Silence hung over the ruins.
Pain came next.
Everywhere.
During the fight, adrenaline had drowned most of it beneath the rush of killing. Now that the battle was over, the agony surged back all at once, as though a road roller had crushed him again and again.
Any ordinary Rank Three Warrior would already have collapsed from shock.
Joren remained standing.
Then life erupted from the deepest part of his body.
Every cell answered at once.
Purple Talent, [Rebirth from Blood].
The sensation was strange. Almost as though countless invisible hands had begun stitching him together from within.
Broken bones snapped back into place, aligned themselves, and fused.
His damaged organs stopped bleeding, sealed over, shed the ruined tissue, then grew anew within seconds.
Even the torn muscle fibers writhed like living threads, weaving themselves back together stronger and denser than before.
Less than a minute later, Joren rolled his neck.
Crack.
Done.
Every injury had vanished.
His depleted stamina and protective force had also returned to their peak beneath that overwhelming surge of vitality.
That was the absurdity of a purple Talent.
As long as he did not die, he could keep starting over.
At the same time, the S Class [Black Dragon] nano armor began repairing itself.
[Self Repair Program activated.]
The armor had been torn open in dozens of places, exposing the dark red lining beneath. Now the black liquid metal began to flow.
Like living tar, it swallowed nearby scraps of metal and drew them into itself, sealing each break as it moved.
Sizzle.
A few minutes later, the armor looked new again.
Deep black.
Polished.
Its sleek lines wrapped around Joren’s tall frame, and the angular faceplate slid shut once more.
He bent down.
Orson’s staring head went into his left hand.
The Bloodfiend’s pale, twisted head went into his right.
Then Joren turned toward the collapsed entrance.
Black boots crossed the rubble.
Crack.
Crack.
Step by step.
...
Kyo and Manester seemed to see straight through the smoke toward the figure approaching from within.
"Told you."
Kyo grinned, the tension finally leaving his shoulders.
"That brat is hard to kill."
"That Talent of his could make anyone drool with envy."
Manester said nothing.
But the hands clasped behind his back had stopped trembling.
The old man had spent half his life carrying Norcrest on his shoulders. Now, for once, relief softened the severity of his face.
"He won."
"And he won clean."
Then footsteps came through the thinning smoke.
Steady.
Heavy.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Each one seemed to land against the heartbeat of everyone waiting outside.
"He is coming out!"
Someone shouted.
The wind rose.
The last veil of smoke scattered.
A tall figure emerged above the ruins of the House Hurst gate.
Black nano armor caught the lights in cold metallic lines.
One sharp eyed reporter zoomed in through a long lens, then jerked so hard that the camera nearly slipped from his hands.
"Heads!"
"That is Orson Hurst’s head!"
"Who is the other one? The one with the fangs..."
Camera shutters erupted.
Flash after flash joined into a sheet of white light, turning the entrance bright as day.
Joren stopped at the highest point of the rubble.
He lifted his chin slightly.
The black faceplate slid aside and revealed a young, handsome face.
Orson, once the richest man in Norcrest, hung from his left hand.
A feared Rank Five Bloodfiend hung from his right.
Behind him lay the shattered estate.
Before him waited the attention of the entire city.
The young man in black armor stood there with two monstrous heads in his hands, like a god of slaughter walking out of myth.
Young.
Unrestrained.
Overwhelming.
"Antares Command is conducting an operation."
Joren did not raise his voice.
Protective force carried it across the entire area, drowning out every camera shutter.
He tossed the two heads to the ground as though dropping bags of garbage.
Then his gaze moved across the crowd and settled on the pale reporters.
"This is what happens when you collude with Fiends."
"Anyone else want to defend House Hurst?"
"Step forward."
No one did.
No one spoke.
For a moment, even breathing too loudly seemed dangerous.
Before absolute strength and ruthless action, every scheme and every manufactured outrage looked weak and ridiculous.
From this night onward, everyone would know the name of Norcrest’s new Frontier Marshal.
Joren.
The flashes kept coming, bright enough to burn through the night.
Above the ruins, his figure became the only thing anyone could see.
Specks of blood still marked the handsome face above the black nano armor. Under the flood of cameras, they only made the image sharper.
Power made flesh.
Authority given form.
The comment feeds across every major streaming platform crashed under the flood of messages.
"Frontier Marshal, over here! Norcrest Evening News!"
"My lord, please face the camera!"
"I have millions of followers and specialize in interviewing successful people. Could I have one minute?"
In a world ruled by the strong, were looks justice?
No.
Strength was justice.
But when someone possessed both looks and strength, he became the truth.
One female reporter finally gathered enough courage to step closer.
Her hand shook as she extended the microphone toward Joren.
Part of it was fear.
The rest came from seeing his face at such close range.
"Did House Hurst truly collude with Fiends?"
"Was the one you killed really a member of the legendary blood race?"
"How did Antares Command uncover the connection between House Hurst and the Fiends?"
"If House Hurst has been working with them for years, why was it never discovered before?"
"And how did you gain such terrifying strength at such a young age?"
One person had stepped forward.
Joren had not refused.
That was enough to break the hesitation of the rest.
More reporters crowded around him, questions coming from every direction.
"How did you become Frontier Marshal of Antares Command at your age?"
"Did you uncover the evidence in advance?"
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"Do you like your father more or your mother?"
...