Chapter 47: Combat

Under the trench-coated man's disbelieving stare, Glen dragged him into a dark alley.

After perhaps a minute or two, the man's terrified voice drifted out on the wind:

"Wait! What are you doing?! You demon! Stop! AHHHH—!!!"

The agonized shrieking went on for a very, very long time.

When Glen emerged from the alley, his hands and chest were coated in dark, viscous blood. Certainly not his own. He wiped the thick gore clinging to his palms onto his trouser leg with a grimace, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Unsurprisingly, under his brutal methods, even the most loyal lackey had broken. He mentally summarized the extracted information.

A group of over fifty, controlled by someone named Glas. Somehow gained terrifying power one day, becoming monstrous in appearance. Continuously abducting children under eighteen... Hmph. Clearly a pawn. Someone else is pulling the strings behind this. He pieced it together.

In the surrounding houses, curious residents dared to peek out from behind their curtains, drawn by the commotion.

Glen ignored them and walked straight back to Mrs. Ryan's house.

He pushed open the ruined door to find her waiting just inside, clearly having been listening.

Seeing him enter, she stiffened momentarily with tension, then relaxed upon recognizing him, pressing a hand to her chest.

"I was terribly worried about you! That man looked utterly ruthless! Are you hurt?"

A wave of warmth spread through Glen. "I'm fine," he reassured the kind woman. "I'm actually a very cautious person. I don't pick fights I'm not sure I can win."

Mrs. Ryan couldn't help but smile at his self-proclaimed caution. "People don't usually describe themselves like that," she chuckled.

Her expression quickly turned serious again. "What... what happened to him?"

"Hmm..." Glen chose his words carefully. "He was dangerous. Extremely dangerous. So... I killed him."

Mrs. Ryan's hands trembled slightly. She let out a long, weary sigh. "That... that is the punishment they brought upon themselves. Don't worry, Glen. I'll speak to Dougley. He won't hold you responsible."

"Thank you, Mrs. Ryan," Glen said sincerely. While facing consequences wouldn't have been a major issue for him, her protective kindness deserved genuine gratitude.

"Mrs. Ryan," he added after a moment's silence, gesturing towards the splintered door frame. "Looks like you still need that new door."

"You'll have to help me again, I'm afraid," she replied with a wry smile.

"Of course," Glen agreed readily. Then his tone shifted, becoming grave. "But I have urgent business to attend to now. I must leave."

Mrs. Ryan nodded understandingly, not pressing for details.

…

On the second floor of a noisy, dilapidated tavern, Glas – whose rugged features bore an uncanny resemblance to an orc from World of Warcraft, though lacking the green skin and slightly less bulky – absently turned a complex contraption of gears and tiny brass components in his massive hand.

"Pathetic. Modern humans waste their days tinkering with useless lumps of metal," a disembodied, resonant voice echoed within the room, snapping Glas from his idle contemplation.

He set the intricate device down heavily. "It's the way things are moving," he rumbled, his voice low and gravelly. "So many of these 'inventions' are appearing in the capital. Changing things. The old king seems fond of them. His ministers follow suit to please him."

"Fools! Turning from mastering true power, deeper magic, to this... junk! This realm courts its own destruction!" The spectral voice dripped with contempt.

"None of our concern," Glas grunted, turning his gaze towards the grimy window. "Speaking of power... haven't I fed you enough children already? You seem... unchanged."

Silence hung heavy in the room. Five full minutes passed before the voice responded, carrying a strange, hungry undertone: "I... require more..."

Glas opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden surge of chaos erupted from downstairs – shouts, the crash of breaking furniture, a surge of noise several magnitudes louder than the usual drunken clamor.

A cold sense of foreboding washed over him. He surged towards the staircase.

CRASH! Before he reached it, a head and shoulders burst violently up through the wooden floorboards directly in front of him, shattering the planks. The mangled form of one of his men was embedded in the jagged hole, blood pouring from his mouth as he choked. "B-boss..." he gurgled, eyes wide with terror and pain.

Glas's pupils contracted violently. What?!

He had no time to process it. A figure, hands casually thrust into pockets, strolled calmly up the stairs through the settling dust and debris.

Glas froze, taking in the newcomer. Glen was splattered with significantly more blood than before. Glen, in turn, stared at Glas, momentarily thrown. An orc? But… shouldn't they be green? And bigger? Did this world even have orcs? His host's memories held no such knowledge. He shook his head violently, banishing the irrelevant thoughts.

Focusing on Glas, Glen spoke, his voice cold and level. "You the boss? Clever little hideout. Magically concealed. Explains why the constables couldn't find you." His eyes hardened. "Now. Where are the children? Tell me, and I might consider letting you live."

Glas recovered his composure, the initial shock replaced by a simmering fury. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice like grinding stones. "Do you have any idea who you're crossing? And how did you find this place?"

Glen let out a short, humorless laugh. "Asking questions instead of answering? Fine. Looks like I need to beat the answers out of you first."

Without further preamble, Glen's fingers elongated into gleaming silver claws. He lunged forward with blinding speed, a razor-sharp slash aimed straight at Glas's throat.

A brutally simple attack. Glas chose to meet it head-on. He brought his thick left forearm up in a powerful block.

SHIIING! The claws struck with a shower of sparks, ringing out like forged steel hitting an anvil. The force of the blow rocked Glas sideways, giving him a visceral gauge of his opponent's strength.

Glen's eyes widened fractionally in surprise. Harder than steel? Didn't expect that.

"If this is the limit of your strength," Glas sneered, seizing the momentary opening, "then coming here was a fatal mistake!"

On the word "mistake!", his massive hand clamped like a vise around Glen's wrist. With a roar of exertion, Glas twisted his entire body and hurled Glen like a ragdoll towards the nearest solid wall.

Hurled through the air, Glen remained unnervingly calm. In the split second before impact, he twisted his body, orienting his feet towards the wall. He hit the bricks not with a sickening crunch, but with the practiced grace of an acrobat, knees bending sharply to absorb the kinetic energy with a heavy thud, scattering dust.

Glas snarled in frustration at the lack of a satisfying impact. He started to pull Glen back for another, more devastating throw.

But Glen was already moving. He pushed off the wall with his feet, using the momentum to launch himself towards Glas like a coiled spring released. His body became a projectile of focused force as he drove his knee upwards in a devastating strike aimed squarely at Glas's jaw.

CRUNCH! The impact was solid, jarring. Pain exploded through Glas's head. His vision swam, momentarily white. Instinctively, his grip on Glen's wrist loosened.

Blinded by the flash of pain, Glas instinctively raised a hand to his throbbing face. Before he could clear his vision, something sharp and impossibly fast swept against his ankles. His massive legs were knocked out from under him. He crashed down heavily, momentarily pinning someone beneath him before a powerful shove sent him tumbling backward.

He sailed through the grimy tavern window in a shower of exploding glass and rotten wood.

WHUMPH! The impact with the street below drove the air from his lungs and sent fresh waves of agony radiating from his bruised jaw and back. He lay there for a second, stunned, the rough cobblestones cold against his skin. Pain confirmed he'd landed. Hard.

…

Dougley Police Station.

Chief Dougley was deep in discussion with his officers, spreading maps across a worn table, analyzing potential hideouts for the child-snatching gang. The atmosphere was tense, focused.

Suddenly, the door burst open. A young constable, panting and wide-eyed, stumbled in, interrupting the briefing.

"Chief! Sir! Your house! It's... something's happened at your house!"

Dougley shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly on the stone floor. "What?!"

"Reports came in, sir! Disturbance! Fighting! And... and blood!"

Thirty minutes later, Dougley, flanked by two winded constables, jogged up the path to his modest home. The broken front door hung askew. Inside, Mrs. Ryan stood wringing her hands near the entrance.

One constable bent over, hands on knees, gasping for air. "They really ought to issue us one of those motor-wagons... like the big precincts in the capital have... heard they got 'em..."

His companion, equally breathless but less amused, shot him a look. "Pipe down! Those contraptions? Barely been invented! Probably break down half a mile out. And what'd we need one for in a pea-sized town like Dolph? Horses do just fine!" He straightened his cap, eyeing the damaged doorway with professional concern. "Focus on the job."

Dougley ignored the chatter, his eyes fixed on the scene before him – the broken door, the spatters of dark liquid staining the threshold and floorboards inside, and the pale but composed face of his wife. He pushed past the broken doorframe, his heart pounding. "Marian? What happened? Are you alright? Is the baby..." His voice was tight with fear.