"How about it? Can you tell me the answer now?"
Arakawa Zenkichi's voice was calm but carried a weight that pressed on their hearts. This was the second time he had asked, yet the killers still remained silent.
"We are assassins," one of them said coldly. "There is no way we can reveal our employer."
His refusal was firm, but there was a tremor beneath his words. Some secrets were forbidden to speak, not only because of loyalty but because exposing them could endanger those they cared about.
"Do you understand what that silence will cost you?" Zenkichi asked, his tone sharpening.
The killer clenched his fists. "We are professionally trained. We have nothing to fear." His voice was steady, but his pulse betrayed him, beating faster with every word.
Training had hardened them, made them resistant to pain, threats, even torture. But what Zenkichi had displayed moments ago was not something training could prepare them for. It wasn't simply physical strength—it was something far more terrifying, something that pressed into their very souls.
Zenkichi studied them in silence, then raised his hand once more. This time, however, it was not the life-giving energy of before.
Darkness coiled around his fingertips, a power heavy with dread and suffocating weight. The instant it seeped into the air, the atmosphere shifted. The Avengers standing nearby averted their eyes, their faces pale. Just the sight of that energy clawed at their minds, dragging old fears to the surface.
The killers felt it even more. The moment the dark energy washed over them, their bodies convulsed, sweat pouring down their faces as they collapsed to their knees. Their eyes reddened, veins bulging as visions of their deepest terrors came alive before them.
Zenkichi's voice cut through their panic like a blade. "How does this power feel?"
One of the assassins broke first. His scream ripped through the hall. "We'll talk! We'll say anything!"
Tears streamed down his face. The illusion of fear tearing through his soul was unbearable, far worse than death. He would rather betray everything than endure it any longer.
But before he could continue, another assassin beside him suddenly acted. His expression twisted in despair, yet his hand moved with ruthless clarity. In a single motion, he drew a dagger and slashed it across his own throat.
Blood sprayed as he fell, his body collapsing lifelessly to the floor.
Even in the grip of fear, he had chosen suicide over surrender.
Zenkichi's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of respect crossing his face. "Impressive. Even when engulfed in despair, you still found the strength to deny me."
With that, he withdrew the dark energy. The suffocating aura faded, but the killers before him remained trembling, their minds scarred by what they had just endured.
"How does it feel?" Zenkichi asked again, his calm voice echoing in the silence.
To them, it was not a question. It was a reminder—that their lives, their sanity, their very existence, all hung in the palm of his hand.