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Novel Catalog
Chapter_271
The agents of the Special Security Institution weren’t ordinary soldiers. Every one of them was a Stage Five Grandmaster or higher—lethal warriors forged through fire and discipline.
Yet, the masked attackers confronting them weren’t any weaker. Nearly all were martial arts grandmasters, and among them, five were Great Grandmasters—the kind of experts who could shift the outcome of a war on their own.
As bullets gave way to blades, Judas clashed once more with the formidable masked man. His fists moved like thunder. He struck the attacker hard in the chest, forcing him back a step.
“Who are you?” Judas growled, blood staining the corner of his mouth. “How dare you intercept the Special Security Institution?”
The masked man let out a cold laugh. “You’re with the Ninth Division, not even the Central Command. Why should we fear intercepting you?”
With that, he drew a precision-forged knife from behind his back, its cold glint flashing ominously. The blade came slicing down with a roar, cleaving the air with deadly precision.
Judas barely sidestepped, the knife narrowly missing him.
Behind him, a Maybach was severed cleanly in two. Flames erupted, and the vehicle exploded in a deafening blast.
Judas didn’t flinch.
Reaching behind his back, he unsheathed two blunt-edged swords, weapons forged for hand-to-hand combat rather than slashing. He charged at the masked man once more. Their movements blurred as the duel intensified, a deadly dance of skill and will that raged for nearly an hour.
Despite their valor, the Ninth Division was losing ground.
Overhead, a drone hovered silently, relaying the battle in real-time to the Jackson family estate in Capiton.
There, Lucas Jackson sat calmly in a luxurious study, legs crossed, cigar smoke curling around him. The corners of his mouth lifted into a sinister smile as he watched the footage—an orchestra of chaos playing to his tune.
Then, the phone on the table rang.
Lucas answered lazily. It was Edwin Jackson, patriarch of the Jackson family.
“Lucas, I heard you mobilized a kamikaze unit against the Special Security Institution?” Edwin’s voice was tight with fury.
“I did, Grandfather,” Lucas said without remorse. “They’re bringing back the FS Microbacteria for sure.”
He spoke with smug confidence. With FS in their hands, their pharmaceutical arm could produce HIV-specific medication that would make them billions—even if it meant blood on their hands.
“You fool! Do you even realize what you’ve done?!” Edwin roared. “You’re dragging the Jackson family into a death trap!”
The Special Security Institution wasn’t some local watchdog—it was an elite, secretive security arm of Drakonia itself. Crossing them was equivalent to declaring war on the entire nation.
The Jackson family might have wealth and influence, but they were not yet powerful enough to challenge the country’s most feared operatives.
Lucas remained unfazed. “Don’t worry, Grandfather. We’ll let our backer clean up the mess. Besides… wasn’t this always the plan?”
“You’ll be the death of this family!” Edwin spat and slammed the call shut. Without hesitation, he began dialing contacts—powerful ones.
Back on the Cape River Expressway, the battle had grown desperate.
Judas was wounded now—stabbed in the chest, blood seeping through his clothes. He gripped the blade still lodged in his torso with a trembling hand, refusing to let it go.
The masked man stared him down, voice cold as steel. “Hand it over, and I’ll let you live.”
Judas gritted his teeth, blood dripping down his fingers. “Dream on.”
The masked attacker sneered and drove the blade in deeper, the tip now mere centimeters from Judas’ heart.
Then—a ripple in the air.
A tall, powerful figure appeared in the chaos, as if conjured by sheer force of will. He wore a tight combat suit and carried a massive blade across his back.
Without warning, the man clenched his fist and drove it hard into the masked attacker.
The impact was catastrophic.
The masked man roared in pain, his body hurtling backward. But he recovered quickly and retaliated with a punch of his own.
The two fists met.
The result was horrifying—the masked man’s entire arm exploded into gore. Flesh and bone burst into pieces. Blood sprayed across the pavement.
The masked man gasped, staring at the figure before him.
Now, he saw clearly.
He was burly, his face weathered by time and battle, a dark stubble lining his jaw. His gaze burned with a cold fury that only veterans of war carried.
“Francis…” the masked man whispered in disbelief.
Francis had last been seen on Phoenix Island, a place without fighter jets or high-speed vehicles. The fight with the Ninth Division had started just over an hour ago.
How did he get here so fast?
Francis stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
“I’ll ask you once,” he said, voice deep and calm. “Are you going to stop… or shall I stop you myself?”