In a dim, dilapidated warehouse, every window and door was boarded shut. A faint kerosene lamp cast a weak glow, barely illuminating a small patch of the room, its light nearly indistinguishable from the darkness outside.
A lean man shifted a stone aside, peering out cautiously. After a moment, he pulled back and turned to a heavyset man beside him. "The big shots are gone. It's just us here now."
He glanced at the hundred or so people in the warehouse. They had numbers, sure, but they were all ordinary folk, only fit to deal with unarmed civilians.
If the city guard found this place, they'd be wiped out in an hour. But the lean man, Skinny Monkey, wasn't worried. If the guard could track them down, they'd have acted already. Today, the guard would be too preoccupied to bother with small fry like them.
Because today was the day the "big shots" made their move.
"Skinny Monkey, what's the plan?" the burly man, Fat Dog, asked, clapping his shoulder, his eyes glinting with barely concealed sleaze.
"Fat Dog, the bosses said to stay put and go nowhere," Skinny Monkey replied, lighting a cigarette with a snap and taking a drag. "The capital's about to descend into chaos. These supplies are our lifeline, got it? Guard them well, and you'll be rewarded. Lose them, and you'll wish you were dead."
"Come on, I'm not talking about that!" Fat Dog said, exasperated. "I mean those women! The women!"
His gaze drifted toward the warehouse's depths, where several young women were held. Their clothes were intact, and they bore no visible injuries, but their faces were pale, their expressions vacant.
"Them, huh…" Skinny Monkey drawled, hesitating before answering. "They're not the ones the bosses specifically wanted. Probably just small-time catches. If you want to have some fun…"
He trailed off. Fat Dog, catching his drift, slipped a pack of cigarettes into Skinny Monkey's pocket. Skinny Monkey didn't check it, but his expression softened. "Fine. They're yours. Just don't break them."
Fat Dog's face lit up. He strode toward the center of the warehouse, where a dozen of his "brothers" waited. Grinning triumphantly, he rallied a few and headed deeper into the warehouse.
A yellow-haired kid watched their movements, itching to join but knowing he didn't have the status. Defeated, he slouched back down, pretending disinterest.
But his moment of peace didn't last.
"Hey, Yellow Hair, get up."
Looking up, he saw Skinny Monkey standing over him. He forced a fawning smile to hide his fear and disgust. "Boss… what's up?"
"What do you think?" Skinny Monkey grinned wickedly, turning to walk away. "Follow me."
Yellow Hair shuddered but didn't dare disobey, trailing obediently behind.
He only hoped the nightmare would end quickly.
He never imagined… it would end this quickly.
When Skinny Monkey's body slid limply off him, Yellow Hair's hand brushed against slick liquid. A foul, metallic stench hit his nose. Only then did he realize—Skinny Monkey was dead, slumped on top of him.
Skinny Monkey's dead?
Why is he dead?
What do I do? Report it? Will they let me live?
Or should I run, hide somewhere they can't find me?
His mind froze. The shock was too sudden. He'd never considered this scenario, never thought about what to do in such a moment.
So, he quickly lost the chance to decide. The last thing he saw was a shadowy figure, face obscured, raising a handgun, its dark barrel aimed at him.
Snap.
A sound quieter than a footstep. The bullet ended his life effortlessly.
Lucille was mildly satisfied. After extensive training in the tower, he'd refined his shots to near silence, almost matching the game's perfect execution.
He'd slipped into the warehouse from a corner, killed two people, and the main group hadn't noticed—a testament to his training's success.
The only downside was that these were ordinary people, offering negligible boosts to his strength.
No matter. The warehouse was full of "experience bags."
Muffled cries for help came from a nearby room, causing a stir. Lucille used the distraction to creep to the doorway, finding a few men harassing several women.
Such a predictable scene, such mundane cruelty. Lucille didn't bother commenting. He walked in boldly and fired five shots.
In one second, five bullets struck five enemies, each with a new hole in the back of their head. Neither the women nor the remaining men expected five sudden deaths.
Lucille gave them no time to react. In three or five seconds, every man in the room was a corpse, their blood pooling out the door, staining Lucille's boots.
He didn't care.
Stepping into the room, his boots squelched unpleasantly. He crouched, examining the women closely, confirming he didn't recognize them before speaking. "I'm saving you once. That doesn't mean I'll save you again. Find a way to survive on your own."
Without waiting for a response, he stood and walked out.
Not one woman dared lift her head, stand, or meet his gaze.
They were too terrified.
Meanwhile, Lucille resumed his relentless shooting.
Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.
He maintained a pace of five shots per second. Any faster, and his body would falter. But the power flowing from the Golden Ring continuously strengthened him.
Sadly, the cult's grunts were pathetically weak.
Few even had guns. Those who reached for one became Lucille's priority targets.
He became a demon of gunfire, each shot claiming a life.
Draw a gun? Dead.
Pull a knife? Dead.
Charge desperately? Dead.
Flee in panic? Dead.
The boarded-up doors and windows blocked escape routes. Their attempt to hide in darkness became their death sentence.
They could only scurry through the vast warehouse, hoping to evade the butcher's sight.
But Lucille wasn't ordinary.
His heightened senses detected every hiding spot.
At a certain moment, he felt a breakthrough—a clear leap beyond Tier One.
His stamina, mana, and spirit surged, all without a single Duty Crystal.
Such was the terrifying power of the divine artifact—the Golden Ring.
But before he could savor the sensation, he looked up, sensing a new presence.
A Duty Wielder had arrived.