Start Of An Apocalypse (4)

A ghost building, they called it cracked walls, mold-eaten carpet, flickering hallway lights that never stopped buzzing. No one lived here anymore.

No one except Daemon.

He sat in his dark-ass apartment, cross-legged on a worn-down mattress, smoke coiling from his cigarette. The walls were covered in slash marks, bullet holes, and the faint smell of gunpowder still lingered from… hell, maybe last week. He didn't care. He scrolled through his old, scratched-up phone, reading about another Beast tearing through Munich.

"Same old song…" he muttered. Click. He flicked the ash to the floor.

Boom.

The door didn't just creak—it flew off the hinges and crashed into the wall.

Seven armed men walked in, weapons ready. Kevlar, rifles, even one of those bastards had an energy cleaver. Mercs, obviously. Trying too hard to look badass.

One of them blinked, then laughed. "Yo—no way, it's actually Daemon."

"The strongest Beast Killer lives in a damn pisshole?"

Another snorted, "Bro, this place looks like Chernobyl's toilet."

Daemon didn't even look up. "You bitches done sightseeing?"

Silence. They raised their weapons. Daemon stood up slow, cracked his neck, flicked the cigarette to the floor—and it landed in a puddle of blood from a few nights ago.

The air changed.

One of them panicked, shouted— "FIRE!"

Too late.

BOOM.

The long-ass revolver was already in Daemon's hand, muzzle flash lighting the whole damn room. One shot. First guy's head? Gone. Just mist and a cracked helmet dropping to the floor.

CLANG.

His other hand swung behind his back and drew his sword—a chipped but wicked long blade with tape wrapped around the hilt like he didn't give a damn. He moved like a blur.

Slide. Slash. Shot.

One by one, he speed-blitzed the mercs like he was skipping lines in a playlist. One had his throat sliced mid-spin, another took a revolver round straight through his chest armor—bullet went through him and into the guy behind him. Blood sprayed the walls like fresh paint.

Four seconds. Six bodies dropped.

The last guy backed into the doorframe, breathing heavy. "H-Hold up! I got intel, alright?! We ain't alone! Whole building's covered! Mercs on every floor, and— and we brought eleven Beast Killers!"

Daemon tilted his head. His lip twitched like he was about to laugh.

"Eleven, huh?" he took a drag from a new cigarette. "You'll need a lot more than that, shitheads."

BLAM.

One in the leg. The guy screamed, dropped, and Daemon walked over and kicked him through the busted window.

Didn't even check if he survived.

The Hallway.

Footsteps. Dozens of them. The rusted stairwell shook. Voices—mercs yelling in different languages, beast killers barking orders. Infrared scopes lit up the hallway like Christmas.

Daemon walked through the broken halls like a goddamn ghost.

One guy peeked a corner.

"He's here—"

Slice.

Head off.

Two more charged in. Daemon ducked, drove his sword straight through both of them, lifting one off the ground as he fired his revolver sideways into the third.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Blood sprayed the cracked tiles.

He didn't stop walking. He moved with this nonchalant swagger, like the whole world was already dead and just didn't know it yet.

Then—quiet.

The air got heavy.

One man stood at the end of the hallway.

Taller, bulkier. White coat. Red eyes. His presence alone screamed "high-tier killer."

He raised his axe—a thick, wide slab of steel humming with energy.

Daemon grinned and whispered, "Finally. Thought I was just beating on interns."

The man said nothing. He just rushed.

And Daemon ran too—sword in one hand, revolver in the other, grin wide as the hallway exploded into violence.

Cigarette hanging from his lips, revolver loose in his grip. His sword dragged across the floor behind him, screeching softly like metal whispering murder.

Across from him, the so-called Beast Killer towered—taller by a head, wrapped in white armor, veins pulsing with some black drug flowing through his neck. The axe he carried vibrated with tech humming like a chainsaw from hell.

He took one step.

BOOM.

Daemon didn't even flinch. "Nice boots. Let me guess—dead beasts make great fashion statements now?"

The killer didn't speak. Instead, he let out a snarl and launched forward, a blur of muscle and metal. The axe swung in a perfect arc toward Daemon's neck.

But Daemon?

He was already gone.

CRASH.

The wall behind where he'd stood exploded in sparks and concrete.

From above—midair—Daemon smirked and fired two rounds straight down.

BANG. BANG.

One bullet grazed the killer's cheek. The second hit the axe, sending vibrations through the man's arms and making him flinch.

Daemon landed behind him with a slide, dragged his sword low, and in one smooth spin—

SHHHINK!

He sliced across the man's back.

No armor could stop it.

The Beast Killer grunted, stumbled forward, and turned with wild fury.

Daemon twirled his revolver on his finger like it was a toy. "You guys really talk a big game. 'Top of the chain,' right?" He took a long drag. "Man, if this is the top, I'd hate to see what the bottom looks like."

The killer roared and threw the axe.

Daemon sidestepped, tilted his head like he was dodging a slow mosquito, and shot the axe midair.

BANG.

It ricocheted, flew sideways, and embedded into the wall.

Daemon cracked his neck. "Oops."

The killer charged again, fists up now, desperate.

Twelve seconds in.

Daemon ducked under a punch, elbowed the man's ribs, cracked his nose with the butt of his gun, and backflipped away.

"Gotta say—you're persistent. I like that." He leaned on one leg, lazy. "But all that rage? It's useless without rhythm."

The killer coughed blood, eyes wide with fury. He rushed again, fists flying.

Daemon blocked with his sword, locked their arms together, and leaned in close.

"You ever danced with death in an empty hallway?"

The killer screamed.

Daemon drove his sword straight up through his gut, the blade tearing through armor, flesh, spine.

Seventeen seconds.

He pulled the sword out, flipped it once, and spun around with one final slice.

Head clean off.

Twenty seconds.

The corpse collapsed, blood smearing the floor.

Daemon reloaded his revolver with a spin and whispered to himself, "That the best they got?"

He lit another cigarette, flicked ash onto the dead man's face, and turned toward the stairwell where more footsteps were echoing.

And just before walking off, he muttered with a grin—

"Next."