In the distance, a towering figure slowly approached, a blood-soaked machete hanging loosely from his hand.
Backed into a corner, one of the students gritted his teeth and pulled out a handgun from his pocket.
He had stolen it from his home. If it weren't for his terrible aim, he would've pulled it out much sooner.
Now, with no other choice, he held the gun up with both hands and shouted, his voice cracking under pressure:
"Drop your weapon!. Get on your knees with your hands behind your head!"
The students around him lit up with hope, as if they had just seen God himself descend from the heavens.
And in their eyes, that gun was no less than a divine relic.
'Bro, why didn't you take that thing out earlier?'
Their eyes were practically screaming those words.
The student with the gun, a little embarrassed, thought to himself: 'If my aim wasn't trash-tier, you think I'd wait this long?'
Of course, he didn't dare say that out loud—it was humiliating enough as it was.
But even with his potato-tier marksmanship, just having a weapon in hand gave him a surge of courage.
He watched as Jason briefly paused…
Then resumed walking toward them at the same steady, terrifying pace.
The student's expression hardened, and he pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Terrified that his lousy aim wouldn't land a fatal shot, he emptied the entire magazine in one go, trying to make up for his lack of accuracy with sheer volume.
When the last gunshot rang out, twelve bullets had been fired.
And thanks to his shaky hands and nerves, only one hit the target—barely.
The others grazed past Jason or missed entirely.
Seeing this, the surrounding students all stared at him like he was playing a bad joke.
One guy couldn't help but blurt out, "Dude, are you even aiming at the right continent?!"
If the guy hadn't at least nicked Jason once, he might've caught two punches right there.
Some of them, however, were more focused on the outcome than his aim.
"Is… is he dead?" someone asked hesitantly, eyes fixed on Jason's still figure.
Trying to salvage some pride, the student who fired the shots quickly responded,
"He's proba—"
Before he could finish, the machete came down in a savage arc, cleaving through his skull.
Red and white matter sprayed everywhere.
It looked like something out of a low-budget B-grade horror film—grotesquely exaggerated, drenched in gore.
"AAAAAAHHHHH!!!"
Two nearby girls let out blood-curdling screams.
Jason said nothing.
As always, he was silent and merciless.
He moved in close, swinging his massive hands like a farmer swatting chickens.
Within moments, nearly everyone was dead—only two or three students remained.
Jason slowly turned toward them.
A muscular guy dropped to his knees, trembling. He'd wet himself, and tears streamed uncontrollably down his face.
"Please, let me live! My family owns a company—I'll give you money, as much as you want…"
At this point, dignity meant nothing. All he wanted was to survive.
But Jason, behind that expressionless hockey mask, showed no reaction. His presence was like a walking death sentence—a silent executioner.
Cold. Unmoving. Unforgiving.
His shadow loomed like a tower of death, wrapping the survivors in despair.
"Damn it… I just scored a date," muttered one boy, barely holding back tears.
"I was finally gonna stop being a virgin tonight…"
The guy beside him, terrified but still morbidly honest, added,
"She's already dead. I saw it happen. Even if you make it out of here, you're still a virgin…"
"Uwaaahhh!!"
The despairing boy broke down completely, bawling like a dam had burst.
At that moment, Jason raised his machete.
The end was coming for them—
Then suddenly—
WEE-OOO WEE-OOO!!
A piercing police siren blared from nearby, followed by a blinding set of headlights.
BANG!
A police car roared out from a corner of the field at nearly 80 kilometers per hour—
And slammed into Jason.
The force sent him flying over ten meters through the air.
Before he could get back up, the car surged forward again, plowing into him with brutal force.
Back and forth it went—repeatedly crushing him beneath reinforced tires.
With Orsaga at the wheel, demonstrating the driving skills of a true madman, the armored patrol car didn't just run Jason over—it focused on his head.
Every time Jason tried to get up, the tires found his skull and crushed him back down.
No mercy. No pause.
Everyone watching—even the students who had barely escaped death—was stunned.
Even the police chief stood in awe, frozen for a moment.
He stared as Orsaga switched smoothly between drive and reverse, over and over again.
Feeling the thumps of something solid beneath the wheels, the chief shouted in excitement:
"Yes, yes, yes! That's it! Crush him! Just keep running him over!!"
He had honestly thought Orsaga would step out of the car and go toe-to-toe with Jason.
He never expected this instead.
A true road rage method of execution.
As for the surviving students—once the shock wore off, they scrambled to their feet and ran for their lives, limbs flailing in every direction.
One of them, a rich second-generation brat who'd peed himself earlier, yelled over his shoulder as he sprinted away:
"HAHAHA! Whoever's in that police car—
I swear, when I get out of this alive, my dad's writing you a fat check!!"
His face was lit up with sheer gratitude. The look of someone who had just glimpsed paradise.
He could swear on his life—
He had never loved law enforcement this much before.
Dozens of crushing passes later—
Orsaga could feel it: Jason had been thoroughly pinned down…
But not destroyed.
He turned to the chief and said, "Once I cut the engine, get out and run. Far."
"…What?"
The chief was in the middle of radioing his team for backup and didn't quite catch the meaning.
But Orsaga didn't bother explaining.
After another round of crushing, he stopped the car.
Then calmly opened the door and stepped out.
Though still confused, the chief didn't hesitate. He jumped out as well and backed away—
Just in time.
SHNK!
A machete suddenly burst up through the seat he had been sitting in—stabbing straight through.
Had he waited even one more second, that thing would've pierced him straight up the—
He sucked in a sharp breath and stumbled back a good ten meters.
BOOM!
At that moment, Jason roared and lifted the patrol car off himself.
With a mighty heave, he prepared to hurl it toward Orsaga.
But before he could throw—
Orsaga casually flicked his right hand.
A small object shot through the air.
So fast, it was almost invisible.
It sliced clean through most of Jason's right hand.
His grip faltered. The car slipped.
And came crashing back down on him.
THUD!
Flattened once again.
Orsaga stretched out his hand and caught the object as it flew back.
It was a bone-carved throwing blade, etched with arcane runes.
It had once belonged to a minor monster he'd killed early on.
After a few of his own modifications, it had become sharper, faster, and now had a built-in return function—perfect for repeat kills.
_____
T/N:
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