That man stepped forward and began to speak, his voice steady but edged with urgency. "Forgive me for the intrusion, Mr. Scorpino Juri. But as you've seen… he tried to kill Nishiro and Shirisa. The Dorsa Nui Gang and Santujiro are on their way—five hundred bike raiders, maybe more. I know your strength outweighs theirs, but I also know that man. This assault... it's just a smokescreen. A distraction before the real storm hits. A bigger one."
He paused, his eyes darkening with a flicker of concern. "I can't take that risk with their lives. I hope you understand what I'm trying to say. I'll take them to the place they first met. It might even help the boss to regain his memories."
Juri had been silent, his sharp eyes locked on the speaker, reading every tone and every twitch. At last, the Red Scorpion's leader leaned back, exhaling quietly. "Third Upper Head of Drakon Eikoskefalos, Fajito Sasara," he said in a low, commanding voice, "I understand your intention. Very well. But promise me one thing—guard their lives more fiercely than your own."
Fajito nodded once, firm and silent. No words needed. He turned toward the gate, walking past Juri with heavy footsteps echoing across the stone.
But just as he passed, Juri raised his voice—not loud, but sharp as a blade. "My daughter hates the smell of cigars, Fajito."
Fajito froze in his tracks. Then, a faint smile curled across his face. Without looking back, he plucked the lit cigar from his lips and flicked it down. The ember hissed against the cold stone of the Scorps mansion gate as it died out.
Then, without another word, he walked into the mid day sunlight .
As the last glimpse of Fajito faded into the distant haze beyond Juri's line of sight, the air around the Scorps mansion shifted. Silence held for a moment—tense and deliberate. Then Juri reached into his coat, pulled out his transmitter, and spoke with a cold finality.
"The act is over! "
His voice cracked through the quiet like thunder.
In an instant, everything changed.
The guards who had been lying motionless, seemingly bruised and beaten, began to stir. One by one, they rose—faces calm, eyes alert, their wounds vanishing like illusions.
From the far wall, Dorsan snapped the cards from his cloak with a single, effortless jerk. Dust fell as the impact marks crumbled around him. He stepped forward, rolling his neck with a low growl, his green eyes gleaming.
Arlon, still perched lazily on the mansion stairs, stretched his arms wide as if waking from a peaceful nap. "Mmm… that was a nice little break," he muttered with a smirk.
Toro and Sumi stood in perfect sync, brushing off their clothes, their expressions unbothered—sharp and ready.
The mansion no longer looked like a place under attack. It looked like a stage that had just finished its—
Play.
And behind it all, Juri stood still, gaze steady, a faint smirk on his lips.
Juri's eyes narrowed, a spark of fire flickering within them as he slid the transmitter back into his coat. His voice rumbled low, laced with menace and dark amusement.
"The party's just begun," he said, turning toward his now-assembled crew. "Prepare for five hundred swines."
A wave of silent intensity swept through the courtyard. Dorsan cracked his knuckles, a dangerous grin spreading across his face.
Arlon bounced on his heels like a child about to open his favorite toy.
Toro rolled his shoulders, the veins in his arms tightening with anticipation, while Sumi's gaze turned calculating.
The Scorpions weren't shaken...
They were waiting.
Dorsan walked off silently toward his room, his footsteps echoing in the marble corridor. One by one, the others followed—Arlon veered off with a light skip in his step, while Sumi and Toro headed upstairs hand in hand, their presence calm but pulsing with intensity.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
Inside his room, Dorsan knelt near the far wall and removed a tile, revealing a long, hidden compartment. He pulled out a sleek, matte-black case, longer than most weapons chests. With reverence, he opened it—inside rested his prized possession: the Barrett MRAD sniper rifle. Its barrel gleamed under the soft light. He ran his hand across it, kissed the cold steel gently, then began checking the scope, bolt, and trigger precision. His lips curled into a whisper.
"Let's hunt."
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
In the next room, Arlon crouched beside his bed and tugged a slim box from underneath. As soon as he opened it, his eyes lit up with boyish delight. "Finally..." he breathed. Inside lay a stack of nano-infused paper—tinted with steel, razor-thin and deadly. A custom-made birthday gift from his mother, Agatha Juri. He held one up, watching the glint reflect off its edge with admiration.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
Sumi stood before her dresser, spraying an entire bottle of floral body mist across herself with dramatic flair. The scent filled the room like a warning before a storm.
"What about you, Toro?" she asked over her shoulder.
Toro stood shirtless, rubbing a thick, golden oil across his muscular frame. His skin shimmered under the lights. "My special oil recipe," he said, voice deep and amused. "Mixed with herbs... makes me slippery and... gives me full 'all-out' permission."
"Oh my," Sumi laughed, turning to him. She threw her arms around him and kissed him hard, her tongue dancing into his mouth like fire meeting gasoline. After a heated moment, she pulled back, eyes burning with mischief. "Now my monster's ready to crush them."
Toro smirked. "Yeah!.."
Sumi walked over to the chest at the foot of the bed and flipped it open. Nestled inside was a pair of elegant Japanese war fans—beautiful, but razor-edged, crafted from reinforced steel. She held them with grace, spinning one with a flick of her wrist.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
Moments later, the four of them gathered in the main hallway, silent but electric. Juri stood at the center, tightening the straps on his heavy gauntlets, the metal clicking into place with purpose. His face was calm, but the fire in his eyes said otherwise.
He lifted his transmitter and spoke in a low, commanding tone.
"Agatha. What's their location?"
Agatha's voice crackled through the line, crisp and clear from the control room. "Fifty bike raiders are two kilometers out from the east. Another hundred are already within an 800-meter radius. More are closing in fast."
Juri smiled, cold and wide. "Good," he said. "Let them find out why we're called Scorpions."
A pause. Then Agatha's voice purred with pride. "Understood, darling."
With that, she clicked a button on the control panel.
Systems armed.
The nest was awake. And the stingers were ready.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
"Only our first group is enough to wipe them out," one of the bike raiders scoffed, revving his engine.
"Yeah," another laughed beside him. "This'll be over before it even starts."
But their cocky confidence shattered in an instant.
As the lead bike crossed the 100-meter mark, the rider suddenly jerked violently—then collapsed. His bike skidded out of control and crashed, sending up a spray of dirt and sparks.
The rest of the squad, about fifty meters behind, slammed their brakes, tires screeching as they came to a confused halt. Dust swirled around them.
The fallen biker, barely conscious, began crawling toward them. His voice was weak, trembling. "Help… me…"
But before anyone could react, his body went still. His face contorted, his skin turning a sickening violet hue, veins bulging grotesquely. Then—nothing.
"What the hell…?" one raider muttered, stepping forward.
In that frozen moment of horror, the ground responded.
Tiny hisses—almost imperceptible—echoed from the soil. Then came the sting.
From hidden vents and pinholes scattered across the earth, dozens—no, hundreds—of needle-like projectiles shot out in perfect precision. Screams filled the air as riders were hit in necks, arms, legs—pierced before they could even lift their weapons.
Panic erupted.
Engines roared, some tried to escape—but it was too late. One by one, they dropped. Some convulsed, some slumped, some simply froze mid-movement—claimed by the venom that raced through their blood.
In mere moments, the first group was no more.
Fifty bikers, silenced forever—swallowed by the scorpion's trap.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
On the other side of the battlefield, the chaos only deepened.
Thirty of the Scorpion guards stood their ground, unleashing controlled bursts of fire against a wave of one hundred incoming bikers. The air cracked with gunfire as bullets danced through the dust. A few bikers went down, their bodies crashing onto the gravel, but the sheer number of enemies and the wild spray of SMGs began to turn the tide.
The Scorpions were outnumbered. The bikers advanced like a tide—louder, faster, and more aggressive with every passing second.
And then, amidst the tension, a strange presence arrived.
A soft chuckle echoed across the battlefield as Arlon stepped forward from the shadows, his childish smile glowing under the sun. His messy hair bounced with each step, and he looked more like a boy sneaking out for fun than someone walking into war.
From the biker ranks, a female rider snarled, "Hey, kiddo! Move—or die."
A man beside her laughed darkly. "Forget that. Let's take him alive. Would make a fun little slave, don't you think?"
The woman grinned. "Yeah. He'll learn his place."
But fate had other plans.
As their bikes crossed into the 100-meter radius, the front row riders suddenly lurched. Tires burst with violent pops. Metal screamed. The lead fifteen bikers lost control, crashing into one another in a bone-snapping pile-up. Engines roared in agony. Riders screamed. Smoke and flames rose from the wreckage.
Arlon, still smiling sweetly, stood with a paper strip fluttering between his fingers—razor-thin and glinting with steel. He had sliced through fifteen tires in a blink, turning momentum into massacre.
Pinned beneath her fallen bike, the same female rider writhed in pain, her leg mangled. She spat blood and rage. "You little swine… let me out of here and I'll make you my slave! I'll drag you to hell myself!"
Arlon pointed his fingers at her, shaping them like a gun. His eyes gleamed with mischief.
The woman burst into laughter, even in pain. "What are you, a lunatic? Lost your mind?" She aimed her SMG at him, ready to paint the air with bullets.
"Pew~" Arlon whispered.
Before her finger could even twitch, a bullet tore through her skull. Her laughter stopped mid-breath as she slumped lifelessly beneath the weight of the bike.
From afar, a biker screamed, "What the hell did you just—"
Another sharp crack echoed.
The man dropped dead, a bullet piercing clean through his head before the sentence left his mouth.
Arlon turned, casually brushing imaginary smoke from his finger gun as if the kill had truly come from him. With a childlike hum, he began walking back to the mansion, skipping over debris as though stepping through puddles.
High above it all, perched on the rooftop like a phantom hawk, Dorsan lay prone—his eye locked behind the scope of his customized Barrett MRAD sniper rifle. The wind teased his coat as he reloaded smoothly, his expression calm and detached.
Each shot was precise. Each kill, intentional.
From the mansion's peak, death had never looked so quiet.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
Agatha's voice cut sharply through the transmitter, her tone calm but laced with urgency.
"I'm picking up signals—over 400 bikers approaching from the west," she reported from the control room. Her fingers danced across the control panel as data streamed down the monitors. "The metal-weight detectors are spiking. Some of them are heavily armed. Could be explosives... or mounted tech."
She paused, eyes narrowing as the digital radar pulsed faster.
"They're on the move!"
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
Toro and Sumi stood at the western entrance, calm and poised despite the growing tension in the air. The sun blazed overhead, casting long, wavering shadows on the cracked ground.
"Today's too hot, don't you think?" Sumi asked, gently cooling herself with the breeze from her Japanese steel fans.
Toro glanced sideways at her, a smirk forming on his lips. "Not hotter than you," he replied smoothly.
Sumi blushed, biting back a smile as the heat between them lingered in the silence.
But that quiet moment was shattered by the growling thunder of engines.
The sound grew louder, heavier—until dozens of bikes came into view. The raiders were clad in metallic suits, glinting under the sun like armored insects. Their bikes weren't ordinary either—many had weapons welded onto their frames, barrels peeking out like fangs ready to strike.
"There are only two of them," a biker scoffed.
"Crush them!" barked their group leader, seated behind the driver of a heavily armed assault bike. In his hands rested an RPG launcher, the long, deadly tube resting on his shoulder.
He took aim—at Toro at first—but then chuckled darkly and shifted the weapon toward Sumi.
"Let's see you handle this, pretty face," he sneered and pulled the trigger.
The missile shot forward with a scream, cutting through the air with ruthless speed.
But Toro didn't flinch.
His eyes locked onto the rocket's path. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the wrecked body of a fallen bike—one of the ones brought down earlier by Arlon—and with a grunt of raw power, hurled it straight at the incoming projectile.
The timing was perfect.
Both the rocket and the airborne bike collided mid-flight with a blinding explosion. The force of the blast lit up the battlefield, fire and smoke rising high between the Scorpions and the advancing horde.
Sumi stood behind Toro, wind from the shockwave rushing past her, her steel fans trembling in her grip. Dust settled, but their eyes remained locked forward.
The war was far from over...
But the first shot had been answered.
Toro's muscles tensed beneath his skin, veins pulsing like coiled cables. The smoke from the earlier blast still hung in the air, casting a haze over the western field. But through the fog, his silhouette emerged—massive, unwavering.
With a low growl in his throat, Toro gripped the frames of two broken bikes lying at his feet. His fingers dug into the dented metal as if they were paper. Then, with a grunt of brute force, he lifted both bikes—one in each hand—and began walking toward the approaching biker horde like a beast charging into a storm.
The raiders froze for a second, stunned by the sheer audacity.
Then their group leader screamed from the back of his weaponized bike, "Crush that bastard!"
The command rang out like thunder.
"YES!" the entire group roared in unison, the ground rumbling as engines screamed and tires spun with rage.
But Toro was already in motion.
He hurled the bikes—one to the left flank, the other to the right—like a god throwing spears. The twisted steel spun through the air before smashing into the advancing lines. The force of impact was devastating.
The left bike slammed into a tight cluster of riders, flipping them like bowling pins. Engines exploded. Chains snapped. Limbs flailed.
On the right, the second bike struck even harder, launching one raider into the air before his body collided with another's head-on. Screams filled the sky.
More than 150 bikers were caught in the chaos—crushed beneath their own fallen comrades, bikes tangled into fiery heaps, unable to move or stand.
But Toro didn't stop.
With smoke swirling behind him and flames rising on both flanks, he cracked his knuckles slowly, deliberately. The sound echoed across the field like bones breaking.
He set his eyes on the heart of the remaining horde—around 250 riders, revving their engines, glaring with fury.
Toro smiled.
Then he charged.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
"FIRE!!" the leader bellowed, his voice cutting through the roar of engines and smoke.
In an instant, dozens of SMGs lit up—muzzle flashes sparking like a storm of lightning. Bullets tore through the air, all aimed at one man—Toro.
But none reached him.
Before a single shot could land, a blur of steel sliced through the chaos. Sumi dashed forward, her body spinning like a dance of death, her twin Japanese fans flashing with sharp precision. Each bullet was intercepted mid-flight, cut clean in half before it could reach Toro's skin. The sound of shredded metal echoed like a violent windstorm.
She moved in front of him, a protective wall of elegance and fury.
The raiders stared in disbelief, their aim faltering, their fingers hesitating on the triggers. The shock of seeing bullets fall uselessly at their feet left them frozen for a breath too long.
And they forgot.
They forgot the monster behind her.
Toro's eyes burned with wild focus. With the thunder of war around him, he let out a guttural roar and charged straight into the horde like an unleashed tank.
With one powerful swing of his arms, he grabbed two raiders by their collars and slammed them into two more, creating a crushing impact that sent bodies flying. Four bikes were torn from the ground and hurled backward into the second line, causing a chain reaction of crashes and screams.
Metal clashed. Bodies tumbled. Unity shattered.
The once-structured biker formation crumbled into chaos. Engines flared and died, raiders scrambled to regain balance—but most were thrown to the ground, dazed or unconscious.
Yet in the confusion, 17 raiders managed to break through the sides, speeding toward the mansion with blazing fury.
Sumi turned with alarm. "Toro!" she shouted, panic creeping into her voice.
But Toro didn't flinch. His response came with a confident grin.
"Don't worry," he said, cracking his knuckles again. "He's not called Code— Eagle Eye for nothing."
High above, a sniper scope quietly aligned in the distance.
The hunt had just begun...
One by one, the 17 raiders speeding toward the mansion began to fall.
It started with a faint buzz—sharp, almost like the hum of an angry wasp—but deadlier. The first rider's helmet cracked open, his body flung from the bike before it even crashed.
The others barely had time to process the sound before the second shot came—then the third. Panic erupted in their formation as bikes skidded, swerved, and collided.
From the rooftop of the Scorpions' mansion, Dorsan lay prone, steady as stone. His custom Barrett MRAD rested in his arms like it was born there, molded for his touch. His green eyes glowed beneath his dark hood, locked into the scope with surgical focus.
He had loaded ten spinning rounds—experimental bullets designed for mid-air split and redirect—and Dorsan used them like an artist wielding a brush.
With each pull of the trigger, the bullet twisted mid-flight, slicing the air and striking with brutal elegance. One round tore through the neck of one rider and ricocheted into the spine of another just behind. Another spun sideways, hitting two riders who were side by side—dropping both before they even realized they'd been hit.
His precision was terrifying. Calm, deliberate, and merciless.
Down below, the last raider let out a scream—but it was cut short as the final round pierced his engine, sending his bike flipping through the air in flames.
Smoke curled from the barrel of Dorsan's sniper. He didn't smile. He didn't blink.
He simply whispered, "Seventeen."
Then he reloaded, ready for more.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
On the other side of the battlefield, amidst the smoke and bikes, a single figure crept behind Toro—quiet, focused, and full of hate. She was the vice leader of the biker horde, a tall woman with a scar running down her cheek, gripping a thick iron bar in her gloved hands. Her eyes burned with revenge, and her lips curled into a twisted grin.
"Let's see how tough you are when your skull cracks," she muttered under her breath.
Toro was still advancing through the wreckage of fallen bikes, unaware of the danger approaching from behind. The woman raised the iron bar high above her head, ready to bring it down with all her might.
But just as the bar was about to connect—
CRACK!
It never made it.
The weapon shattered in her hands mid-swing—splitting into fragments like dry twigs. A sharp gust of wind followed, and in the same instant, a gleaming fan pierced the air and forced its way straight into her mouth, cutting the corners of her lips slightly as it lodged itself.
The woman froze, eyes wide, choking on fear more than the steel. Her voice tried to scream, but only a garbled sound came out.
Sumi stood right in front of her, expression blank—except for her eyes. They blazed with fury. Not wild, reckless rage—but cold, calculated wrath. The look of a lioness who had just seen someone threaten her mate.
Sumi leaned in closer, gripping the handle of her fan tighter, her voice low and dangerous.
"Don't you dare touch him… you filthy bitch."
The biker girl trembled. A wet patch grew on her pants as fear overtook her—her body's instinct giving in before her mind could.
Sumi's eyes narrowed further. "You looked at him with dirty eyes. That's enough to earn you hell."
The biker's last sight was Sumi raising her second fan—gleaming, sharp, merciless.
With a brutal sideways slash, Sumi tore through the corners of the woman's mouth—slicing it open from both sides in one fluid, precise motion. Her scream died in silence as blood spilled down her chin, lips hanging like torn paper.
She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Sumi stood over her, breathing calmly—expression unreadable.
She whispered, "No one touches what's mine." Then she turned, rejoining Toro in the chaos.
The group leader, face twisted with rage and madness, watched his vice leader fall lifeless at Sumi's feet. His fingers tightened around the grip of the RPG resting on his shoulder. Smoke from fallen raiders and scorched metal surrounded him, but his fury cut through it all.
"You damned bitch!" he screamed, spittle flying. "You killed my dish! Prepare to die!"
He didn't wait. He pulled the trigger.
The warhead fired with a deafening blast, a streak of destruction racing through the air toward Sumi like a meteor.
For a split second—she froze.
Her heart stopped. The burning projectile reflected in her eyes, and the world seemed to slow around her.
What should I do? her mind screamed.
She knew she couldn't outrun it. She couldn't deflect it. Time had betrayed her.
But then—
A blur of muscle and momentum crashed in front of her.
Toro.
He appeared like a wall between her and death, his hand shooting up with impossible speed. His fingers gripped the missile mid-air—raw power meeting pure fire.
The heat scorched his skin instantly, and the force sent cracks through the ground beneath his feet—but he held on.
With a roar of effort, he turned his body, twisted the missile's direction in one fluid motion, and launched it straight toward the charging bike of the group leader.
The leader's eyes widened. "No—!"
BOOM!
The explosion was massive. A thunderous roar ripped through the battlefield, engulfing the leader and several remaining bikers. His stash of extra gunpowder turned the blast into an inferno, lighting the sky with fire and smoke. The shockwave tore through the last of the armored riders—some disintegrated, others collapsed, their bodies charred and burning.
When the smoke began to clear, Sumi slowly opened her eyes. Her ears still rang, and her hands trembled.
Standing before her—barely holding himself up—was Toro. His large frame shielded her completely. His back bore the brunt of the explosion, scorched and bleeding. His left arm—burned badly, skin raw and blistered, shaking.
"T-Toro?" Sumi whispered, her voice shaky, filled with fear.
He turned his head slightly, his face bloodied but smiling faintly.
"I'm... still standing," he muttered.
Sumi rushed forward, her eyes welling with tears as she saw the state of him. "Why?! Why would you—!?"
Before she could say more, Toro pulled her into a tight embrace. His voice, though hoarse, was gentle.
"No need to act tough, my lioness," he whispered into her ear, his lips close. "I'm fine… as long as you are."
Her arms wrapped around him, trembling. In that broken battlefield of fire and blood—there was warmth. A fragile moment of love wrapped in chaos.
Sumi clicked her transmitter, voice trembling but focused.
"Hey Dorsan… can you hear me?"
Static crackled for a second, then came Dorsan's calm voice.
"Loud and clear."
Sumi glanced at Toro, his arm draped over her shoulders, his burned body heavy and trembling with pain. Her jaw tightened.
"Use Blastick Rounds. I'm taking Toro back to the mansion."
Toro shifted beside her, trying to protest. "H-Hey… I'm fine. Don't—"
But before he could finish, Sumi snapped, her voice laced with pain and desperation.
"Got it?!"
Her teary eyes met his. She wasn't asking—she was begging behind that strength.
Toro saw it. And for once… he didn't argue. His body gave in, leaning against her more, the pain finally breaking through his pride.
Sumi gripped his waist tighter, taking on his weight. The smell of burnt skin and scorched leather filled her nose, but she didn't flinch.
"Leave the rest to me," Dorsan responded from the rooftop, his voice now colder—sharper.
They began to walk, each step slow and heavy. The battlefield behind them still roared with engines, fire, and the groans of the wounded. But in that moment, Sumi's focus was only on getting Toro to safety.
Suddenly—
Click-clack.
A biker staggered up from behind a pile of burning bikes, blood dripping from his forehead. His helmet was cracked, and rage burned in his eyes. He raised his SMG, aiming at Toro's unprotected back.
"Where the hell do you think you're going, you son of a—"
Bang!
His skull burst open mid-sentence, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. Blood sprayed across the wreckage behind him, and his body dropped instantly—limp, lifeless.
Sumi didn't turn.
Toro didn't flinch.
But high above, on the mansion's rooftop, Dorsan exhaled slowly. His sniper's barrel smoked faintly in the wind.
One shot. One kill.
He pulled out the new clip of Blastick Rounds, eyes narrowing at the chaos below.
"It's hunting time."
From the rooftop, Dorsan slid the Blastick Round clip into place with a metallic click. His cold green eyes scanned the horde—what remained of it. Dozens of bikers still pushed forward, unaware of the terror about to descend.
He adjusted the scope, whispering to himself,
"Let's end your parade."
Bang.
The bullet sliced through the sky, a high-pitched whistle marking its flight. Mid-air, a subtle mechanism activated—shik!—the casing split open, releasing a cascade of tiny metallic spheres—no larger than marbles, but each filled with 50 grams of pure RDX.
They rained down like cursed blessings.
Tink… tink… tink…
The sound of them touching metal, concrete, and bone was almost eerie. And then—
BOOM!
The first sphere exploded in a flash of orange-red light, ripping a crater into the battlefield.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Chain explosions erupted in rapid succession. Fire swallowed bikes. Metal twisted and melted. Bodies were hurled like ragdolls.
"AHHHH—MY LEG! MY F**KING LEG!!" one raider screamed, crawling away with half a foot missing.
"IT'S IN MY ARM! GET IT OFF—GET IT OFF!!" another shrieked, clawing at the explosive sphere stuck in his sleeve—right before he exploded into mist.
A third raider ran, flames trailing behind him, screaming at the top of his lungs,
"THE GROUND IS CURSED! IT'S HELL! THIS IS HELL!!"
Dorsan didn't blink. Another round loaded.
More spheres dropped.
More screams followed.
A biker reached for his radio, desperately yelling,
"We're being butchered! Someone—anyone—help us!!"
His voice was cut off as the final blast swallowed his entire group, the fireball lighting up the western sky.
From the rooftop, Dorsan muttered with an emotionless smirk,
"You picked the wrong mansion."
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
Agatha's trembling voice crackled through the private comm line. "Dorsan, can you hear me?"
He adjusted the earpiece, calming his breath from the rooftop's fading chaos. "Yes, Mom," he answered, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
But what came next shattered his composure.
"Start the Bunker Protocol… now," Agatha said, her voice tight and barely holding back sobs.
Dorsan's heart skipped. "What?! We can't just abandon you… or Dad! We're still fighting, and we're winning!" His grip tightened on the sniper rifle. "I'm staying right here!"
But just as he brought the scope back to his eye—
CRACK!
His weapon exploded in his hands.
A narrow projectile shot clean through the barrel—piercing the rifle's heart, tearing through the chamber, and slamming into the concrete wall behind him with such force that the entire rooftop shook. Dorsan recoiled and rolled back, eyes wide in disbelief. Sparks flew from what was left of his beloved weapon.
"What the…?" he whispered.
His breath hitched. He leaned forward slowly and stared at the thing lodged into the wall.
A nail.
Not a bullet.
Not a missile.
Just, A nail.
Thin. Rusty. Harmless-looking. But it had just demolished one of the most fortified sniper rifles ever built.
His fingers trembled.
And in that trembling stillness, a deep, cold fear rooted in his stomach and began to spread through his veins. His pupils dilated. His lips parted and barely let out the word,
"…Okay."
Agatha's sobs broke the silence.
"Three missiles… incoming… from five kilometers," she choked out. "Each one powerful enough to reduce a building to ash. Evacuate your siblings, now… please…"
Her voice cracked, the last word barely a whisper.
Dorsan stood frozen, the roar of wind and distant sirens mixing with the pounding in his chest. Then, as if time had caught up again, he leapt into action.
But the thought still haunted him:
That was just a nail.
Dorsan's breath was shallow as he staggered back from the shattered remains of his sniper. His mind screamed to move—missiles were coming, and every second counted. He patted his coat frantically, checking his gear. His fingers brushed over something cold and metallic.
A dart shooter—small, compact, silent.
He gripped it tight.
Dorsan bolted down the stairwell, his boots pounding against the metal steps as sirens howled faintly in the background. The tension in the air was thick, like the calm before an unavoidable storm.
Reaching Arlon's room, he pushed the door open—and found his younger brother sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by shimmering steel-tinted nano papers. He was humming to himself.
"What should I use next? Hmm… Oh! This paper—nah, maybe that one..." Arlon mumbled, completely absorbed in his creative chaos.
Dorsan aimed quickly.
Phfft!
A dart whizzed and stuck right into Arlon's neck.
"Ow—Hey! What the—" Arlon blinked in confusion, touching his neck. "Did a bee just—"
He didn't finish. His body swayed, then collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
"Sorry, Arlon," Dorsan whispered, kneeling down. He carefully hoisted the boy's limp body over his shoulder, then grabbed the open collection box full of nano paper with his free hand. The weight was awkward, but he pushed through, clenching his jaw.
"I'll explain later," he muttered under his breath, rushing toward the ground floor. "If there is a later…"
His footsteps echoed through the halls, his chest tight with guilt and urgency. Behind him, the faint screech of something unnatural hummed in the wind.
The countdown had begun.
Dorsan burst into the ground floor hallway, panting, sweat trailing down the side of his face. His arm ached from carrying Arlon, but he didn't slow down—not for a second. Every breath reminded him that three missiles were closing in. The mansion's walls vibrated faintly with the distant rumble of chaos outside.
He reached the old wall near the fireplace and slammed his hand against a hidden panel. A soft click echoed, followed by a mechanical grind as a section of the floor slid away, revealing a narrow, spiral staircase descending into darkness.
Dorsan didn't hesitate.
He stepped in, the door sealing behind him with a hiss. Only the red emergency lights illuminated the descent, casting long shadows on the cold stone walls. His footsteps echoed as he rushed down, each thud of his boots sounding like the ticking of a doomsday clock.
60 meters deep, the air turned colder. The pressure heavier.
Finally, he reached the hidden room—a bunker buried far beneath the earth, built only for absolute emergencies. Steel walls reinforced with tungsten surrounded a small bed, medical cabinet, and a single vented screen showing the outside radar.
Dorsan gently lowered Arlon onto the bed, making sure his brother's head rested properly. He placed the box of nano paper beside him, brushing a stray lock of hair from the boy's forehead.
He lingered there for a second—his expression dark, brows furrowed in stormy silence. His fingers trembled slightly.
"Stay safe, Arlon…" he murmured.
A distant boom echoed from above, causing the lights to flicker briefly.
Dorsan clenched his fists, exhaled deeply, then turned away.
He left the room with slow, heavy steps—shoulders burdened not just with urgency… but with the silent weight of fear.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
The cold light from the bunker hallway flickered as Dorsan stepped into the dimly lit infirmary room. Sumi sat at the bedside, her hands trembling as she wrapped fresh bandages around Toro's injured arm. His breathing was shallow, body scorched and bruised, but he was alive.
Sumi looked up, eyes red, lips quivering. "Hey…?" she called out with a shaky voice. "W-Who's guarding the mansion now…?"
Dorsan paused at the doorway for a heartbeat, his jaw clenched. Then he stepped closer, voice calm but shadowed, "Don't worry… Mom's still up there. She's holding it with the traps."
A fragile breath escaped Sumi's lips. A slight, broken smile formed—but just as quickly as it came, a faint thwip cut the air.
A small dart struck the side of her back.
Her eyes widened in shock. Her gaze snapped to Dorsan, the betrayal flickering in her pupils—before her body gave in to the tranquilizer and collapsed limply, falling across Toro's chest.
Toro remained still. His chest rose and fell—injured but resting.
Dorsan moved toward the bed, pulling out another dart. "Sorry…" he whispered, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. "I have to keep you both safe… You'll only slow me down up there—"
Click!..
The cold metal of a dart gun pressed against Dorsan's chest before he even realized.
Toro's hand gripped it tight.
Dorsan's eyes widened in horror.
Thwip!
The dart fired into his own throat.
"What the—!?"
The drug acted fast. His body buckled and fell forward, straight into Toro's arms. Dorsan's head rested heavily against his chest before sliding down into unconsciousness.
Toro exhaled slowly, his face soaked in sweat, expression hardened with pain.
"Don't dare to die…" he muttered, lifting both his unconscious siblings onto his shoulders with a grunt of effort, "Not unless your big brother is dead first."
The weight of them was nothing compared to the burden in his heart.
Wincing with every step, Toro limped toward the hidden stairs—down to the bunker. The world above was preparing to fall apart.
But for now, he'd make damn sure his family didn't go down with it.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
The hidden bunker room hummed softly with the sound of filtered air. It was quiet—safer than the chaos raging above.
Toro gently laid Dorsan on a padded mat near the wall, adjusting his unconscious brother's arm so it rested comfortably. He winced as he turned, pain shooting through his burned back, but he didn't stop.
Next, he walked over to the bed and carefully lowered Sumi onto the mattress. Her breath was steady, face peaceful despite the turmoil she had just endured.
Toro stood there for a moment, looking at her—at the soft curve of her expression, the strength hidden in her stillness. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at his lips. He knelt beside the bed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead.
His hand hovered gently over her stomach, barely touching, as if sensing something far more fragile than flesh.
Toro got a fleeting glimpse of that late night from the week before...
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
The room was dimly lit, the soft rustling of bedsheets the only sound between them. Sumi lay beside Toro, both wrapped in the same sheet, their bodies close, warmth shared in silence. She looked up at him with sleepy eyes and whispered,
"How was your day?"
Toro glanced at her with a teasing smirk.
"Well, considering I didn't get in your touch, so it was fine."
Sumi puffed her cheeks and pouted like a sulking child. "Hmph!"
Toro laughed at the sight. That pout—he could never get tired of it. He leaned closer, eyes soft. "You're seriously adorable when you're angry, you know?"
Her expression suddenly shifted—shyness overtaking her bold spirit. She pulled the blanket over her face and murmured,
"Hey… I have a birthday present for you."
He blinked with a laugh..
"Huh! My birthday will not come until next year."
Sumi instantly pulled down the pillow and smacked it on his chest.
"Ugh, you idiot!" she shouted, her cheeks flushing crimson. She then turned away, hiding her face.
Toro raised a brow, amused.
"What's got you so worked up, huh? You're acting all shy in front of someone who knows your body better than you do."
Sumi didn't respond with words. Instead, she reached out, gently took his hand, and placed it softly on her belly.
Her voice trembled with excitement as she whispered into his ear,
"Someone… will be that present."
Toro froze. His eyes widened as her meaning sank in. "H-Huh!? What did you just say…?" His face turned beet red.
Sumi giggled, unable to hide her joy any longer. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, burying her face in his chest as she whispered,
"We're going to be a family, too..."
Toro held her back, his expression one of stunned happiness—his tough, beastly aura melting under the weight of those words.
[𝘚𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵]
"Take care of them… Little Toro," Toro whispered, his voice filled with tenderness.
Then, leaning in, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead—long, steady, like a silent promise etched in warmth.
With a deep breath, he rose to his feet and took one last glance at his family—Dorsan, Arlon, and Sumi—all resting in the only place safe for now.
He stepped outside the room, closing the reinforced door behind him with a click, and locked it gently.
His eyes lingered on the door for a moment longer, the burden in his heart growing heavier.
Then he turned toward the storm above—walking back into war with nothing but will, wounds, and love sealed in the room behind him.
[Scene Shift]
The air around the mansion turned dense, like a storm preparing to split the skies. Dust swirled in heavy gusts as a lone figure emerged from the settling smoke beyond the outer wall.
He stood tall—unnervingly still—with a massive rip hammer resting casually in his right hand. Its steel head glinted under the dying sunlight, stained with old rust and fresh hints of blood. But it wasn't the weapon that made the guards freeze. It was him.
A twisted mask covered his face—painted with a grotesque, joker-like smile that curled unnaturally wide at the corners. The blackened grin didn't flicker, but the crimson glow in his left eye pulsed steadily, like a beating heart hungry for violence. Each step he took sent a silent threat throughthe air, a warning of the storm he carried alone.
Standing directly across from him—clenching his armored gauntlet until the steel groaned—was Juri, the head of the Scorpion family.
The ground seemed to tremble beneath the weight of their standoff. Neither moved. Neither blinked. Just two titans locked in silent understanding: this would be a duel that only one would survive.
Behind the masked man, Dorsa Nui gang's boss revved his monstrous bike engine, the sound ripping through the stillness like a war drum. Beside him stood the Santujiro clan's leader, silent and cold, fingers tracing the length of his katana like a predator preparing to slice fate in half. Behind them, a hundred raiders formed a dark sea of armor and weapons—armed to the teeth and eyes glowing with the hunger of bloodshed.
And overhead, barely 3 kilometers out, three missiles cut through the sky with burning trails—each one bearing the power to flatten this battlefield into ash.
This was it.
The final round was about to begin.