Beyond the arched gates of the manor lay a wide, pristine green lawn, its slopes rolling gently on both sides like velvet waves. A polished stone pathway split the greenery in half, leading toward the grand estate at the end.
But tonight, the gentle drizzle soaked everything in gloom.
The gangsters standing guard cursed the weather under their breath. Cold, damp, and tired, they had no patience left. But they didn't dare complain too loudly—rumor had it a high-ranking guest was inside. Orders had been strict: no mistakes. If anything happened on their watch, they wouldn't be scolded—they'd be eliminated.
Suddenly—
Rumble!
The sound of a roaring engine echoed from the road beyond the gates. The gangsters stiffened, weapons at the ready. Dozens of assault rifles, shotguns, and even RPGs were primed for action.
Their earpieces crackled.
"Do not let anyone through," the voice of the deputy leader came through sharply. "The boss isn't seeing visitors. If they make trouble—kill them."
"Copy that."
Whoosh—
Before any of them could properly respond, a sharp, slicing sound split the air.
CRACK!
A metal pipe—launched like a javelin—tore through the night sky and impaled seven or eight guards, nailing them to the stone wall behind them like pinned insects.
Blood erupted. Screams followed.
"SHIT—AMBUSH!"
"FIRE! FIRE, YOU IDIOTS!"
Clatter! Clatter! Clatter!
Gunfire erupted like a thunderstorm. The night lit up with muzzle flashes. Dozens of rifles unleashed hell on the lone figure advancing down the road.
Floodlights flared on. The entire estate's approach was bathed in artificial daylight.
The sheer volume of firepower was staggering. No human should have survived.
And yet—
Through the blaze of bullets and smoke, the shape of a black motorcycle surged forward like a bullet.
The Ducati Desmosedici RR, sleek as a panther and twice as deadly, danced through the bullets. The rider moved with supernatural grace, swaying the bike left and right in a blur. The rain of bullets missed her by inches.
And then—glow.
A shimmering blue energy barrier projected from the front of the Ducati, deflecting any bullet that did get close. Sparks scattered like fairy dust every time a round struck the shield.
"What the hell is that tech?!"
"Who builds motorcycles with force fields?!"
Shouting in panic, a few smarter guards turned to heavier options. RPGs were launched with reckless abandon.
BOOM!
Explosions tore up the road. Chunks of stone, shrapnel, and flame filled the air.
The smoke choked the sky.
"She's done," one man muttered.
But before the thought finished—
VROOM!
The motorcycle burst from the wall of smoke—untouched. Fire and dust clung to its wheels like ash from the underworld.
She had survived everything.
At that moment, the Death God truly arrived.
Inside the Manor
The estate's interior dripped with excess. Oil paintings framed in gold. Tapestries depicting battlefields and conquests. Statues of forgotten monarchs. Marble floors that gleamed under the chandeliers. Everything was built to scream power and money.
In a grand study, where war-themed murals stretched across the ceiling, Blake Shelton—the current head of the Fox Town gang—stood nervously like a dog among wolves.
Across from him sat a man far above his station.
Elegant. Mid-aged. Green eyes. A glass of wine in one hand and an amused smirk on his lips.
He didn't even look at Blake.
To him, this "gang leader" was no different from dirt on his shoes.
"You've become greedy, Shelton," the man said with a mocking smile, swirling his wine. "All your work over the years, and this is what you think you deserve? You or your son. You only get one chance."
Blake swallowed hard.
"I've done everything I was told," he said, trying not to sound desperate. "Didn't I deliver girls under eighteen just like you wanted—?"
CRACK!
Before he could finish, an old man standing silently behind the seated guest moved.
He didn't walk.
He appeared—one hand gripping Blake by the throat.
With a casual lift, he raised him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
Blake gasped and kicked, clawing at the hand squeezing his neck.
"You—"
BOOM!
An explosion rocked the manor, cutting off the old man's sentence.
The wineglass trembled.
The seated man frowned, visibly annoyed. The others behind him glanced at one another, suddenly alert.
The old man dropped Blake like trash and turned.
"She's alone," he said calmly. "One person. No more."
"That's ridiculous," Blake coughed, trying to sound proud. "There are hundreds of guards out there. Dozens of guns. RPGs. There's no way she's getting through all that."
The man's cold green eyes didn't even flinch.
To him, this wasn't a battle.
It was pest control.
Then—silence.
The gunfire stopped.
No more screams.
The night outside grew quiet. Too quiet.
In that stillness, every breath inside the study became louder. Every heartbeat echoed.
And Blake felt a pit open in his stomach.
He knew what that silence meant.
His soldiers were gone.
Wiped out.
Duo... duo... duo...
A knock on the door.
Three slow, deliberate taps.
Everyone in the room turned to face it.
Thunberg, the elegant man, tilted his chin.
Two of his subordinates moved toward the door, steps nearly soundless. Trained killers. Calm. Ready.
One reached for the handle.
BOOM!
The door exploded inward with a force like a battering ram from hell.
Shards of wood, metal, and splinters tore through the air.
They hit with such speed and precision, the first two men were riddled with holes before they could even raise their weapons. Their bodies slammed against the far wall, smearing blood in wide streaks.
The study room—once a space of wealth and power—was now filled with screams, smoke, and blood.
And Death had entered