A dull thud echoed through the empty underground corridor.
Richard's body went limp and collapsed. He didn't even manage a muffled groan before losing consciousness completely.
Russell didn't spare him so much as a glance. He simply lifted his eyes back toward the front.
As the smoke dispersed, it revealed several thieves—faces pale, movements frantic.
"Damn it—what the hell is going on?!" one of them spat, then looked up toward where Richard had been.
"He's there!"
"Shoot him into a sieve!"
The moment the words fell, several pistols snapped up at once, muzzles all pointed at Russell.
But just as fingers tightened on triggers—
that familiar, infuriating black smoke bloomed again.
A Saint Seiya won't be defeated by the same technique twice.
Unfortunately…
They weren't Saints.
So this trick?
It worked every time.
Russell vanished again. The thieves, panicking and blind, could only dump bullets into the smoke until their magazines ran dry and their barrels overheated.
Smoke and gunpowder mixed into a choking stench that burned the eyes.
The crisp click of empty chambers. The clatter of metal magazines. The ringing of dropped parts—one after another, overlapping.
They fumbled reloads, cursing nonstop about this nightmare opponent.
They'd lived this long, pulled this many big jobs—
and they'd never met anyone this unnatural.
Because Moriarty didn't care about gangs, the underworld only heard of him. Almost nobody had actually encountered him.
They'd always assumed he was just a thief with good hands.
Until today.
Until now.
The smoke thinned.
There was nobody.
Only unconscious guards on the floor, and bullet holes peppering the walls.
Again.
The thieves raised their freshly-loaded weapons and formed up instinctively, huddling together with their backs to a vault-room door, guns sweeping forward and to the sides—covering every angle where Russell might appear.
The system chimed in Russell's ear:
[The thieves have developed intense fear toward you. Malice +50.]
Russell's lips curved slightly.
Because right now—
he was standing somewhere none of them would ever expect.
Inside that vault-room door behind them.
Yes, the lock had already been picked open.
But the thieves were too focused on survival to go looting.
And more importantly…
they couldn't imagine anyone slipping past all four of them, under their noses, and entering the door at their backs.
That was impossible.
And yet—
it had happened.
The door stood open behind them, but not one of them looked into the darkness.
Not until a small sphere rolled out through the crack—
clack-clack-clack—
a tiny sound made deafening by the silence.
All eyes snapped over.
And then—
that familiar black smoke again.
Four sheep, all knocked together.
"I swear to God—!" someone roared.
In an instant, every gun swung toward the doorway and they poured fire into the room again.
"How the hell did he get in there?!"
"Who the hell knows—hold the trigger down!"
The system chimed again:
[You have enraged the thieves. Their fear has turned into anger. Malice +50.]
The storm of bullets went on and on, until it finally stopped.
The muzzles glowed dull red with heat. Hot brass carpeted the floor at their feet.
The smoke slowly drifted away, revealing the vault-room door blown open, riddled with holes.
Inside was pure darkness—like a beast's gaping mouth swallowing light and sound alike.
"Is… is he dead?" one thief asked, voice shaking from panic and lack of air.
"Who knows. Maybe he's minced meat by now," another snarled.
Then he tossed a gas canister inside and slammed the door shut.
"Even if he isn't dead, I don't believe he can hold his breath forever!"
"Looking for me?"
The lazy, mocking voice came from behind them.
The thieves whirled around—too late—some still mid-reload.
A black blur stretched across their vision, closing the distance in a heartbeat.
—Black Sun.
Cold metal smashed into a skull.
One of them dropped on the spot, lights out.
"Shit—where did he come from?!" another screamed, hands scrambling for a fresh magazine—
only to find his pocket empty.
Then a hand extended in front of them, pinching three fully loaded magazines.
"Looking for these?"
Russell smiled, and in the thief's stunned gaze, shoved the magazines straight into his mouth.
"Here you go. You're welcome."
Then Russell's right fist drove forward—
a straight punch into the abdomen.
This strike was called—
Morning Calm.
Agony seized the man. Instinctively he clenched his teeth, jaws locking hard around the magazines.
And then he felt a hand clamp down on the top of his head.
Russell pressed down with his right hand—while his knee snapped up.
Thud!
A heavy impact, followed by the sharp crack of bone, pierced the gun-smoke-filled corridor.
The thief's body went limp like someone cut the strings, collapsing backward. The magazines fell from his mouth with a loud clang, along with broken teeth and bloody foam that rolled across the floor.
The system chimed:
[Fear and pain from Jack. Malice +40.]
Russell lowered his knee, didn't spare the puppet on the ground a look, and turned his attention to the final two survivors.
"D-devil…" one stammered, lips trembling as he instinctively tried to retreat.
"D-don't come closer!"
The other shrieked like a cat with its tail stepped on, waving an empty revolver in Russell's direction as if it were a holy charm.
"Who sent you to hit Lloyd's Bank?" Russell asked, walking forward.
"Y-you'll get nothing from me!" one thief howled.
He threw away his gun and charged.
Russell merely angled his body and let the rush slip past.
He lifted the shotgun and swung it sideways like a golf club—
smashing the knee joint.
Crack!
That awful sound of bone splitting again.
[Despair and pain from Sam. Malice +40.]
The thief screamed—something not quite human—his balance gone, body pitching forward uncontrollably.
Russell gave him no second chance.
He pivoted with the motion and brought the shotgun down like an iron baton, the barrel whistling through the air—
straight onto the back of the skull.
"If you won't talk, then don't."
Thud.
One more down.
....
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