chapter 56

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..Legend..

Karl, thrown clear by the explosion, was somehow still alive.

The blast had detonated almost on top of him. Even an ACPA couldn't withstand such a close-range explosion without significant damage. So how had Karl survived?

Simple: the ACPA had absorbed most of the impact.

As the monomolecular wires entwined and tightened, the grenades strapped to the ACPA's arms had rolled downward, exploding directly in front of the machine. Its reinforced armor—strong enough to deflect tank rounds—took the brunt of the force. The machine gun, a bulky piece of equipment with a thick barrel, acted as an additional shield.

Even with such protection, Karl's survival was nothing short of a miracle. Having already fallen to the ground before the explosion, he avoided a direct hit.

But "not dead" didn't mean he was in good shape.

"It hurts like hell," Karl muttered, lying amidst the rubble of shattered stones and broken chandelier fragments. His entire body felt like it had been tenderized, each piece of him throbbing with pain.

"It hurts like hell, but it won't kill me. What kind of cruel joke is this?"

Karl tried to move, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He lay there, staring at the sky—or what little of it he could see through the wreckage.

How much time was left?

Four minutes? Maybe less.

Gritting his teeth, Karl forced himself to move. His left elbow, barely functional, provided enough leverage to push him into a sitting position.

Four seconds to rest. Then another four seconds. Just stand up.

One…

"Ugh…"

Two…

"Clink."

Three…

"Crack."

Four.

As Karl steadied himself, his eyes flicked toward the pile of debris burying the ACPA. A faint glow of sparks betrayed movement beneath the rubble.

No. Not yet. Please stay down.

But luck wasn't on Karl's side.

The pile shifted, then crumbled as a bloodied, damaged arm pushed free. The ACPA, battered but functional, emerged from the debris. The pilot, his face half-rotted and grotesque, smiled through torn flesh.

"You just won't stay dead, will you?" Karl muttered, his hand instinctively reaching for the Kenshin pistol at his waist. Only then did he remember—his hand was gone.

The pilot laughed, his voice rasping as blood bubbled in his throat. "I could say the same about you."

Even in his horrific state, the pilot radiated triumph. Despite everything, he was still moving. The ACPA limped forward, step by deliberate step, closing the distance between them.

"You've fought well, mercenary," the pilot said. "But it's over now. I've won."

Karl's mind raced. Was there a way out? Any plan, however desperate?

No. Nothing.

For the first time, Karl truly believed this was the end.

His mind drifted to memories of the past—watching raindrops race down car windows as a child, always wondering which would win, only for a sudden gust of wind to scatter them all.

Life rarely goes as planned.

He thought of Brown, Oliver, and the others. He'd failed them. This mission, this struggle—it was ending here.

And then, absurdly, he thought of something else.

I never even got to eat the pork I ordered.

He smiled bitterly. What a way to go.

The ACPA pilot stood over him now, his machine's shadow swallowing Karl whole.

"It's been a pleasure," the pilot said. "I'll never forget you."

Karl smirked weakly. "Don't forget me. I'll see you down there. When I get there, I'm coming for you."

The pilot laughed. "Learn how to use an ACPA first. Otherwise, I'll win again."

With that, he raised the ACPA's massive fist, preparing to crush Karl's body with one final blow.

But Karl didn't close his eyes.

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw movement. Something fast. Something mechanical.

Time seemed to slow.

No—it wasn't time slowing, but something moving at inhuman speed.

A figure—a machine—raced toward them. Its sleek form blurred as it closed the distance. Karl could barely make sense of what he was seeing.

The robotic hand shot forward, grabbing the ACPA pilot's exposed neck. The damaged cockpit left his throat vulnerable, and the mechanical hand clamped down with precision and overwhelming force.

The pilot's triumphant smile froze. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth gaping as if to scream, but no sound came out.

The hand tightened.

Crack.

The pilot's head was crushed in an instant. Blood and fragments of bone sprayed across the cockpit.

Karl blinked, the world spinning as his blood loss caught up with him.

The machine—a towering figure of sleek metal and flashing red eyes—turned its gaze toward Karl.

"Boy," it said in a deep, mechanical voice, "I've taken over your mission."

Those were the last words Karl heard before darkness consumed him.

But he knew that voice.

No mercenary worth their salt could fail to recognize it.

The cold, brutal presence. The flashing red eyes.

Adam Smasher.

A living legend.

And Karl's last thought before passing out?

Maybe I'm not dead yet.

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