"Haha!" Commander Blark laughed at the top of his lungs, the booming sound echoing through the hollow cavern of the ruined supermarket. "This is always the usual sequence for us. Since no one in the outer provinces really knows who the Black Hand is, they always tend to severely underestimate our capabilities. Black Hand agents! Take back Number Eight, and systematically get rid of anyone who tries to get in our way."
The lethal operatives of the Black Hand sprang into motion instantly, their bodies shifting into tight, aggressive combat stances. The first one to breach the distance was Agent Number Five. She darted across the cracked floor tiles like a coiled spring, her trajectory locked squarely onto the wounded Skull.
The other numbered agents charged forward in her wake, intent on reclaiming the defector. But before they could completely close the gap, Popper reached down with predatory speed, scooped up a heavy chunk of shattered concrete from the floor, and hurled it like a bullet directly at the head of the office-attired woman.
Agent Number Four reacted with cold efficiency, snapping her torso to the side and catching the flying stone in her palm just inches from her face. But before she could drop the rock, Popper was already deep inside her guard. He drove a brutal, localized fist straight toward her stomach—only to find his knuckles colliding with her reinforced forearm block at the exact micro-second of impact.
"Ah, such a shame," Popper sneered, a dark grin stretching across his face. "It’s been a very long time since I’ve had to hit a woman."
The physical exchanges between the two escalated into a blur of high-velocity movement. Punches, blocks, and low sweeping kicks traveled back and forth between them, neither operative able to land a clean, terminating hit through the other’s defensive guard.
The moment the remaining single-digit agents witnessed the stalemate, their analytical instincts told them something wasn’t quite right. These weren’t ordinary street punks.
This realization became glaringly obvious as Skull cleanly intercepted the incoming strike from Agent Number Five, his fingers clamping like iron cuffs around her wrist. Refusing to yield, Number Five utilized her secondary hand to pull an assassination dart from her specialized compartment, driving the point downward in a desperate bid to stab him through the throat. But Skull was entirely prepared; his free hand shot up, catching her other wrist and completely neutralizing her mobility.
"You know, you guys really used to terrify me back when I was in the lower ranks," Skull murmured, looking directly into her eyes behind his mask. "But lately, having run into someone in Notting Hill who projects a much more horrifying brand of combat... you people just don’t seem that scary anymore."
Commander Blark’s horizontal scar twitched as his eyebrow raised in surprise. He had fully anticipated a systematic, total domination of the field, but that slaughter was failing to manifest. Instead, it appeared as if every single one of his elite agents had run face-first into a tailored counter-measure.
Dipter was now heavily engaged in a fierce, kinetic duel with the teenager in the oversized hoodie. Dipter was unleashing a barrage of linear, devastating kicks, each strike carrying the full weight of his heavy frame. The youth was matching the structural output through sheer agility. He shifted his footing continuously, building up immense centrifugal momentum in his own legs to intercept Dipter’s kicks straight ahead, the air vibrating with the force of their shins colliding.
What was truly troubling for Dipter, however, was that his combat experience was warning him that he was falling for subtle traps—empty spaces he mistook for structural openings. When he lunged forward with a heavy roundhouse, Number Three precisely lifted his knee and elbow in a synchronized defensive frame, smashing them like a vice directly against Dipter’s incoming foot. The pain was immediate, but Dipter’s stubbornness pushed through the structural block, driving his momentum forward to deliver the kick anyway, slamming his heel into the kid’s ribs.
Simultaneously, Dud was going head-to-head against Agent Number Two—the lethal specialist wielding the dual daggers. Dud had managed to evade the razor edges so far through sheer reflexes, but his internal calculation was colored by genuine surprise at how rapidly the silver blades were tracing patterns through the air.
"Hey... don’t you think it’s incredibly annoying to just stand here dodging these toothpicks all day?" Dud asked casually.
Instead of sliding backward from the next incoming strike, Dud purposely thruted his bare hands forward. The twin daggers pierced cleanly through his palms, the steel protruding through the backs of his hands. Before Number Two could register the abnormality, Dud’s fingers curled into an unbreakable grip, locking down directly onto the wrists of the agent. The Black Hand assassin froze, his professional stoicism completely shattering; he had never encountered a human who used their own flesh to trap a weapon like this.
"Are you people entirely certain you want to keep wasting your energy fighting us?" Dud asked, blood dripping from his palms as he maintained his grip. "Because if you look at the balance sheet, this operation could turn into a massive, legendary payday for your entire syndicate. The guy standing behind us in the expensive suit—he’s a Stern. We didn’t summon the Black Hand out here just to have a juvenile contest over who has the biggest dick."
Dud took a quick peak over his shoulder, his eyes tracking Agent Number One. The monk-like individual in the orange robes had entirely ignored the general melee; he was standing perfectly still, his deadly smile widening as his gaze locked onto the monolithic frame of Hugo.
"But let me clarify something else for you as well, Number Two," Dud whispered, his smile turning feral. "If we are going to base this negotiation on who possesses the biggest dick... well, I would argue that title belongs exclusively to our guy!"
Right then and there, Hugo shifted his massive weight, lifted his arm, and threw out a straightforward, devastating fist. Number One remained stationary in his defensive posture, sinking his weight into the floorboards as he prepared to meet the incoming kinetic force with his own internal conditioning.
The moment the fist connected, the theoretical calculations of the Black Hand were completely obliterated. Number One’s entire body was violently lifted off the concrete floor by the sheer displacement of the strike. He went flying across the cavernous supermarket, his robed form crashing through a sequence of steel shelving units before being buried deep under a mountain of collapsed metal far away in the darkness.
The catastrophic display caused every single Black Hand member to instantly freeze in their tracks, their weapons lowering in absolute disbelief at what they had just witnessed.
"That... that is not human strength," Agent Number Two muttered, his eyes wide as he stared at the crater in the back wall.
Dud utilizing the distraction to violently pull his hands free from the embedded daggers. He swung his bloodied palms through the air, intentionally flicking the crimson fluid into the blurred eyes of his opponent to force him back.
"Are you going to actively listen to our corporate proposal now, or do we need to keep breaking your numbers?" Dud asked, his voice echoing in the sudden silence.
To his immense surprise, however, a metallic clattering resonated from the debris field. Emerging from the broken steel shelves, the monk-like man calmly stood up. He brushed the rust dust off his orange robes, his deadly smile completely intact. He appeared to be hardly hurt by a strike that should have liquefied a man’s organs.
"You’re entirely right!" Commander Blark said, breaking into a slow, deliberate clap as his agents systematically retreated to form a tight, defensive perimeter around his overcoat. "I should have expected as much from a defector like Eight. You would have only allowed yourself to be so easily traced if you held absolute confidence in the monsters you brought along to protect your borders."
Blark stopped clapping, his sharp eyes settling onto Dud and the trembling Donto behind him.
"So, let’s clear the ledger," the Commander stated, his voice dropping into a professional business frequency. "Why don’t you tell me exactly what your contract proposal is?"