Red Unit

She took Blade through a narrow corridor connected to the back of the building.

As the door creaked open, it revealed a wide room dimly lit by flickering bulbs and cluttered with maps, gear, and old weapons. A bunch of people stood inside, waiting.

Ava gestured casually toward the two in the corner.

"You already know the deal. That's the Red Unit."

Blade glanced at them, uninterested. "Yeah, figures." He stepped forward with a sigh. "Let's just get this over with."

Two of the unit, both young men, stood up. The taller one spoke first.

"Commander Ava. Hello, Mr. Blade. The man who killed the Unkilled—damn, we've been hearing about that nonstop!"

Blade rolled his eyes. "Oh great—my own fans. Just here to finish the mission, not sign shirts."

The tall one grinned. "Alright, alright. I'm John. The quiet one next to me with the long hair? That's Miles."

Blade stepped forward, unimpressed. "My name is Blade. Blade Vailhom."

The two paused.

"Wait—Vailhom? That's a mainland name, right?"

Ava answered smoothly. "Yeah. Anyone from the mainland gets the Vailhom surname. Like me."

Blade gave them a crooked smirk. "Huh. Thought Red Unit only took pureblood stars and other golden boys. Guess they're finally looking for talent."

John chuckled. "So... what are you? Weaponer or contractor?"

Before Blade could even open his mouth, Ava cut in, voice sharp like a knife. "Save it. You can talk after the mission. Move out."

Blade muttered, "She always gotta ruin my fun…"

---

Mission: Ninth Street

The early dawn hadn't broken yet. The streets were quiet, shadows stretching long.

The three made their way to Ninth Street, where the alert had pinged earlier.

Blade glanced sideways. "So, any intel? Contractor? Devil?"

John adjusted his yellow glasses. "They say someone made a deal with the Thread Devil. The guy might've lost control. Could've slipped the leash or even run."

Blade looked at Miles. "You?"

Miles shrugged, his bright blue eyes focused straight ahead. "I heard he worked with the Cleaners. They let him make the contract, probably helped him. I don't know the details."

"Idiots and devils, always a good combo. Let's just get this over with."

---

They turned the corner onto Ninth Street.

The three of them slowed their pace.

Ahead under the flickering streetlamps stood two men. One hunched and anxious like a broken dog, the other young, standing tall, fists clenched tight with rage.

Blade didn't move.

He let the younger two take the lead and dropped the heavy coffin from his back. The thud echoed like thunder through the empty street.

"Alright…" he muttered, smirking. "Time to test my new toy."

He pulled the black gear — it extended fast, black steel glinting in the dark.

"Didn't think it would shift that quick... Let's see if it holds up better than the last one."

He gripped the long handle, admiring the twin edges and the crusted black sheen. "Serpent Devil blade… one of the nastiest bastards I ever killed. Let's see if you break."

He eyed the black edge. "Serpent blood supposed to keep you sharp."

---

John vs. the Old Man

John cracked his neck, stepping forward without fear. "Alright, Miles. My turn first."

He reached to his belt, flipping his coat slightly. A glint of light reflected off the silver chrome grip as he pulled out a beast of a gun — a hand cannon, thick-barreled, with custom engravings.

A Desert Eagle — but not just any. The chrome was tinted dark, with glowing red lines running through the barrel.

"This bad boy," John said proudly, "is called Recoil Fang."

"Made from the Ricochet Devil. Fires off a shot and curves like it's got a mind of its own."

Blade raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Show me you're not useless, nerd."

John flipped a coin from his pocket — let it rise.

The gun fired. CRACK!

The coin exploded mid-air — the bullet curved from the impact and pierced straight into the anxious old man's skull.

The man collapsed instantly.

John lowered the Deagle like it was nothing. "Well… that was clean."

Blade smirked, thoughts bubbling up as he watched. "Damn, maybe he ain't just a four-eyed support type."

---

Miles vs. the Angry Man

The second target — the angry one — snarled low, something twitching under his skin. His eyes flickered faintly, voice shaking with something dark.

Miles stepped forward. Silent. Still.

Then it happened.

His bright blue eyes drained of color — pupils gone, replaced by ghost-white. Shadows coiled at his feet like smoke, the air around him warping. The wind picked up, swirling his coat like something old was watching.

The mark of a contract.

The Blink Devil.

Then— Blink. Gone.

A flicker in the dark. He appeared behind the target, dragging a black dagger across his back — Slash. Gone again.

Like a shadow dodging light, rough, raw teleportation. Not magic. Not tech. Just Miles, and the devil inside him.

Back in his place, chest rising sharp. But something was off. His left leg twitched — nerves fried, muscles glitching. A price.

The glow in his eyes faded, blue seeping back.

Blade watched, a grin breaking through. "Alright, shadow-boy... I see why Red Unit picked you. You don't talk much — but damn."

"But don't relax now, boys. The work's not done."

Blade smirked

Yeah… I know they think I'm cool with those cold-ass words. Why wouldn't they? Call me sensei or something . I'm not some old man, but I've seen more than both of 'em combined. Twenty-six and still sharper than any of 'em.

---

The Twist

Both bodies twitched. Then jerked.

The old man's back cracked, limbs bending at the wrong angles. He dropped to all fours, head hanging upside down, jaw slack and twitching. Strings stretched from his shoulders and elbows, tightening like marionette wires.

Then came the voice. Not from his mouth — but from deep inside.

"You really thought I'd die that easy?"

John raised his Deagle again. "What the hell…?"

The strings writhed like worms, alive and snapping.

"You boys are young. I'll give you that. But devils like me don't die at dawn. Only at 3AM. You missed your shot."

A second voice rumbled from the angry man — deeper, thick like oil.

"You can't kill what's already dead, boy."

Miles blinked sideways, already preparing to move.

Then the man's skin cracked — not like blood, but like splitting wax. From inside, something slithered out. A long, twitching tendril.

The Parasite.

Its face flickered inside the man's, like a mask trying to grow teeth.

The old man twitched again. His limbs jerked like strings were yanking from the sky.

"That one's just a shell," the Thread Devil said. "I've been driving this meat suit since day one. He made a deal. Couldn't handle it. So I moved in."

John cursed under his breath. "Two devils? Thread and Parasite? That's not supposed to happen…"

"We're not partners," the Thread Devil hissed. "Just roommates."

---

Miles vs. Parasite — Round 2

The Parasite Devil twisted the host's spine, stretching his frame until bones popped.

"You think you're fast?" it hissed.

Miles didn't answer.

His bright blue eyes faded to white. Pupils gone. Shadows began swirling under his feet, the air howling around him. He vanished.

Blink.

Then reappeared — behind the devil. A dagger slashed. Then again. Then again. Each time, a blur — flicker — blur. Like reality couldn't catch up.

But the devil adapted.

A claw snapped out mid-blink — tearing through Miles' coat, raking across his shoulder, and slamming him into a wall.

The Parasite grinned, its mouth warping with too many teeth.

"You're fast. But fast ain't always smart. Don't do the same tricks twice on something raw."

Miles gritted his teeth, fading back into shadow.

---

Blade cracked his neck.

He stepped forward, his black spear resting across his shoulders. Red lines pulsed through the metal — alive.

"It's past 3AM. Can't kill devils. But I sure as hell can cage them."

He grinned lazily.

"Let me show you what a pureblood mainlander can do."