boots skidding against the worn linoleum, his breath ragged with exertion. He dragged the hybrid behind him and lowered him gently against the wall—its surface cracked from years of decay, now stained with smears of crimson from the trail they’d left.

  The hybrid slumped down heavily, sliding into a seated position with a rough, rattling exhale.

  Judgeman’s eyes scanned the hybrid's ruined appearance—his once-pristine coat and sharp suit, now torn, blood-soaked, and clinging to him in ragged strips. His tie was half-loosened, frayed at the edges, spotted with old and new blood.

  Judgeman dropped to one knee beside him, gloved hands moving fast. He reached into the inner lining of the hybrid’s coat, fingers brushing past sticky cloth and hot blood, until he found it—the blood pack, still intact, warm to the touch. A small mercy despite the chaos.

  As he pulled it free, he turned—just in time to see the hybrid’s faceless mask begin to melt.

  The solid parts liquefied into a viscous, sticky black slime, dripping down in thick, slow rivulets.

  Almost instinctively, Judgeman wiped some of the sludge away with his gloved hand, the material sticking briefly before peeling off like sap.

  Beneath the melting fa?ade, **a man** reemerged.

  Judgeman’s eyes narrowed as he watched the mask dissolve away, unveiling what lay underneath—a strong jawline marked by a few days of stubble, pale skin tinged with blue from blood loss, and deep-set eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

  The hybrid’s eyelids fluttered. He looked as if sleep could take him at any second.

  His hair, once carefully combed and styled, now hung in tousled black locks across his forehead, matted with sweat and grime.

  Judgeman knelt down, pressing the blood pack into the hybrid’s hand.

  The hybrid, with a weak but instinctual motion, *ripped* the corner open with his teeth and started drinking, crimson spilling slightly down the side of his mouth as he gulped greedily.

  Judgeman’s gaze sharpened as he assessed the hybrid’s wounds.

  Deep gashes across his chest and arms, already bandaged roughly from earlier encounters, but **something was wrong.**

  The torn flesh wasn’t knitting itself back together. The hybrid’s signature regeneration—the thing that made him one of the most dangerous beings alive—was **silent.**

  Panic flickered through Judgeman's mind as he ripped open a pack of fresh bandages, his fingers moving faster.

  “The injuries…” he muttered, voice tight, almost disbelieving. “They’re not regenerating...!”

  The hybrid paused his drinking long enough to glance up at him through heavy eyelids, offering a humorless, breathless smirk.

  “Yeah,” he rasped. “Whatever that bastard shot me with… *it stopped my healing completely.*”

  A fresh, cold weight dropped into Judgeman’s gut.

  They were running. They were hunted. And now...

  **They were mortal.**

  Both of them.

  And Death Hunter would not miss a second time.

  “We can’t run. We don’t have time to,” Judgeman said, voice low but urgent as his hands moved with clinical precision.

  He tore open a fresh bandage pack with his teeth, pulling it free with a savage rip, and pressed it against the hybrid’s chest wound. Blood soaked through almost instantly, but Judgeman didn’t flinch. With swift, practiced motions, pulling the battered medical kit from his belt. His hands moved with a surgeon’s precision—ripping open packets of alcohol wipes, stringing a sterilized needle, laying out rolls of threadbare gauze. began stitching the gaping hole in the hybrid’s chest, threading a coarse, surgical needle through battered flesh with rapid, practiced motions.

  The hybrid grunted in pain, his body tensing involuntarily as Judgeman threaded the needle through shredded flesh, pulling it tight. Each stitch closed a piece of the gaping wound, but every tug was another jolt of agony that made the hybrid’s vision swim.

  Judgeman worked through it in silence, his breath misting faintly in the ruined air of the abandoned office floor.

  “The best chance for either of us to survive...” Judgeman continued, fingers steady despite the hybrid’s shuddering body, “…is if I can open a case.”

  He didn’t look at the hybrid as he spoke, too focused, too brutal in his efficiency.

  The hybrid blinked blearily, trying to focus on him through the haze of blood loss and exhaustion. Pain twisted across his features, but underneath that, **confusion**.

  “A case...?” he rasped.

  Judgeman nodded once, sharply.

  "Yes. My contract—my authority—revolves around the Law," he said, pulling the final stitch through the hybrid’s chest with a hard yank. Blood beaded around the crude suture, but it was holding, for now. He quickly taped a bandage over it, locking it in place.

  "In order to open a case, I need two things: **evidence** and a **witness**. Without them, my authority means nothing."

  The hybrid leaned his head back against the cracked wall, exhaling a shuddering breath. Sweat matted his black hair to his forehead, his muscles trembling under the strain of simply staying awake.

  “And... what’s the plan?” he croaked, barely able to lift his hand to wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth.

  Judgeman stood, his boots scuffing the dirty floor as he moved toward a broken window, peering down at the ravaged city streets below. Afternoon light poured through the shattered glass, painting the room in a fractured, golden glow—and somewhere out there, lurking in the brightness, **Death Hunter** prowled, patient and inevitable.

  “We hide,” Judgeman said grimly, adjusting the strap of his Verdict. “I’ll drag his victims out of whatever pit he’s sent them to. Their testimonies will be our evidence.”

  He turned back toward the hybrid, eyes burning with cold, fanatical determination.

  "But to do that... I need **time.**"

  The hybrid chuckled weakly, coughing blood into his sleeve. "Time, huh... That's one thing we're pretty damn short on."

  Judgeman nodded once, solemn.

  "And if we get caught?" the hybrid asked, his voice breaking slightly.

  Judgeman’s hand hovered over the grip of his Verdict, the heavy shotgun humming faintly in the stillness, resonating with his oath.

  His voice was cold as iron when he answered:

  “Then we fight.”

  "That's a dumb plan that relies way too much on luck," the hybrid muttered, his voice rough, colored with both pain and dry amusement. He extended a trembling hand toward Judgeman, bloodied fingers twitching slightly from strain.

  Judgeman clasped his forearm firmly, hauling him up with a grunt.

  The hybrid staggered, his weight heavier than it should’ve been, sagging against Judgeman’s shoulder as he fought to stay upright.

  As Judgeman reached out to steady the hybrid, a jagged pain tore across his side—sharp, deep, and unforgiving, like a hot blade dragged through flesh. His breath hitched, but he didn’t cry out. Blood began to leak from the wound, soaking into his uniform, trickling down his ribs in warm, sticky rivulets. Still, he said nothing. Not a word. He kept his hand firm on the hybrid’s shoulder, eyes forward, refusing to show weakness. The pain throbbed with every heartbeat, but he buried it beneath sheer willpower. There were more important things at stake than his own suffering.

  "The bandages should help out a bit," Judgeman said, adjusting his hold under the hybrid’s arm to better support him. His voice was terse, professional—but tinged with worry he couldn’t fully hide. "But... I don’t see them lasting too long."

  The hybrid shot him a look—a half-lidded glare of 'You think?'—that would’ve been funny if they weren’t both bleeding out and hunted like rats.

  Judgeman exhaled sharply through his nose and turned away, guiding him forward down the cracked and splintered corridors of the abandoned office floor. Dust floated in the air around them, glittering in the late afternoon light pouring through shattered windows. Each step echoed in the eerie silence, their ragged breaths the only other sound.

  "Right now..." Judgeman began, his voice low and steady, "we’re a team. Since you’re a hybrid, you should be able to see them."

  The hybrid’s brow furrowed in confusion. "See what?" he rasped, stumbling slightly before catching himself.

  "The Tally Marks," Judgeman answered, glancing back at him briefly.

  The hybrid raised a skeptical eyebrow, sweat glistening on his brow. "Tally marks? What, like counting my sins?"

  A grim smile tugged at the corner of Judgeman’s mouth as they moved carefully along the peeling hallway walls.

  "Exactly," Judgeman said. "Each mark represents a crime committed by a soul. Every tally is a debt... waiting to be collected. And with enough evidence, I can sentence them."

  The hybrid grunted, the sound half a laugh, half a cough.

  "So you’re basically the grim reaper with a ledger?"

  Judgeman's expression hardened.

  "Maybe. But that man..." he said, his voice dropping even lower, almost growling, "...there’s something different about him. The Death that’s supposed to claim him... won’t. It’s like even Death itself refuses to touch him."

  The hybrid let out a long breath, still grinning faintly despite the situation.

  "Is that so?" he said hoarsely. "So what—you're gonna drag him into court and sue him or something?"

  Judgeman actually chuckled under his breath—grim, hollow.

  "No," he said. "Doing this professionally is futile. Someone like him... he can argue back. He knows who I am. He knows I’m a World Threat Mercenary—and if we go by technicalities, he could counter with my crimes."

  The hybrid blinked slowly, his brain working sluggishly through blood loss, but catching the meaning.

  Judgeman’s gaze sharpened, a fire burning behind his pale, stormy eyes.

  "It’s better if we talk with violence instead," he said coldly. "My advantage comes if I can prepare the Courtroom."

  They moved onward, each slow, painful step like a march toward something inevitable.

  Somewhere down the twisted corridors of the ruined building, Death Hunter waited.

  And Judgeman wasn’t going to let fate decide the outcome.

  He was going to make the law bow to him.

  A sharp, sudden crash shattered the uneasy silence—

  The sound of glass exploding inward echoed from somewhere below, the noise ricocheting off the crumbling concrete walls. Instantly, both men froze mid-step, instincts kicking in like the snap of a whip

  Both men immediately froze.

  Then—**flicker**.

  The flickering fluorescent lights overhead stuttered violently, buzzing, blinking in erratic spasms—

  then, one by one, they began to die.

  Each click of a light going out seemed to hammer into their ears louder than gunfire.

  Neither needed to speak.

  Moving on pure instinct, Judgeman tightened his grip around the hybrid’s waist, half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the nearest open doorway. Their boots scuffed across the cracked floor as they moved fast but low,

  careful not to make more noise than necessary.

  The light overhead gave a final sputter... and died.

  **Darkness collapsed around them like a smothering blanket.**

  They ducked into an old office room, the door swinging half-off its hinges with a groaning creak. Dust clouded the air, and the faint scent of old paper and mildew clung to everything. Broken furniture was scattered across the floor—desks overturned, filing cabinets gaping like open mouths.

  They moved without speaking.

  Judgeman crouched behind the largest desk, its heavy oak frame battered but still intact. He eased the hybrid down beside him, pressing a steadying hand to his shoulder to keep him low.

  Without hesitation, Judgeman reached behind his back, pulling **Verdict** free with a faint, mechanical *click*.

  The shotgun’s heavy, brutal frame seemed to hum faintly in the dead silence—a sound so subtle it was almost imagined, like a heartbeat in steel.

  Judgeman settled into position, back against the desk, his breathing shallow and controlled, barrel angled toward the doorway.

  The hybrid wiped the sweat and blood from his brow, peeking up just enough to meet Judgeman’s eyes in the darkness.

  Neither of them said a word.

  Outside the office door, the building seemed to groan under its own weight. Faint sounds drifted up from below—scraping boots on tile, low, deliberate breathing, and the occasional distant rattle of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

  Judgeman’s fingers tightened around Verdict’s grip.

  **Death Hunter was close.**

  And this time... he wasn’t in any hurry.

  Death Hunter moved through the ruined corridors like a phantom, his heavy boots crunching debris underfoot with each slow, deliberate step. He didn't rush. He never needed to.

  Each movement was measured, almost lazy—like a man on a stroll rather than a predator hunting his prey.

  He moved past the splintered remains of desks, shattered glass, and overturned chairs, his presence alone enough to make the air feel heavier, denser—like the world itself bent slightly under the weight of his existence.

  As he walked, he closed his right eye—the dead one, the dull, lifeless orb that saw nothing—and let the other eye open wide.

  A soft, childlike glow seeped out, faint but piercing, casting a muted light in the suffocating dark.

  It illuminated the hallway in subtle, pulsing flashes, like the lazy sweep of a lighthouse beam searching the wreckage of a forgotten shore.

  When that glow touched the battered office door, it didn’t need to push it open.

  It knew.

  Inside, behind the cover of the desk, they felt it.

  Dread—thick, paralyzing, and primal—crawled up their spines like icy fingers.

  A sensation deeper than fear—a certainty.

  The certainty that the thing outside the door wasn't just coming to kill them.

  It was coming to erase them.

  Judgeman tightened his grip on Verdict, knuckles white beneath his gloves, forcing his breathing to slow, forcing his instincts to obey.

  Beside him, the hybrid pressed a hand against his stitched chest, trying to steady his shivering breath, every nerve screaming move but nowhere to go.

  Creaaaaak—

  The door shifted.

  A hand, pale and calloused, pushed against the battered wood, fingers moving slow and patient as a lover’s caress.

  The door didn’t slam open—it eased inward, squealing on rusted hinges that sounded deafening in the stifling silence.

  The light from Death Hunter’s eye bled into the room now, washing over the broken furniture and wreckage, inch by inch, creeping across the floor like a living thing.

  Judgeman held his breath.

  The hybrid, heart hammering against freshly stitched flesh, clenched his fists so tight blood seeped anew between his knuckles.

  Through the growing sliver of the open door, they finally saw him.

  Death Hunter.

  Third time's a charm," the hybrid muttered under his breath, his voice ragged but laced with grim determination.

  Slowly, the transformation began—Dark, viscous black goo oozed from his skin, bubbling and hardening across his features like living armor. It hardened almost instantly into jagged, armor-like plates, locking into place with sickening, organic cracks. From his forearms, two brutal, cursed Muramasa blades erupted, slicing clean through the air with a wet, metallic shriek. A third blade thrust outward from the crown of his skull, jutting up like a wicked horn.

  "This is gonna take a second," he rasped, holding still, waiting for the transformation to fully settle, every muscle in his body forcing himself to stay crouched as his body finished molding into the hybridized terror he needed to survive.

  Judgeman didn’t wait.

  Without hesitation, he surged forward, charging at Death Hunter like a living battering ram. His shoulder crashed into the assassin with thunderous force, both of them slamming into a nearby brick wall with a deafening boom, the old structure spiderwebbing under the sheer impact. Dust and debris exploded around them as they smashed through into the next room

  KRASHHH!

  Dust and mortar burst outward in a choking cloud as they tumbled into the next room, bodies colliding with broken desks and shattered concrete.

  Mid-roll, Death Hunter reacted with inhuman sharpness—his boot lashed out with a savage kick, catching Judgeman in the ribs and sending him sprawling across the floor. Splintered wood exploded around him as he plowed through a heavy conference table, the air filling with splinters and choking dust as it splintered apart under his weight. He hit the floor hard but rolled, snatching a military-grade knife from a sheath strapped to his belt. He drove the blade down into the floor, using it to anchor himself, stopping his uncontrolled slide. and brought Verdict up in the same motion.

  BANG!

  Verdict roared, the blast shaking the very air. A spread of molten-hot pellets exploded outward, lighting up the room like a strobe of fire and shrapnel.

  Death Hunter moved with eerie calmness, weaving between the death spread like a ghost, letting the pellets whistle past his tattered coat.

  In the same blink of movement, Death Hunter raised his weapon—Life and Death, the black-steel twin-barreled hand cannon—and answered fire with fire.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Gunfire exploded through the room, each shot a brutal punctuation against the crumbling walls. Judgeman cursed under his breath, flipping over the remains of the table for cover—but a round grazed his arm, tearing through the heavy fabric of his sleeve with a spray of blood.

  Gritting his teeth, Judgeman fired Verdict again, not aiming to hit—but aiming to collapse the wall behind him.

  BOOM!

  Judgeman heard it then—the distinct crunch of boots crushing shattered glass in the hallway.

  His instincts took over.

  Spinning toward the sound, he raised Verdict and blasted through the walls.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Huge gaping holes tore through the sheetrock and brick, the hallway briefly illuminated in strobes of muzzle flash and pulverized debris.

  BANG. BANG. BANG.

  Every shot was measured—not at Death Hunter directly, but at the sounds of movement, the glass being stomped underfoot—an old soldier’s tactic.

  Judgeman’s ears strained for any hint of movement, any misstep—

  —but Death Hunter was no fool.

  In a heartbeat, Death Hunter retaliated, returning fire with brutal precision.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  The force of his shots ripped through the walls like they were wet paper, carving fist-sized craters and forcing Judgeman to hurl himself down behind another battered filing cabinet, narrowly avoiding getting shredded as the wall behind him was torn apart, the impacts chewing through concrete and steel beams alike.

  A silence fell—a thick, terrible silence broken only by the settling groan of the abused building.

  Both men waited, tense, hunting for the next mistake they would make

  "GET DOWN!"

  The hybrid’s voice ripped through the chaos, sharp and commanding. Without hesitation, Judgeman threw himself flat to the ground just as a howling slash tore through the corridor.

  The walls didn’t simply crack—they were ripped apart. The cleaving force carved through concrete, rebar, and steel alike as if they were paper, sending razor-sharp fragments of wall and debris shrapnel howling through the air. Whole rooms were split open like broken eggshells, furniture, desks, and exposed piping tumbling into the gaping wounds left behind.

  The very floor beneath them groaned and tilted, concrete sagging, fractures spiderwebbing outward in jagged, splintering veins. Dust and fine debris filled the air like a blizzard, choking out sight and sound.

  Gunshots crackled and roared through the corridor, sharp and brutal, almost drowned beneath the monstrous whoosh of slashes cutting through solid matter.

  The walls around Judgeman began to disintegrate—bullet holes peppering the bricks, slashes carving deep gouges that threatened to collapse the structure outright.

  No time to think.

  With a grunt of effort, Judgeman curled into himself, folding his heavy frame into a tight, cannonball-like form.

  CRASH!

  He hurled himself forward with bone-snapping speed, smashing clean through the already weakened wall like a living wrecking ball, stone and metal exploding outward in a deafening eruption.

  Death Hunter moved back instinctively, his footwork smooth, his body slipping effortlessly into the exact distance he needed—the perfect kill zone.

  But Judgeman wasn’t finished.

  In mid-air, both of Judgeman’s legs snapped outward like compressed springs released at maximum tension, propelling his boots forward with devastating force.

  BOOM!

  The impact of the dropkick slammed into Death Hunter’s chest like a freight train. His body lifted from the ground as if yanked by invisible strings, hurled backward with such violent force that the air itself seemed to tear around him.

  CRASH!!!

  He blasted through the thick windows of the ruined building in a hailstorm of shattered glass and twisted metal.

  Outside, the world tilted sickeningly fast.

  Death Hunter’s coat flapped wildly behind him as he plummeted, a black comet streaking through the air—falling, falling—

  —straight down into the heart of a Tokyo Metropolitan Police Station.

  The last thing Judgeman and the hybrid heard before the dust swallowed them was the faint, distant, but unmistakable alarm shrieks erupting below.

  Sirens wailed to life, officers shouting in panic, radios crackling with chaos.

  The real storm was just beginning.

  The battered building groaned ominously under the strain of their battle, the shattered floors and torn walls barely holding together.

  Amid the swirling dust and faint ringing of distant sirens, the hybrid's gaze snapped toward Judgeman—his eyes sharpening as he caught something new.

  **Blood.**

  Thick, dark blood was **gushing** from Judgeman's body, soaking through his ripped and scorched clothing.

  At first, it seemed like just battle damage—until the hybrid saw it more clearly.

  The clothes weren’t simply torn; they were **peeling away**, shredded by something deeper.

  Across Judgeman’s flesh, horrific scars—**old, brutal, ritualistic scars**—began to re-emerge.

  They scratched and clawed their way to the surface, as if invisible hands were carving into him anew.

  Long, deep **tally marks**—some fresh, others ancient—etched into his skin, appearing, deepening, bleeding.

  And it wasn’t just physical.

  The very **air changed**.

  A dense, unnatural **fog** began to seep from the wounded man’s body, rolling out like a living thing.

  It crawled across the cracked concrete, licking at the edges of the rooftop, sliding down the broken walls into the empty streets below.

  Within seconds, the nearby landscape twisted into something **wrong**.

  Abandoned cars lining the streets flickered to life one by one—

  **HONK! HONK!**

  **WREEEE-EEEE-EEE!**

  Their alarms blaring at random, lights flashing through the thickening haze, creating a stuttering, disorienting nightmare of sound and color.

  The hybrid instinctively took a cautious step back, his senses screaming at him that something was deeply, terribly off.

  Judgeman wavered on his feet, his body trembling from blood loss, from pain, from something worse—but his voice, when it came, was low and steady, almost a growl:

  > "I'll finish this fight."

  He paused, breathing hard, blood dripping freely from his fists.

  > "It's too dangerous. There's a **gas leak**. Spreading through the city."

  The hybrid didn’t hesitate for even a second. His instincts for survival, honed sharper than any blade, kicked in immediately.

  "Yeah, I get it—gas leak, very dangerous," he said quickly, his voice casual but strained.

  Judgeman cast a glance at the massive, **gaping wound** still carved into his chest, the blood soaking his uniform, and grimaced.

  "Definitely my cue to head out."

  Without another word, the hybrid turned, staggering but determined, vanishing into the mist with the surreal flickering of broken alarms and crumbling city ruins around him.

  Judgeman remained, standing alone against the fog-shrouded ruin.

  He took a deep breath—then dropped.

  **THUD.**

  Landing hard on one knee, he clenched his fists against the concrete as the tally-mark scars bled heavily down his arms and torso, dripping onto the shattered rooftop.

  Below, the chaos continued.

  At street level, the front doors of the battered Tokyo police station burst open with a crash.

  Through the grime-blurred windows of the police station, a figure loomed—an ominous silhouette barely visible in the chaos of flashing red and blue alarms that bathed the room in an urgent, nightmarish glow. The air inside was thick with smoke and dust, swirling like restless spirits around the intruder.

  Death Hunter stood motionless for a moment, his outline unnervingly sharp against the pulsating colors. Each step he took toward the glass pane seemed to warp the air itself, the atmosphere humming with a low, unnatural vibration.

  As he approached, the reinforced glass trembled violently, deep fractures spider-webbing outward from the center. The surface shuddered under the invisible pressure of his presence, until with a deafening, shattering roar, the entire panel exploded inward—sending jagged shards raining to the floor like a deadly crystal waterfall.

  Unfazed, Death Hunter strode through the wreckage. His heavy black boots crunched over the broken glass with a slow, deliberate rhythm, the sound sharp and grating against the alarms' blaring wail. The air seemed to grow colder with every step he took, as if the room itself recoiled from his approach. In that instant, there was no doubt: death had entered, and no one would leave untouched.

  Calm.

  Unbothered.

  His heavy coat was torn and peppered with bullet holes, but he brushed himself off with slow, deliberate movements, unfazed by the carnage he’d caused.

  Shards of broken glass rained around him, glinting like dying stars under the flashing police lights.

  Death Hunter’s single living eye glowed faintly through the mist, cold and unreadable.

  He glanced once, briefly, up toward the ruined skyline where Judgeman crouched bleeding into the stone—his expression unreadable, save for a glimmer of... something."

  If judgement cant win an unbeatable fight then what about corruption?

  Judgeman knelt amid the rubble, his broken frame silhouetted against the ruined Tokyo skyline, the mist crawling like grasping fingers across the shattered rooftop.

  He stared blankly upward, into the churning, overcast sky, It was as if he were searching for something beyond the clouds.

  Permission.

  Forgiveness.

  Maybe even a last-minute reprieve.

  It wasn’t just defeat that weighed on him or trying to make a decision that clawed at the very foundation of his soul.

  It was **loss**.

  A choice that could never be undone.

  A **monster** that had been locked deep within him, chained and hidden away for so long, now stirred hungrily in the dark corners of his mind.

  As Judgeman’s battered ideals and fragile morals cracked under the unbearable pressure of this fight, the great unseen pillar supporting them collapsed like a rotted monument.

  An ancient, seething force, drawn to his breaking point like vultures to a dying beast.

  It had been waiting—watching—for this exact moment.

  Lurking nearby, invisible yet suffocatingly real—a dark, ancient thing that **fed** on despair.

  It crept closer, the atmosphere thickening, the mist growing denser until it was like wading through a drowning world.

  Then, from the swirling mist, voices bled through, tender and accusing, each one slicing deeper into Judgeman's soul.

  "Mister... please don't go," a little girl's voice whimpered, trembling with fear.

  "Please... don't leave us! You're the only one who's ever been there for me!" cried a desperate young man, his voice cracking in anguish.

  "Thank you for everything," murmured a grateful soul, bittersweet and fading.

  Each voice pierced Judgeman deeper than any blade could.

  Each was a ghost.

  Each was a debt he could never repay.

  The words twisted around him, a noose of guilt and sorrow.

  Each memory, each broken promise, weighed down his battered body until he could barely breathe.

  Tears welled up and spilled from his eyes, cutting clean tracks through the blood and grime on his face.

  He knew what came next.

  He could feel it—crawling up his spine, gnawing at his bones, rotting his flesh from the inside out.

  This fight, this moment... it had been the tipping point.

  His failure was the final straw.

  He knew what was coming.

  He could **feel** it crawling beneath his skin, like maggots writhing through a corpse.

  The corruption he had fought so long to suppress was no longer chained—it was **inevitable**.

  Judgeman saw it clearly now—the future atrocities he would commit if he let the enemy go free.

  The lives that would be ruined.

  The innocent who would cry out for justice that would never come.

  And still—**this wasn’t justice.**

  He realized it with a painful clarity: if his victims had to suffer... if the innocent had to bleed... then it wasn’t justice at all.

  It was **revenge**.

  It was **corruption**.

  Through the swirling fog, another voice emerged—different from the others.

  Not innocent.

  Not pleading.

  But neutral.

  Tired of waiting and terribly ancient.

  > "**The Court is open, Judgeman.**"

  Judgeman didn’t turn.

  He didn’t need to.

  He knew what stood behind him.

  The contract had answered. Judgeman exhaled—a long, broken breath, misting into the frozen air.

  He bowed his head, pressing his bleeding fists against the cracked stone beneath him.

  Judgeman closed his eyes and exhaled, the mist swirling from his breath like smoke from a dying fire.

  When he opened his mouth to answer, it was with a voice that was no longer his own—stripped of hesitation, heavy with grim finality:

  > "**I have gathered the requirements.**"

  There was a moment of silence.

  Then, behind him—a **hiss** like boiling steam, something **inhuman** breathing against the back of his neck.

  The presence that answered him wasn’t a man. It wasn’t even a devil in the usual sense.

  It was something **older**.

  **Darker.**

  The smell of burnt parchment and old blood filled the air as the being manifested.

  The temperature **plummeted**, frost spiderwebbing outward from Judgeman’s kneeling form.

  Thick **fog** poured in like a living tide, devouring the rooftop, swallowing everything whole.

  Soft, unnatural **snow** began to fall from the corrupted sky, each flake hissing as it touched the broken earth.

  He knew this sensation well.

  He had lived it once before.

  And it had never ended well.

  It came back to haunt him.

  The Devil had come.

  And it had brought witnesses.

  The mist parted to reveal two long, terrible lines flanking Judgeman—

  The victims of Death Hunter’s crimes and Judgemans Guilt.

  Men, women, children—each ghostly form shackled to a noose in their neck.

  Their expressions were twisted in agony, despair, or pain.

  The nooses tightened slowly, groaning under their weight, awaiting only a single word to finish the grisly ceremony as they lift their legs to avoid losing there breath.

  A police 'DO NOT CROSS' tape stretched across the scene, acting as a grim, makeshift execution line.

  From behind him, a low voice spoke—a devil's voice, patient, ancient, and dripping with satisfaction:

  > "**You have summoned me, bearer of Judgment. Present your offerings.**"

  Judgeman lifted his gaze, his body shaking—not from fear, but from the cold certainty of what he had unleashed.

  > "**The requirements have been met,**" he said, voice low and final.

  > "**The blood of the innocent, the breath of the liar, and the curroption of punishment.**"

  The fog shifted.

  A **shape** emerged—a towering, cloaked figure, its features obscured by the mist and the swirling snow, its outline constantly warping, like a glitch in reality itself.

  Judgeman’s body began to change, his silhouette flickering and warping violently, as if a deeper, fouler creature beneath his flesh were trying to rip free.

  "By blood sealed,"

  the being intoned.

  Judgeman’s head snapped up, his tear-streaked face transforming into something cold and empty.

  "By breath bound,"

  he replied, his voice layered with something inhuman—something wrong.

  The mist around him pulsed—almost alive.

  Judgeman’s frame convulsed once more—his shadow lengthening, horns and chains of black mist briefly flaring into existence behind him.

  "By all means, no body shall be found,"

  the being finished.

  Its final words twisted and fragmented, multiplying into a shrieking, whispering, howling chorus that flooded the broken city streets with nightmarish sound.

  And Judgeman rose slowly to his feet—no longer a man of law and order.

  But something far, far worse.

  And with just a blink, the man once known as Judgeman was gone.

  In his place stood something new—something reborn—cloaked not in justice, but in silent, cold authority.

  A tall figure loomed amidst the ruined rooftop, draped in a long, pitch-black cloth that wrapped tightly around his head and neck like a funerary veil. It hung like the executioner’s hood—heavy, ceremonial, and absolute. The fabric was coarse and ancient-looking, like something cut from a forgotten altar, and it absorbed the surrounding light like a void.

  At the center of that featureless mask, two narrow slits were carved over where the mouth would be—jagged and raw, not clean like they were designed, but torn, as if forced open by something inside that needed to breathe. And within those holes: nothing.

  Just an infinite, gnawing darkness.

  The stitches on his jaw were tightly sew into the flesh of his jawline by thick, dark threads that glinted like iron wire—ensuring the cloth could never be removed. From beneath the oppressive veil, two piercing red eyes burned with unnatural light, cutting through the darkness with a steady, merciless glare.

  Above it all rested a Schirmmütze, pristine and pressed.

  The officer’s cap bore a dark brass insignia: a stylized eagle fractured in half, its wings stitched back together with barbed wire—the crest of the Spatzanel Army, a forgotten regime that reeked of buried atrocities and moral collapse.

  Each layer of his Dienstuniform was sharp, immaculate, and cold, tailored with obsessive precision. His dark military trousers were tucked neatly into polished combat boots, the leather cracked with old blood and burn marks.

  But it was the badges and insignias that whispered horror.

  Over his chest hung three golden medals, once symbols of honor and service, now caked in coagulated blood—the red flaking off like rust, staining the gleam. At his left breast, beneath a flap held down by bone-shaped pins, glinted the 3rd Flag of the Spatzanel, a sigil forbidden and long erased from history, reborn now through him.

  A thick cloak draped over his shoulders, pinned with black iron emblems that resembled blindfolded skulls. The hem of the cloak swayed unnaturally, as if moved by an unseen tide.

  Gloved hands—stitched and reinforced with silver thread—tightened at his sides, the fingers twitching with residual tremors from the ritual that had just occurred.

  On his wrist, a pocketwatch ticked softly.

  Its face was cracked.

  The second hand spun backward.

  His entire form radiated a presence that bent space around him—not just authority, but a parody of order, something that twisted law into punishment, guilt into chains, and justice into submission.

  His eyes—the only part of him that truly lived—burned through the cloth, glowing like twin crimson coals buried beneath ash.

  They were unblinking, alive, and cold—not hateful, but empty, like the last thing you'd see before the verdict dropped from Heaven... or Hell.

  The contract was complete.

  He was no longer Judgeman.

  He is the Executor, The Third Flag—a weapon forged by guilt, sharpened by failure, and sanctified through the blood of innocents and traitors alike.

  And now…

  The city would learn what it meant to meet punishment without mercy.