Chapter 62: A Maniac

The cutter stood in the rain with his leather jacket already dark from the storm.

He kept staring at the ruined engine.

At the red that was no longer a person.

His brother. The Closer.

Everything had transpired within a fraction of a moment, that he couldn’t believe a boy had managed to kill his brother, who was World Ranker within top five hundreds.

Fury hit him first.

’Kill the heir, hold the window, and leave, was it?’ He thought. But now half of that structure was...a fucking paste on turbine metal.

"F-" His mouth opened on a curse but he never finished it.

Marcellus bent, picking up the Closer’s fallen machete from the wet tarmac, and ...was just gone.

No run-up the eye could track.

*VWWP---*

He reappeared at the SUV’s passenger door, the one which Rafferty had leaned before. Rafferty’s grey head snapped toward the motion as shock came clean in his expression.

Marcellus’s hand went through the window space, caught the Architect by the white hoodie, and tore apart.

*KRNNK---CRASH!*

The door did not open. It came apart. Metal screamed as the frame peeled outward under pure pull.

The Architect left the seat with the nail still in his grip, his legs kicked once in the air, and Marcellus threw him across the runway like a pile of meat.

The man hit the floor along with debris of tore metal of the gate, rolled, and forced his feet under him.

He tightened his grip on the tungsten nail. The breaking of veil had taken a massive toll on his body. But he wasn’t going to die this easy.

He surged his force under the nail as its inscriptions began to brighten, and then he looked up.

*Ba-Thump!*

His heart beat in frenzy at the sight in front of him.

Marcellus was already crouched in front of his face. He could see his death in the clear pink eyes of Marcellus.

Then he felt it. A machete was buried to the hilt in the centre of Architect’s skull. Bone had given with a went thunk sound.

The man understood that fact only moments later.

His eyes crossed toward the handle, his mouth worked once, but no sound came from it.

The golden-inscribed nail slipped from dead fingers and rang once on the tarmac.

*Ting.*

He was already dead.

Marcellus left the blade where it was, rose to full height over the kneeling corpse and turned his head toward the Cutter.

Maeve couldn’t look away.

The man in white hoodie was kneeling in front of Marcellus, with a machete buried in the centre of his skull.

The golden-inscribed nail lay slipped from his hand, and the light from it faded beneath the rain.

Marcellus had just moved at a speed her eyes couldn’t track. Killed him, and returned to his feet before the man could even understand what happened.

Maeve hadn’t seen him move like this before.

She had barely understood what had happened to the assassin in Suit either.

She looked at Marcellus. The black overcoat, the pale skin, and that familiar face and those rose-coloured eyes.

And the earrings.

Pink petals hanging from either ear, held together by threads of fire. They swayed gently against his neck.

Marcellus was never fond of accessories. She knew that.

She had never seen him wear a single accessory, not once.

Yet...there they were

She had known Marcellus as a man who could be mean, insult people when he found them irritating, refused to help those if he didn’t want to, show indifference to sufferance, if it didn’t concern him.

She had heard the rumours long before she became his assistant.

Marcellus the Merciless.

The heir who had earned a reputation for cruelty. The man people warned others about, and feared serving.

She had known the rumours existed. She had simply never met the man those rumours described.

Until now.

The way he had killed them. There had been no argument, no warning, not even a word. He just simply killed, and moved on.

She had never seen this side of him. And now it was standing before her as though it had always been there.

Marcellus turned his head, settling his attention on the Cutter.

The man stood several paces away, his leather jacket soaked through the rain. His twin machetes hung at his sides, and his eyes moved from the corpse at Marcellus’s feet to the pink flames curling around his body.

Neither men spoke.

The Cutter adjusted his stance.

And then he moved.

He was faster than his brother. And his state was never an illusion.

His right machete descended toward Marcellus’s shoulder, followed by the left sweeping across his waist.

Two blades crossed throw the space where Marcellus had been standing, but Marcellus shifted his weight to just step inside the man’s guard.

The cutter twisted, dragging his right blade back for a close range strike. Marcellus just turned his head by an inch, and the edge passed beside his cheek.

His hand touched the Cutter’s wrist. And that was all.

The machete changed direction. Its edge missed Marcellus’s neck and struck the other blade instead.

*CLANG!*

The Cutter withdrew. He pivoted on his rear foot, his left machete sweeped towards Marcellus’s ribs while the right descended from above.

There was no pause between the two attacks

Marcellus just stepped forward again, closing the distance. The first blade passed behind him, the second slid past his shoulder.

He struck the cutter beneath the ribs.

The impact was short, instant, and direct. The cutter’s torso folded by a fraction but his right hand was already moving. The machete reversed, its pommel drove towards Marcellus’s temple.

Marcellus tilted his head. The pommel missed again.

The Cutter recovered his stance and struck immediately.

His lleft machete swept toward Marcellus’s throat while the right cut upward from his waist.

Marcellus moved at the same instant.

He stepped into the crossing blades.

His hand rose.

*KRANG!---*

A sharp metallic crack broke through the rain.

The Cutter’s left machete snapped in half, and the broken blade spun past his face.

He felt something brush his cheek. A thin line opened along the edge of his ear and blood ran warm against his skin.

For an instant, Cutter didn’t understand what had happened. His arm was still completing the motion, his fingers still held the broken handle.

The severed half of his machete had already passed behind him, and its spinning edge had just...disappeared in the rain instead of falling on the ground.

He had never seen Marcellus touch the blade.

The boy still stood within arm’s reach.

The same...This same movement was what led to Closer and Architect’s death. Something was off about him.

The Cutter stumbled backward. His eyes darted toward the broken weapon in his hand, then back to Marcellus.

His cheek continued bleeding. Marcellus watched him without moving.

The first two exchanged told Cutter that the boy was exceptionally gifted at close combat. He could accept that. He had fought opponents whose techniques were far more complicated than anything Marcellus had shown.

But the broken weapon was different. He hadn’t seen the strike. He hadn’t felt an impact against his hand. He felt nothing until the damage was already done.

His gaze hardened.

He released the limits he had placed on his body. Dark force surged through his core. His muscles tightened, and the response of every part of his body sharpened.

His powers were altering force, to allow his body to evade danger at the final possible instant. A technique that heavily relied on instincts.

It was the reason why he had survived countless battles and duels of death, against opponents stronger and faster than him.

Rain stopped falling straight. Around the Cutter, the water bent, dragged sideways, then broke into fine spray.

Puddles on the tarmac shivered, then they erupted outward in rings before his boots.

*KRRRKK---*

Cracks raced from under his feet, loose metal from the torn SUV scraped, lifted, and skittered away.

The pressure expanded. A widening ring of fractured surface tore open.

For anyone in the field, breathing turned dense.

The Cutter removed the restraints he normally kept on his force so his body could be normal.

Marcellus stood in the path of his force’s destruction, with his black coat swaying from the force of Cutter. But he still showed mild interest.

There was no change in his domineer.

Across the field, Niccolo moved without joining the duel. Silver force unfolded in two veils. One closed around Maeve where she stood near the expanding pressure, the other formed farther our around the hostesses, who had left the aircraft and had nowhere safe to run.

Niccolo maintained both.

Rafferty saw the shape of the failed plan. Closer was a paste in an engine, Architect had a machete through his skull, the veil, a finest creation of Dagny Hammera was now shattered. And Cutter seemed to be struggling against Marcellus.

Three of his contracted world Rankers. Two of those that were within the top five hundreds were now dead, and a competent ranker within the world’s top hundred was now struggling against a child who was deemed a non-combatant by Severan Family.

The spectacle was unbelievable for him.

Continuing the original plan would be a suicide with witnesses.

His eyes moved from the bodies to the ruined SUV, to the exit lines off the runway.

A Severan heir that was meant to be assassinated in the presence of headbuttler was a crime that could very well lead to the end of his generation. But the fact that he was Roan Severan’s former buttler could wage a civil war among the Severans.

He chose the only remaining move that might still leave blanks in the story.

He turned to leave.

In that same instant the Cutter’s pressure peaked, and every other attention locked on the duel, this was a perfect opportunity for him to leave.

The enormous skeletal scythe at Niccolo’s command shifted.

*SHNK---*

The silver blade drove into the centre of Rafferty’s back. One clean penetration while the man’s focus was on escape.

Rafferty’s body jerked. Rain and blood ran the same path down his suit.

"Where to...Mr. Chameleon Buttler?" Niccolo smiled as he appeared right behind Rafferty.

"Wait and watch...the show’s just begun."

"Who..." Rafferty bit on his lip as pain surged throughout his body. "...are you?"