Ren did not wait for Aslan to pull the trigger. With a burning resolve in his eyes, Ren squeezed his own.
BANG!
Ren's bullet streaked through the air, missing Aslan's head by mere inches. The thunderous crack shattered the rooftop's silence, vibrating painfully through Ren's aching left shoulder. Without a second glance, he tossed the empty pistol aside.
Startled, Aslan assumed Ren had missed due to exhaustion and his weakened dominant hand. He let out a sneering, condescending laugh. "Is that it? A pathetic shot."
However, Aslan's laughter instantly froze.
Behind him, the helicopter rotor blades—which had just begun their slow rotation—let out a violent CRACK. The rhythmic hum of the engine died, replaced by the hiss of escaping steam and the screech of grinding metal. Ren had hit an invisible target: the rotor assembly, Aslan's only path of escape.
Only then did Aslan realize that Ren's target wasn't him, but his exit. His face darkened, shifting from arrogance to a searing, murderous rage.
"A gun is too easy," Ren murmured, his eyes now locked on the pistol in Aslan's hand. "I hate using them on humans."
His gloved left hand drew one of the twin black daggers that had been resting beneath his jacket. He gripped it in a reverse hold—a stance for parrying and disarming, not for a lethal strike.
"I've taken my shot. Now, it's your turn." Ren stood in a low, ready stance, the blade steady in his left hand.
Aslan looked ready to explode from sheer emotion. He raised his pistol and unleashed a volley of fire. But Ren was already a blur.
The fight was swift and agonizingly intense. Ren, relying on his speed and agility, faced off against Aslan, who possessed the raw physical strength and cold combat strategy of a General who had ruled for decades. Aslan did not waste bullets; he targeted vitals, forcing Ren into inefficient, desperate movements.
Ren used his dagger to defend, scraping the black blade against the muzzle of Aslan's pistol to deflect the aim. Every movement was lightning-fast and calculated.
As Ren focused on closing the distance, Aslan's elbow found its mark—a brutal, disabling blow. The sharp joint slammed into Ren's ribs with full force. Ren let out a stifled cry of agony as a sharp, white-hot pain surged from his ribs to his abdomen. The internal injury was real, immediately crippling his efficiency. Blood began to seep from the corner of his mouth. He had to end this now.
The moment came when Aslan hesitated, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face at the sight of Ren's injury. In a flash, Ren marshaled his remaining strength. He dropped low, executing a precision submission technique. He locked his knees into Aslan's waist and twisted his arm; the pistol clattered to the floor as the pressure on the joint became unbearable.
Aslan roared as the lock ground into his bones, but he was no amateur. Before Ren could secure the discarded weapon, Aslan used his body weight to slam Ren's back against the concrete floor with a sickening thud.
Ren's hold broke. The pistol lay two meters away, glinting coldly under the warm sun.
Both men rose, gasping for air. Aslan lunged first with a brutal right hook. Still clutching his shattered ribs, Ren was a fraction too slow to evade—the blow caught his jaw, blurring his vision as fresh blood flowed more heavily from his lip.
Merciless, Aslan surged forward, seizing Ren by the throat and slamming his head against the concrete wall. Ren groaned, but his Shiroi Hitsuji instincts took over. At such close range, Ren unleashed a flurry of short, sharp punches to Aslan's solar plexus, followed by a searing elbow to the temple.
Aslan staggered, his grip loosening. In that heartbeat, Ren saw the opening. As Aslan tried a sweeping kick, Ren dropped—not to dodge, but for a precision takedown.
He caught Aslan's leg, twisted it, and with a final explosion of energy, transitioned into a lethal armbar. He pulled until a sickening crack signaled a dislocated joint. The sound was swallowed by Aslan's muffled scream, but to Ren, it was the signal that his opponent's "weapon" was broken.
Aslan shrieked, pinned to the concrete, helpless against the mechanical leverage of Ren's body. With his one free hand, Ren crawled, reaching for the fallen pistol.
His fingers touched the cold metal. It was the same coldness that had greeted Frey's death.
Ren rose slowly, his knee pressing into Aslan's chest to keep him pinned. He stared at the gun—the object that had splattered Frey's blood onto his face. His eyes turned void of emotion, the mask sliding back into place, sealing away the trauma burning in his soul.
"You know?" The muzzle of the pistol pressed firmly against Aslan's right temple. "Shiroi Hitsuji never kills with a gun. This will be the first and last time."
BANG.
The gunshot tore through the silence. An execution designed to look like a desperate suicide. Ren placed the weapon into Aslan's cooling fingers, positioning them to make it appear as though the General had pulled the trigger himself.
Ren had exactly four minutes to vanish from the Eye Tower.
With a jaw and ribs that felt shattered and an agonizing internal wound, Ren struggled toward Extraction Point A. Every step was a war against pain and the ticking clock.
In an inconspicuous black van cruising the quiet streets of the Arena District, Vera waited at Point A, her nerves frayed. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her eyes glued to the head-up display. The ten-minute countdown was now down to mere seconds.
Isaac's voice crackled through the earpiece, "Vera, 00:03... 00:02... He's still not on the radar! I have to deploy Plan B now!" Isaac's voice was taut with panic.
Plan B meant leaking the anonymous report of the Eye Tower coup—a dangerous move that could draw unwanted attention to the Cube, despite the anonymity.
Vera took a breath, ready to nod, ready to activate the plan that would throw the entire Eye Tower system into chaos—and throw away the critical time needed for an escape.
00:00.
Just as the timer hit zero, and Isaac's finger hovered over the deploy button.
Suddenly, Ren's earpiece signal—dead for ten minutes—resurrected. It crackled with noise and static, but it was him.
Ren's voice, ragged and gasping from the pain, came through faintly. "Vera… 500 meters… ahead of you."
Vera didn't ask questions. She slammed the accelerator, racing 500 meters ahead of Point A.
There, behind a high wall covered in moss, she saw him. Ren was leaning against the damp brickwork, looking utterly broken and frail. His expensive suit was torn, and in that moment, he looked far younger and smaller than the arrogant business manager he had portrayed hours ago.
Ren's hand was pressed hard against his ribs, his leather gloves stiff with Frey's dried blood. Fresh blood leaked from the corner of his mouth—evidence of a former General's devastating power.
Vera screeched to a halt and ran out. "Ren! Your wounds—"
"The gun… is in Aslan's hand," Ren interrupted, his voice barely a whisper. He stated only the facts, devoid of emotion or narrative. "The coup... is resolved."
He didn't wait for a reply. With the last of his strength, he dragged himself into the back seat. The moment his body touched the leather upholstery, his eyelids flickered, his vision clouded, and he lost consciousness.
Vera looked at his condition, knowing this was more than just physical damage. She hopped into the driver's seat. With a set jaw, she floored the gas, racing the van away from Point A toward safety.
"Isaac, contact Lulubel. I'm heading there!"
Mission accomplished.
Rich City Police Headquarters, The Night After the Tragedy
The night was late, but the lights in the Rich City Central Police Headquarters felt harsher and colder than usual. In her spacious office, Inspector Laevatein leaned back in her black leather chair, exhaling slowly. Before her, the preliminary report of the Eye Tower Investigation laid out an epic chapter of horror the city had just witnessed.
Laevatein's fingers traced the pages. Dozens of bodies in corridors decorated with expensive marble, blood painting geometric patterns on the banquet floors, and hundreds of shell casings scattered about. There were two key corpses: Baron Frey, the businessman, dead in the ballroom; and General Aslan, found on the helipad with a single gunshot wound—a finding confirmed by the first helicopter unit to breach the lockdown.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Come in."
Laevatein's assistant stood at the door. "Inspector, the witness has arrived. Waiting in the investigation room."
Laevatein closed the file with deliberate movements. This case was too large to delegate—too sensitive for a standard recorded interrogation. She would handle this personally. "Fine. Bring her in."
The witness was Clarissa. The woman who had served as Baron Frey's secret courier behind her professional business suit. With her mask of professionalism firmly in place, she was ready to give her testimony to Laevatein.