Chapter 51: Don’t Look Up, Just Keep Praying

"Surprise!! 🎁 Ehehe, are you guys happy that I'm feeding you another chapter today? I know, I know, you can't get enough of Ethan's suffering, can you? Admit it! Ehehe. Dive in and enjoy the madness! 😈"

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High above the pulsating veins of Gangnam, the guild headquarters rose like a monument to power. The architecture was aggressive and imposing, culminating in a rooftop terrace that unfolded into four sweeping wings, echoing the shape of a predatory bird of prey.

At the center of this concrete perch stood a woman. Her long, black hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of ink, contrasting sharply with the piercing, crimson glow of her eyes. She held a smartphone in her hand, a thin, dangerous smirk playing on her lips as she scrolled through a live feed.

"Something curious is unfolding near Mapo," she murmured, her voice a calm, melodic chime. "An E-Rank gate is leaking. A clumsy little spill of goblins into the streets."

A few paces away, the man in the light blue suit was draped across a folding lounge chair, the image of casual indolence. He held a glass of orange juice, sipping it with a look of perpetual boredom.

"And?" he asked, the word dripping with indifference. "The city is crawling with low-tier pests. Why bring this trifle to my attention?"

The woman didn't look up. Instead, she swiped the screen and turned the phone toward him. A grainy image appeared: a candid shot of Ethan, looking utterly unremarkable and vaguely stressed.

"This is the individual I mentioned the other day," she said, her gaze lingering on the image.

The man in the blue suit barely glanced at the photo before letting out a soft, disparaging huff. "You mean to tell me this is the creature that has captured your interest? He looks pathetic. Spiritless. Utterly worthless." He took another sip of his juice, his expression one of profound distaste. "In truth, he is more worthless than any of the mindless drones I have stepped over since arriving in this wretched city."

The sister didn't flinch. Instead, she picked up a small glass of deep red wine, rotating the stem slowly, watching the liquid swirl in a hypnotic vortex. A slow, knowing grin spread across her face.

"It is not the man who interests me," she whispered. "It is the anomaly he carries."

She paused, her crimson eyes glowing with a hunger for power. "You recall, of course, the legacy of our people. Back home, we are born to the art of armorization; we breathe the techniques of our ancestors and wield the demon swords as naturally as others breathe air."

The man in the blue suit shifted, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "Indeed. While a few other nations have stumbled upon similar paths, we remain the undisputed masters of such arts. It is our birthright."

"Precisely," she replied, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial silkiness. "Which is why it is a stroke of exquisite fate that I happened to observe him. This... insignificant little man... possesses a spark that belongs to us. He carries the essence of one of the most forbidden and potent abilities in existence."

She leaned in, her voice barely a breath. "The skill of the Heavenly Demon."

The sound that followed was instantaneous and violent.

CRACK.

The glass of orange juice in the man's hand didn't just break; it vanished into a million crystalline shards, pulverized by a sudden, subconscious surge of pressure. He didn't even seem to notice the liquid soaking into his pristine blue sleeve, his eyes now locked onto his sister with a sudden, sharp intensity.

"To be more precise," the woman corrected, her voice as smooth as polished marble, "it is the unique ability that allows the Heavenly Demon to armorize its very essence directly into the host's body. It is not merely a set of skills, but a transformation."

The man in the blue suit remained motionless, though the air around him seemed to thicken with a cold, oppressive weight. He looked at his ruined sleeve with a flicker of annoyance before glancing back at his sister.

"And pray tell, what does this particular skill offer that surpasses our own?" he asked. "We are the pinnacle of such arts. What could a stray, nameless dog in a foreign land possibly possess that we do not?"

The woman gazed out over the skyline, her crimson eyes reflecting the distant lights of the city. "I only witnessed a fraction of its utility, but the results were... staggering. Overwhelming strength, a durability that defies logic, and speed that renders the eye obsolete. It can dismantle a monster with a mere jab; it can weather a storm of continuous assault without flinching. And the destructive output..." She paused, a small, thoughtful frown appearing. "It is a power that could be described as absolute."

She tapped her chin, her expression turning pensive. "The only lingering question is why a man registered as an E-Rank was found infiltrating a C-Rank gate. It is a lapse in judgment—or perhaps a sign of desperation. He may be harborring troubles of his own that drove him to such a risk."

The man in the blue suit let out a sharp, guttural scoff. He looked at the image of Ethan again, and this time, his lip curled in an expression of profound nausea.

"I find myself utterly indifferent to his motivations or his plight," he drawled. "Shall I simply bring the wretch here? I can deliver him half-dead, broken and bleeding, so that we may strip that skill from his soul and extract it for our own use."

The woman shook her head slowly, a small, dismissive smile returning to her face. "No. Let him remain in the dirt for now. We have far more pressing matters to attend to—political currents that require our full attention."

The man sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders as he leaned back into his chair.

"I find myself in agreement," he murmured, his voice returning to that tone of bored superiority. "Exerting even a speck of effort to clean up a piece of E-Rank trash is a waste of my time and a stain on my schedule."

He gave a casual, effortless flick of his fingers.

Almost instantly, a maid appeared from the shadows of the rooftop wing, her head bowed in total submission. Without a word, she stepped forward and placed a fresh, chilled glass of orange juice on the table beside him. He took a sip, his eyes closing in contentment as he once again forgot the existence of the man in the photo.

...

Back in the chaos of Mapo, Ethan had reached his limit. He wasn't fighting anymore; he was practicing the ancient and noble art of "Strategic Hiding." He had managed to scramble underneath a sturdy-looking SUV, pressing his chest against the oil-stained asphalt and praying that the undercarriage was opaque enough to hide his trembling form.

"Phew..." he wheezed, his breath coming in ragged, shaky gasps. "Okay. Okay. The report is sent. The guild is notified. In a few minutes, some actual professionals—people who get paid to not get bitten by garden pests—will swarm this place and scrub these leaking, pissing gates clean."

He closed his eyes, imagining the sweet relief of a professional cleanup crew arriving to close the rift and send these green nightmares back to whatever hell-hole they crawled out of.

"Thank the gods Mia isn't here," he muttered. "If she saw me hiding under a car like a frightened turtle, I’d never hear the end of it. She’d probably find a way to monetize my cowardice or start a blog about my 'unique' combat style."

He tried to shift his position, but as he did, a symphony of agony erupted from every joint in his body.

"Nnggh...!"

He let out a strained grunt, his muscles screaming in protest. Every inch of his skin felt like it had been tenderized by a meat mallet. He realized then that the human body is an incredible machine, capable of amazing feats—provided that machine isn't being used as a stress-ball for a group of manic goblins.

Life is truly a lesson in humility, he thought grimly. One moment you're the king of the world because you smashed a tile on someone's face, and the next, you're contemplating the texture of road grime and wondering if you're actually allergic to asphalt.

Then, the peace ended.

YANK.

"Uh-oh," Ethan whispered.