Chapter 48: Four-Way Departure Each Using Their Own Skills

Unfortunately for Jesselton Miller, Saria clearly lacked a single romantic bone in her body.

Right now, her mind was entirely consumed by one person and one person alone: the Director.

Kristen Wright.

She had absolutely zero interest in Jesselton’s grandiose, domineering declaration of war.

“So, you are the final obstacle?” Saria’s brow furrowed slightly.

Rolling her shoulders, she loosened her wrists and unceremoniously shed her cumbersome outer armor.

It hit the floor with a heavy, metallic thud.

Silvery-white calcified material began to violently coalesce in her palms, casting a harsh, freezing white glow into the dim air of the corridor.

Jesselton braced himself, a confident smirk playing on his lips.

He had already envisioned this duel in his mind—a meeting of kindred spirits, an elegant clash of evenly matched titans.

That relaxed arrogance twisted into sheer, unadulterated terror the very instant their forces collided.

With a sharp pivot of her waist and an explosive burst of kinetic power, Saria threw a seemingly ordinary punch.

Yet, a fraction of a second before impact, her fist accelerated to a terrifying velocity, slamming into his prized heavy sword with an irresistible, world-shattering force.

The advanced defensive suite provided by his corporate benefactors couldn’t hold for even a microsecond.

The barriers shattered into glittering, useless fragments, allowing Saria’s fist to bury itself deep into his abdomen without a shred of obstruction.

Before Jesselton’s body could even process the kinetic transfer to fly backward, Saria’s second punch arrived.

It struck before the first had even finished its follow-through, moving so fast that a deafening sonic boom ruptured the air.

It felt as though he had been run over head-on by a speeding Mobile City.

Jesselton was launched backward like a falling meteor, tearing through a dozen reinforced walls before finally burying himself deep within a mountain of rubble.

He lay there, completely unmoving.

In his concussed daze, he swore he could see the ghostly, smiling face of his long-dead Liberi great-grandmother beckoning him toward the light.

‘Is our battle…

already over?’his fractured mind supplied.’Did I just get into a fight, or did I get hit by a cargo truck…’

Saria, however, wasn’t the least bit surprised by the outcome.

She didn’t even spare the buried assassin a second glance.

Her heart remained steadfastly tethered to her elusive Director, whose whereabouts were becoming increasingly unpredictable by the minute.

“Can you still walk?” she asked, her voice a cold, pragmatic clip as she reached out, hauling Robin and Mountain up from the debris.

“It’s about to get chaotic outside.”

Robin brushed the dust from her clothes, completely unharmed.

When they had been knocked back earlier, Mountain had gallantly thrown his massive, furry frame between her and the floor, absorbing the brunt of the impact.

Mountain himself was in perfect condition.

The gold standard of Rhodes Island’s physical training—which relied entirely on raw physical dominance and brutal prison-fighting experience to sweep through most operators—spoke for itself.

He hadn’t even lost a single tuft of fur during the chaotic skirmish.

“Go.

Find a young girl named Kafka outside,” Saria instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“She will meet you and help you evacuate the premises.”

Mountain turned his massive head, his gaze landing on the few unconscious figures lying nearby.

He took a step forward, intending to hoist them over his broad shoulders, but Saria immediately blocked his path.

“He has his own plan,” she stated flatly.

“You don’t need to worry about them.”

In truth, the moment they had hit the ground, the Doctor had already flashed them a covert tactical hand signal: stay down, leave us.

Robin gripped her weapon, her expression twisting with reluctance.

“But…”

Saria cruelly opted for the unvarnished truth.

“If you stay here, you will only become a liability to him.” She narrowed her eyes.

“Or are you implying you think a man like him wouldn’t have anticipated a minor setback like this?”

Robin gritted her teeth.

Knowing she was outmatched in both logic and strength, she turned away, leaving behind one final, resolute vow.

“…I trust you.

I’m going.

But if he doesn’t come back, I will tear this place apart looking for him.”

After the trio hurried down the ruined corridor, the dust began to settle.

Deep within the rubble, Jesselton slowly, agonizingly regained consciousness.

He coughed up blood, his vision swimming until it locked onto the frail, white-haired youth slowly dusting himself off nearby.

A cruel, vindictive smile stretched across Jesselton’s bruised face.

“It seems you aren’t anyone important to her,” he rasped, pulling himself free from the debris.

“In that case…

I’ll just have to use you to vent my frustrations!”

The Doctor blinked, pointing a slender finger at his own chest in mock disbelief.

“Me?”

Jesselton sneered.

He had simply been unlucky to run into Saria, one of the few top-tier physical monsters on the continent.

But she was gone now, and he desperately needed to slaughter a weak, defenseless small-fry to salvage his utterly shattered pride.

The Doctor let out a long, theatrical sigh.

He pressed two pale fingers against his temple, then slowly lowered his hand, aiming it at the approaching assassin in the shape of a pistol.

Jesselton barked a laugh, not even bothering to dodge.

He couldn’t sense a single drop of Originium Arts fluctuation from this frail man.

How could such a pathetic gesture—

The Doctor mimed the recoil of a gunshot, his lips silently mouthing a single word.

‘Boom.’

The very next fraction of a second, a blinding, blood-red explosion detonated right in Jesselton’s face.

The scorching shockwave washed over the Doctor, lifting the stray white hairs at his temples and sending his dark coat and the complex tactical straps across his chest fluttering wildly in the heated updraft.

“Tsk.

What exactly would you do if I wasn’t here?

Use that precious, oversized brain of yours to engage him in hand-to-hand combat?”

Wis’adel hadn’t even revealed herself from the shadows, but her dripping, disdainful voice echoed clearly through the smoke.

The Doctor smiled, smoothly slipping into his routine of coaxing the volatile Sarkaz mercenary.

“Isn’t it precisely because I trust you so much?

If you didn’t cooperate with me, I’d be in serious trouble.

I really can’t pull off these grand performances without you, you know.”

Hidden in the darkness, Wis’adel fought a losing battle against the smug smirk tugging at her lips.

“Boring tricks,” she scoffed, her tone softening just a fraction.

“I suppose you still possess a tiny shred of conscience.”

“Yes, yes.

Thank you for your incredibly hard work, Lord Wis’adel.”

Failing to suppress her grin, Wis’adel wisely chose to stop talking.

She melted deeper into the shadows, rapidly advancing down the corridor to scout the perimeter.

Receiving no further verbal abuse, the Doctor silently counted to three.

Once he was absolutely certain the explosive Sarkaz had moved out of earshot, he dropped his imposing mastermind facade.

Bending down over Jesselton’s charred, unconscious body, his nimble fingers quickly stripped a specific, high-value item from the assassin’s neck, pocketing it with practiced ease.

Nearby, the Witch King—currently trapped in his humiliating pet form—cooperated by subtly weaving a localized Arts field, briefly blinding Duq’arael’s perception of the area.

Because the undercover Sanguinarch had tightly restrained the vast majority of his bloodline powers to maintain his amnesiac disguise, he remained completely oblivious to the magical interference.

The Doctor tapped his earpiece, sending a crisp mental transmission.

‘Help me keep an eye on Duq’arael.’

The Witch King offered a low, muffled grunt of reluctant acknowledgement.

With his prize secured, the Doctor’s figure vanished into the gloom, hurrying off to the next phase of his grand design.

Moments later, Duq’arael slowly opened his eyes.

Taking in the empty space where the Doctor had just stood, a chilling smirk graced the Sanguinarch’s aristocratic features.

Seeing that the man hadn’t shown a shred of concern for his fallen subordinates only further cemented the terrifying rumors in Duq’arael’s mind.

‘The Doctor truly is a bloodless, tearless demon of war,’ he mused, rising to his feet with fluid, predatory elegance.

Discarding useless trash the moment they outlived their utility was exactly his own style.

And that Sarkaz girl, Wis’adel…

her strikes were ruthlessly efficient, and she possessed the mental fortitude to withstand the Doctor’s bewitching manipulations.

She was undeniably the backbone of the future Teekaz revival!

It was a deep pity that, for the sake of his flawless undercover disguise, he couldn’t formally introduce himself to this junior with such infinite potential.

Just as Duq’arael prepared to follow the Doctor’s trail, a ragged, tenacious voice broke the silence.

“Stop…

right…

there!”

The bruised, battered, and heavily scorched Jesselton had somehow forced his eyes open once more.

He had miscalculated again, yes, but the emergency cardiac pacemaker surgically wired to his heart was still functioning perfectly.

He had locked his vitality.

He had entered Phase Two!

“You…

will certainly not…

escape—”

Duq’arael didn’t even look at him.

With a casual, dismissive wave of his pale hand, a surge of invisible, crushing pressure slammed into the assassin.

The supposedly invincible Jesselton collapsed back into the dirt, instantly incapacitated.

The man’s luck was truly abysmal.

How could a pathetic, crawling ant dare to provoke a Lord of the Vampire Court at a time like this?

Duq’arael had absolutely no intention of bickering with such an insignificant extra.

Identifying the faint lingering scent of the Doctor, the Sanguinarch melted into the shadows, leaving on his own.

Several agonizing minutes passed.

Jesselton struggled, his fingers clawing at the broken floor tiles as he dragged his battered body upward.

After experiencing such continuous, overwhelming, and utterly humiliating defeats, his mental fortitude had completely shattered.

“Are they just…

too strong?” he choked out, his voice trembling.

“Or am I just…

too weak?”

“Am I really nothing more than a pitiful, insignificant Liberi?”

A tidal wave of hatred, confusion, and deep inadequacy swallowed him whole.

He collapsed onto his knees, his pupils losing their focus as the pain wracked his body.

He raised a trembling hand to wipe his soot-stained face, only to realize his cheeks were already soaked with hot, pathetic tears.

Just then, a small, seemingly fragile creature floated lazily across his blurred line of sight.

Jesselton’s tear-filled eyes widened, locking onto the floating animal.

“They…

they left their pet behind!” he snarled, a desperate, unhinged light returning to his eyes.

If he couldn’t beat the masters, he would slaughter the pet!

The Witch King, suddenly finding himself on the receiving end of a scorching, murderous glare, blinked.

‘…Me?’the ancient terror thought, his tiny form bristling with deep annoyance.’Do I seriously have to fight this trash too?’

[Rhodes’s Note:

Enjoying the operation so far, Doctor?

(This daily grind literally pays the landship’s rent!

to use the links!)