Chapter 388: Doomsday for the Owls (4)
The Massacre in the Grand Hall
As the final word of the countdown dropped, the battle began.
The ten men behind Luke Shaw simultaneously raised their right hands, and blue light condensed in their palms.
Bang!
Energy bolts tore through the air, piercing one figure after another, then exploding again upon hitting the floor.
A continuous series of explosions erupted, killing over a dozen people instantly.
Those who had fled watched, their eyes wide with terror and, ironically, relief. The rest went insane, running desperately and screaming for help.
"Dior, don't let a single person escape."
"Understood, Young Master."
Dior took three men and split the force, blocking the remaining exits. The rest of the armored team surged into the hall, clashing with the loyalist soldiers rushing in from the rear.
Luke sat down on a stone chair, watching the slaughter unfold with an expressionless face.
In addition to his subordinates, he had his army of mechanical rats. Under the command of AVA, those "rats" had flooded every entrance and exit. Only corpses would leave this place tonight; no one would survive.
The loyalist soldiers were carefully trained thugs of the Court of Owls. Raised in a facility, they were constantly indoctrinated with the idea of loyalty and devotion to the Court. With the aid of drugs, they were no longer normal people but slaves who only obeyed commands.
Their combat effectiveness was not weak; each one was equivalent to a special forces soldier.
Unfortunately, they were still flesh and blood. They streamed in and died in droves. The severity of the casualties made Sir Black Hawk's eyelids twitch uncontrollably.
"Talon Unit! Kill them!"
Seven Talons, armed with their black knives and swords, appeared in the hall.
Luke let out a cold snort. A terrifying will descended upon them. The seven Talons froze in place. The killing intent in their eyes faded, replaced by pure terror. Though they possessed bodies that were nearly immortal, their minds and wills had been severely weakened by the long-term torment of drugs.
Such fragile wills could not stand against the corrosion of the Fear Toxin's power. Luke needed only a glance to bring them to their knees.
Dior didn't hesitate for a second, swinging his knife and decapitating all seven Talons.
Heads rolled across the floor. The scent of blood spread through the air, and silence fell over the room.
The "high-and-mighty" Court members had never witnessed such a terrifying scene. Faces were etched with horror; some wanted to scream but dared not, clamping their hands over their mouths.
Even the well-traveled Red-Robed Grandmaster and Sir Black Hawk had never seen this before. As the seven Talons fell, the faces hidden beneath their masks turned a deathly gray.
"It's over."
"It's completely over."
A sense of despair spread, pushing everyone further toward the abyss.
The fighting gradually turned into a slaughter. Although loyalist soldiers and Talons continued to pour out from various entrances, they stood no chance against Dior's group, who were clad in the Flying Shadow Armor.
Sir Black Hawk clenched his fists, his heart bleeding.
"Luke Shaw!"
"You deserve to die."
He tore off his black ceremonial robe and leaped forward, avoiding the people in his way. His target was Luke.
Dior immediately intercepted him, blocking his path, and slashed his knife.
Clang!
Sword and blade collided, scattering sparks. Dior raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"You're a Talon, too?"
"Die!"
Sir Black Hawk leaped into the air, hacking three times in quick succession. He then stomped down on Dior's arm, using the recoil to leap again, soaring over Dior's head, and charging straight toward Luke.
The distance between the two was already short, and with Sir Black Hawk's full-speed sprint, he reached Luke in the blink of an eye.
"Die!"
The Black Hawk gripped his sword with both hands, unleashing all his strength. The blade tore through the air with a terrible howl.
In that moment, every Court member looked toward them, filled with intense anticipation.
Cut him down! He must cut him down!
Kill him, and we still have a chance to win!
Crack!
The black sword sliced through Luke's body, splitting the stone chair behind him in two. Just as the crowd prepared to cheer, the light and shadow shifted. Luke's figure disappeared, vanishing into the air like a firefly.
"You can't even find my real body, yet you think you can kill me?"
Boom!
A shockwave exploded at Sir Black Hawk's side, shredding his robe and mask and leaving large, bloody wounds on his body. He cried out in pain, flying through the air, and slamming heavily against the wall.
Luke, now wearing his white armor, materialized. He walked up to the downed Grandmaster and raised his right foot.
Thud!
He stomped down. A burst of compressed air exploded outward. Sir Black Hawk spat blood, his face turning crimson.
"What should I call you, Sir Black Hawk?"
"You know, your face is really striking. You look remarkably similar to the eldest Young Master of the Wayne family. You wouldn't happen to be a Wayne, would you?"
"Shut up!"
Luke casually kicked him several meters away. After shattering a table and chairs, Sir Black Hawk rolled onto the floor.
Looking at the defeated man lying there, both the resisting members and those cowering in the corner shared the same stunned expression.
The leader of the Court of Owls, the Grandmaster with countless legendary tales—Sir Black Hawk—had been defeated so utterly, so miserably, so helplessly.
In the crowd, Cohen Delk stiffly raised his head. Luke Shaw's actions brought back terrible memories. So that man in the black armor was Luke Shaw. He was the mysterious Master.
The hard drive, William Cobb, the MAX Power Armor... they were all his pawns. He orchestrated everything, pushing the Court of Owls toward death, step by step.
"Dionesium?"
Delk mumbled to himself, his eyes filled with confusion. Was his only goal truly the Dionesium?
The slaughter continued until all resistors were defeated. Then, the armored men stopped. Dior and his subordinates brought the bound Sir Black Hawk and Red-Robed Grandmaster to stand before the main throne.
Luke waved his hand.
"Interrogate them separately. If they misspeak even once, chop off a finger, until we get the correct answers."
"Understood, Young Master."
Dior gathered his men and led the two Grandmasters away to separate rooms for questioning.
Luke walked to the corner where the survivors were gathered. His eyes scanned the group until they landed on Cohen Delk. He crooked a finger. Delk stiffly stood up, walked out of the crowd, and fell to his knees at Luke's feet.
"Mas... Master!"
The other survivors widened their eyes in disbelief. Delk called him... Master? That bastard! He was the traitor!
Luke helped him up.
"Don't kneel at the slightest opportunity. This is the 21st century; that medieval stuff is passé."
"Get up quickly."
Delk stiffly straightened his body, his hands and legs trembling. He dared not look at the corpse-strewn hall, nor the angry faces of his former colleagues, nor even Luke. He could only stare fearfully at his own feet.
Luke patted his shoulder, his voice gentle.
"How have things been for you? Has anyone mistreated you?"
Delk shook his head frantically. "No... no one has mistreated me."
"That's good. I was worried something might happen to you, but now I see I had no need to worry. You did very well; extremely well."
Luke sighed softly and continued, "I owe you an apology, though. I might not be able to follow through on what I promised you. It's the fault of those two idiot Grandmasters. They were too impatient, too arrogant, and refused to curb their actions. To prevent the situation from getting out of control, I had to act early. I hope you don't blame me."
Delk shook his head desperately, nearly crying from the sheer "emotion."
"Master, I don't blame you! Truly, not at all!"
"That's good. That's good."
Luke let out a long sigh of relief. He then turned his attention to the other survivors. A thought struck him, and he suddenly spoke.
"How about this: I give these people to you?"
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