Chapter Sixteen

  Ambrose mentally crossed Anatoly Tarsis off his list. The winter swordsman’s defeat had dismantled a significant portion of the Red Hand’s operations in that area, including a major drug stockpile. The blow would undoubtedly leave a mark.

  But there was no time to rest. New intelligence had surfaced during the operation. Adam’s information had revealed that a truck was arriving from a world called Zeverai, one dominated by D-Grades. The Red Hand was trafficking these D-Grades into Virion, selling them to buyers for purposes Ambrose didn’t care to imagine.

  The truck would pass through the south district—a place even more decrepit and lawless than the rest of Virion. Ambrose had positioned himself at a street corner in his Challenger, its sleek, dark form lurking under the shadows of a dimly lit overpass.

  The truck wasn’t hard to spot. A white box truck covered in glowing runes rolled down the road at a steady pace. Its sleek, futuristic design contrasted with the crumbling surroundings.

  Ambrose watched as the truck accelerated, its driver clearly having spotted him. They knew who he was.

  With a grim smile, Ambrose put the Challenger into gear, slamming the gas pedal as the truck sped away.

  The back of the truck clattered open, revealing two burly men wielding black, rune-engraved weapons. Their guns lit up, spewing a barrage of fiery projectiles that hurtled toward his car in a storm of crackling heat.

  Ambrose opened portals in front of the flames, diverting them into the ocean, where they detonated harmlessly in a plume of steam.

  Closing the portals, he channeled mana into the Challenger. Stygian green flames roared from its wheels as the car transformed into its hellish form, spectral chains snaking outward from [Infernal Sanctuary].

  Ambrose could have ended the chase with his spiritual skill or Icon, crushing the truck in an instant. But the terrified faces of the D-Grades in the back stopped him. These people were hostages, innocents. He wasn’t here to save them, but neither was he here to harm them.

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  More fiery bullets streaked toward him. Ambrose conjured his chains into a vortex, spinning them into a spectral shield that shredded the incoming projectiles. He cursed under his breath, frustrated by the need to hold back. Any offensive move risked injuring or killing the very people he sought to avoid harming.

  As the truck swerved through the streets, Ambrose stayed on its tail, weaving through the chaos of the chase. The air was thick with the smell of burning asphalt, sewage, and the metallic tang of magic.

  Eventually, the truck veered into a parking garage. Ambrose followed, his brow furrowing as the vehicle sped down a ramp and collided with a wall, only to vanish.

  Ambrose brought the Challenger to a halt, stepping out and approaching the wall. His eyepatch swirled, activating [True Sight]. The illusion shimmered before him, the wall’s true nature revealed.

  That was obvious enough, he thought, pressing a hand against the surface.

  It didn’t budge.

  His lips curled into a frown.

  It’s warded, Akaroth’s voice rumbled in his mind. Runes keyed to their scales.

  Ambrose’s eyepatch confirmed it, revealing intricate webs of yellow, blue, and orange runes spread across the wall like a spider’s lattice. This wasn’t a simple shield array. It was a skill-bound enchantment, tied to the creator’s very essence.

  Find the one who made it and kill them, Akaroth suggested with dark amusement.

  Ambrose grunted. That option wasn’t practical. The creator was likely inside, and there was no guarantee they’d show themselves.

  Breaking the enchantment outright wasn’t possible either. Unlike physical barriers, this required finesse, a counter-skill to unravel it rather than brute force. Unfortunately, Ambrose lacked such a skill. His World-Eater Cloak might eventually develop the ability, but not at its current grade.

  For now, he was stuck.

  Ambrose considered his options. He could wait for someone to enter or exit, ambushing them to gain access. But the thought of leaving the enslaved individuals inside in their current state soured his mood.

  His knuckles popped as he clenched his fists, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.

  The concept of slavery gnawed at him. It was a grim reality of the System, one he had never fully accepted. Strength ruled above all, and while he understood the fairness of that principle, opportunity was equal, after all, how that strength was used still mattered.

  For a long time, Ambrose had believed strength justified any action. But Alice had shown him differently. Strength wasn’t an excuse for cruelty. It was a responsibility, a tool to protect rather than oppress.

  Akaroth’s voice broke into his thoughts. Your Icon is more than just a hammer for crushing others.

  Ambrose blinked.

  The Forge Icon was a versatile force. It strengthened his skills, mitigated the effects of opposing Icons, and made him more present, more real than those without one. But forging wasn’t always about strength. Sometimes, forging required bending, reshaping, and refining.

  He didn’t need to break the runes. He needed to bend them, to twist the enchantment into something useless.

  Closing his eyes, he focused on the Icon within him, drawing upon its power. He envisioned the enchantment as molten metal, pliable and ready to be reshaped. The runes on the wall pulsed and twisted, their intricate web unraveling under the weight of his will.

  The barrier collapsed, its power rendered inert.

  Ambrose stepped through the wall without hesitation, ready for whatever lay on the other side.