Manticore

The pristine corridor of Genesis Tower felt devoid of oxygen. Grant’s face drained of color, turning as pale as a fresh sheet of paper. The grand, arrogant ambitions he harbored just moments ago—visions of rising through the corporate ranks, wielding authority, and amassing millions—crumbled into ash. A devastating reality set in, chilling him to the bone. Vance Kensington held undeniable control over his fate. If Grant had not offended Vance, his shares and status in Nebula Corporation would have guaranteed a net worth of over ten million. Now, he faced absolute ruin, realizing he had been a fool to look down on the man.

“Get lost,” Jaxson Reed uttered flatly, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Desperate and stripped of their pride, Grant and Doug collapsed. Their knees slammed onto the polished marble tiles with heavy thuds, their expensive, tailored suits rumpling against the floorboards. They frantically begged for forgiveness, their panicked voices echoing off the glass walls.

“Mr. Kensington, it's my fault for not knowing any better,” Grant pleaded, his hands trembling. “I was wrong and shouldn't have angered you. Please forgive me and give me another chance.”

Doug chimed in, tears streaming down his weathered face. “Mr. Kensington, I must have gone insane. Please consider giving me another chance. I've worked for Old Mr. Kensington for over ten years and contributed so much after you took over the company five years ago. You should at least give me some credit for the effort I have put in. I'll become your most faithful servant and do whatever you want me to do. I will scrub floors if I must!”

Vance did not blink. He stood perfectly still, casting a cold, downward glance at the pathetic, trembling men groveling at his shoes. “Be my servant? You're not good enough!” he stated softly.

Furious at the sheer audacity of the plea, Jaxson stepped forward. He drove his heavy, custom-made leather shoe right into Doug’s chest. The impact sent the older man sprawling across the smooth floor, breathless and wheezing.

“Do you think you are capable of being Mr. Kensington's servant?” Jaxson roared, his eyes wide with a manic, terrifying devotion. “Only I can become his servant. His wish is my command. Who do you think you are?”

The remaining crowd gasped in sheer disbelief. High-ranking executives and elite staff shrank back against the walls, terrified. Their minds raced wildly. Jaxson Reed was the ruthless billionaire subordinate of Oakhaven's richest man, the undisputed owner of Genesis Tower itself. Yet here he was, eager and proud to discard his own dignity just to claim the exclusive, coveted honor of being Vance's servant. What incomprehensible, blood-soaked identity did Vance truly possess to command such fierce loyalty?

Vance ignored the bloodcurdling screams of regret echoing behind him. Casting a brief look at the terrified crowd, he issued a cold order. “That's my final decision. By the way, let's keep what happened today to ourselves. Don't make it public.”

An obsequious smile crept onto Jaxson's face. “Mr. Kensington, don't worry. I understand.”

Vance turned to the shell-shocked Colin, firmly patting the young man's shoulder. “Col, you can do it. Ask Jaxson if you have any questions.” With Colin officially in charge of both corporations, Vance turned his back on the chaotic scene and calmly walked out of Genesis Tower. He desired peace for as long as possible before any new mission dragged him back into the shadows.

Stepping out into the cool afternoon air, Vance's phone buzzed twice. Two messages awaited him.

The first came from an unknown number, but the sender was unmistakable. It was Harper Quinn, the sensational pop idol. Her text carried a bold, unyielding threat: *I'll be holding a small concert at Oakhaven Opera House tonight. You must come. If you don't show up, I'll put on another large-scale concert for two hundred thousand people and declare to everyone that you're the man who captivated my heart. I'm Harper, who loves you.*

Vance's expression remained indifferent. Without a second thought, he deleted the message.

The second text arrived from another unknown number. It was Dr. Valerie Dalton, an aloof and brilliant woman of very few words. Her message was brief: *I'm Valerie Dalton. Let's have dinner together tonight.*

Colder than she could ever pretend to be, Vance typed a two-word reply: *I'm busy.*

He slipped the phone back into his pocket. Suddenly, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Sharp, combat-honed instincts flared to life. Something felt deeply amiss in the immediate environment. Vance halted his steps. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the bustling street before locking his gaze onto a slightly battered silver van parked suspiciously nearby.

It looked ordinary at first glance, resembling a standard delivery vehicle. But beneath the mundane, dirty exterior, his expert eyes registered glaring anomalies. The window glass possessed a distinct, heavy refraction—Celtican customized bulletproof glass, capable of withstanding an impact force of one ton. The chassis sagged slightly under the front hood, betraying the immense, incredible horsepower of a modified twelve-cylinder engine. A quick glance at the license plate confirmed it was a well-crafted, illegal fake.

Through the heavy tint, Vance watched the driver shift his arm on the steering wheel. The sleeve rode up just enough. Vance caught a brief, clear sight of a black butterfly tattoo stamped into the man's wrist.

“Manticore...” Vance muttered under his breath.

A deep, venomous repugnance surged within him. Manticore was one of the world's largest, most mysterious, and ruthless assassination organizations, primarily active in West Arcania. They recruited members through unconventional means, posting meaningless codes and images on the internet that contained a new type of human linguistics, cryptography, and genetic research. Only true geniuses could decipher them. Years ago, a close friend of his deciphered one of those codes. The next day, Manticore brutally murdered his friend, slaughtering his entire innocent family over the discovery.

Vance did not expect them to surface in Oakhaven. A dark, lethal energy began to pool in his eyes.

Spotting a shared city bike leaning against a nearby rack, Vance grabbed the handlebars. He swiped his phone, unlocked the bike, and swung his leg over the saddle. He began to pedal, blending in with the afternoon traffic, discreetly tailing the heavy silver van.

The van maintained a steady speed of thirty kilometers per hour, never rushing, never drawing unnecessary attention from the local traffic patrols. Vance kept a calculated distance, utilizing the blind spots of the van's side mirrors. The towering skyscrapers of the downtown area slowly gave way to shorter commercial buildings, then to sprawling suburban zones. For an hour and a half, the rhythmic churning of the bike pedals served as the only sound accompanying Vance's grim focus.

Finally, the vehicle weaved out of the city limits and ground to a halt on a desolate, secluded, tree-lined road. The overgrown woods on either side provided dense cover, casting long, concealing shadows across the pavement.

The driver cut the heavy engine. He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the asphalt. His posture was rooted, his lower body stable and powerful. A seasoned fighter. The man turned, staring at Vance with a cold, calculating gaze.

“Why are you following me?” the driver demanded.

“How long has Manticore been in Oakhaven?” Vance asked, his voice cutting through the quiet air with icy precision.

The driver narrowed his eyes. A sinister, knowing grin stretched across his rough face. “Since you know about Manticore, you must not be a simple person. In that case, I mustn't keep you alive.”

He strode toward Vance, his footsteps steady and threatening.

At that precise moment, the heavy rear doors of the van swung open from the inside. A massive man dropped down onto the asphalt. He had long hair, sunken eyes, and wore a loose robe. He was barefoot, his exposed skin covered in intricate, sprawling tattoos. One glance told Vance all he needed to know. The man was a deadly kickboxing expert.

Through the open rear doors, Vance spotted the cargo inside the vehicle. A stunning woman lay trapped on the metal floorboards. Heavy, thick ropes bound her wrists and ankles tightly. A cloth gag stuffed her mouth. She whimpered in stark terror, struggling uselessly against her restraints. Vance recognized her face from major media outlets. It was Diana Maxwell, Oakhaven's eminent billionaire businesswoman, a figure boasting a net worth of over ten billion.

Vance felt indifferent toward saving her life. Her immense wealth and societal status meant nothing to him. But his burning, absolute hatred for the Manticore organization fueled the fire surging through his veins.

“Take this woman away first,” the barefoot kickboxer barked, issuing a swift command.

A hidden accomplice emerged from the back seats, scrambling over the center console to climb into the driver's cabin. He reached for the ignition, preparing to start the engine and flee with the billionaire captive.

The kickboxer and the original driver stepped onto the road. They moved in perfect synchronization, spreading out to sandwich Vance from both sides, cutting off any possible route of retreat. They tightened their stances, ready to deliver a lethal, coordinated strike.

In an instant, the ambient air pressure seemed to drop. The atmosphere grew stifling, heavy with an unnatural dread. Vance's aura shifted. The masquerade ended. For five grueling years, he had played the meek, subservient husband, hiding his true nature from Oakhaven. Now, he unleashed his raw, murderous intent like an awakened primordial beast stepping out of the dark.

He moved.

Vance took a single, explosive step forward. The solid asphalt groaned and cracked beneath his shoe, a spiderweb of fissures spreading outward from the sheer force of his launch. He covered over twenty meters in a fraction of a second. He left behind a terrifying blur of afterimages, a ghostly trail of motion that defied the limits of human biology.

He bypassed the two stunned fighters before their minds could even register his movement. Appearing instantly directly in front of the heavily upgraded van, he planted his stance. He pulled his right fist back, his muscles coiling tight.

He drove his knuckles straight into the reinforced steel hood.

A deafening, metallic bang erupted, mimicking the concussive blast of an artillery shell. The unimaginable kinetic force rippled through the vehicle's sturdy frame. The heavy steel crumpled inward instantly. The shockwave lifted the entire rear of the heavy van clean off the ground. The supposedly rocket-proof windows, designed to withstand immense ballistic trauma, could not endure the sheer vibrational power. They shattered simultaneously, raining a cascade of glittering, jagged shards onto the desolate road.

Inside the cabin, the replacement driver sat frozen. His hand hovered over the ignition key. He gulped loudly, a pathetic sound swallowed by the ringing silence that followed the devastating impact. Paralyzing horror gripped his chest. He was trapped in his seat, staring through the obliterated windshield at the incomprehensible, god-like power of the young man standing before him.