Chapter 32: The Lone Survivor of the Red Wastes
Walking down the road was Mark. He was a man who looked as though he had been carved out of granite and then weathered by a thousand sandstorms. His skin was the color of deep bronze, etched with the faint, silvery lines of old shrapnel scars that told a story of a decade spent in places most men only saw in nightmares. His eyes, a piercing, unsettled grey, held the "thousand-yard stare" of a soldier who had seen the sun rise and set over too many mass graves. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, his shoulders broad and taut beneath a faded canvas jacket that still carried the faint, metallic scent of cordite.
Mark had just recently returned from the Rubicund Red Wastes. Rubicund Red was a jagged, blood-colored expanse of land situated at the dead center of two warring nations, the Federation of Kaelos and the Iron Dominion of Vorst. Once, Red had been a sovereign country with lush valleys and thriving cities, but because of the unending fights between the two countries, it had been laid barren, stripped of its greenery and transformed into a desolate graveyard of rusted tanks and scorched earth. Despite the ruin, it still accommodates people to complete the name of its survival—mostly those who have nowhere else to go.
Now, the Rubicund Red serves as a holy land for mercenaries. It is a place where the law of the state has been replaced by the law of the gun. There're many powerful mercenaries groups on Red, like the Iron Phalanx and the Crimson Reavers, and you have to join one to ensure your survival in that chaotic dust. A lone mercenary on Red is like a white light illuminating a world of total darkness; it's like you're inviting people to come rob and kill you because you have no back to lean on. That causes the numbers of lone mercenary to reduce every year, and many people join different mercenaries groups to ensure their survival and to have a share of the high-paying contracts that only the groups can secure.
Mark had just got back from Red on a mission where a team of five went, but only him survived. Mark and his four teammates—Elias, Jax, Kael, and Sam—had served together in the regular army before the collapse of their home district. They had joined one of the most powerful mercenaries team, the Vanguard Wolves, at the same time, hoping to find a shortcut to the wealth they needed to escape the cycle of violence. They've been toiling at the battlefield for a while, taking the dirtiest, most dangerous jobs, wanting to raise enough money for their retirement so they could finally hang up their rifles and live in peace.
They felt they've raised enough and wanted to use the mission—a high-stakes extraction in the heart of the Rubicund ruins—as the last one before they left Red and settled down for good. They had been laughing about their future plans just hours before the end. Unfortunately, they were ambushed on the way back by a rival faction hungry for their loot, with Mark as the lone survivor. He had watched his brothers-in-arms fall one by one, their blood soaking into the thirsty, red soil of the wastes, while he was forced to crawl through the shadows, clutching the mission's payout with trembling, bloody hands.
Mark was walking down the road now with different thoughts running on his mind, a heavy weight of guilt pressing against his chest. He came back home after the mission to honor his fallen friends and also to share the money saved between the families of his teammates, as they had promised each other in their "death pact" years ago. But on getting home, the tragedy had only deepened. He found out his mother was in the hospital, wasting away from Systemic Amyloidosis, a rare and aggressive disease that attacked her internal organs. It can be cured through a series of expensive, high-tech treatments available in the Third District, but the cost has used up most of his shares of the money saved up, leaving him with almost nothing to support the families of his dead friends.
He was walking down the road with the heavy question of what next for him, his boots clicking rhythmically against the pavement. He knew he couldn't go back to Red due to his mother's critical condition and her need for constant care, and since the only thing he knew how to do was to fight and protect, he opted for security positions in the city. It might not pay enough to cover the mounting medical bills or the promises he made to the fallen, but it will make him close to his mother in her final months.
Ethan was also walking down this road, his senses heightened by the recent 100-point Peak Mind and Body status he had achieved through the Zillion System. He was still processing the events at the Apex Club and the impending meeting with Bernie Thorne. The city felt different to him now—more transparent, as if he could see the gears of society turning.
When all of a sudden, the quiet of the afternoon was shattered. They heard the sound of a woman in panic and the frantic, high-pitched word "Thief! Thief! My bag!" Ethan's head snapped toward the sound. He saw a man in a dark hoodie sprinting toward him, weaving through the sparse crowd with a leather handbag clutched to his chest. Ethan's muscles tensed; he was about to take action, his foot already pivoting to launch him forward with the explosive speed of his refined physique.
However, he felt a rush of wind besides him, a blur of motion that moved with a terrifying, practiced efficiency. Before Ethan could even take a full step, the next moment the thief has been pinned to the ground with the stolen goods retrieved. It wasn't just a tackle; it was a clinical takedown. The stranger had swept the thief's leg and used his momentum to drive him into the concrete, pinning his arm in a joint-lock that made the criminal howl in pain.
Ethan's gaze narrowed and he thought to himself, this is an expert. This wasn't the clumsy heroism of a civilian; this was the muscle memory of a professional killer.
At the moment Mark rushed past Ethan to apprehend the thief, he clearly felt some power fluctuation around Ethan. His battlefield instincts, honed in the Rubicund Red, screamed a warning. He looked at Ethan at that moment, and as Mark straightened up from the pinned thief, their gaze met.
It was like colliding of two mountains. The air between them seemed to thicken, the ambient noise of the street fading into a dull hum as their auras clashed. Mark saw a young man in a hoodie who looked ordinary but possessed an underlying physical stability that was impossible for a normal human to maintain. Ethan, in turn, saw a man who smelled of death and old blood, a man whose body was a living weapon.
At that moment, Ethan knew the man before him is likely as strong as himself, at least in terms of raw combat experience and physical conditioning. A powerful battle intent rushed through him, a primal urge to test the limits of his new status. His heart rate began to climb, and he thought to himself, I can use this man to gauge the extent of my powers. He had reached the peak of human potential, but he had never faced a true warrior who had survived the hell of the Red Wastes.
Mark didn't move. He stood over the thief, his eyes locked on Ethan's, his hands slightly curled but ready. He could feel the "heat" coming off the young man, a density of presence that usually only belonged to the high-ranking Mercenary Captains on Red.
"You were going to move," Mark said, his voice like grinding gravel. It wasn't a question; it was an observation.
Ethan let a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "You beat me to it. Fast. Most people wouldn't have even seen you move."
"Speed is survival where I come from," Mark replied, his eyes scanning Ethan's posture, looking for an opening and finding none. "But you... you aren't most people. You stand like a man who isn't afraid of anything on this street."
The woman who had been robbed finally caught up, breathless and weeping with relief. Mark handed her the bag without breaking eye contact with Ethan. The woman thanked him profusely, but Mark barely acknowledged her, his entire being focused on the "mountain" standing five feet away from him.
Ethan took a half-step forward, his weight shifting in a way that made the pavement feel as though it were anchoring him. He wanted to see if the 100-point Peak Body could truly withstand the refined violence of the man before him.
"I'm looking for someone with your particular set of skills," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a tone that was both a job offer and a challenge. "A man like you is a man worth knowing."
Mark's eyebrows shot up. The fact that this kid is strong makes him feel like his world is collapsing; the kind of power radiating from Ethan is a kind of power he had only felt from people who has been on the battlefield and trained themselves for years. Even himself and the rest of his teammates were just veterans soldiers, not until they got to Red before they know there's another kind of power. It has taken him and his teammates years to get this powerful, however, he's seeing and feeling the same kind of power on a kid in his twenties; he couldn't help but narrow his gaze as it's something he couldn't believe.
"I'm not looking for trouble, kid. I'm just looking for a job that doesn't involve burying my friends."
"Trouble is going to find me whether I like it or not," Ethan replied, his aura expanding, pressing against Mark's. "But I pay much better than the any companies will ever did."
Mark flinched and His eyes darkened, and the battle intent that had been simmering between them suddenly flared into a roaring fire. He didn't care about the money at that second.
"You think money buys everything?" Mark growled, stepping away from the thief and squaring his shoulders against Ethan.
"In this city? Yes," Ethan said, his eyes glowing with an intense light. "But before we talk about business, I want to see if you're as good as you look."
The two men stood in the middle of the road, the world around them seemingly frozen. For Ethan, this wasn't about the thief or the street; it was a calibration. He needed to know if his zillions of dollars had bought him the strength to face the real monsters of the world. And for Mark, it was a release—a chance to vent the rage and grief of the Rubicund Red on someone who looked like they could actually take it.
The battle intent reached its boiling point. Ethan's muscles coiled like steel springs, and Mark's hands blurred into a combat stance. The collision was inevitable.