Everyone exchanged hopeful looks, their eyes darting between the half-closed metal shutter and Shane.

  They were all staring at him—their supposed high-ranker, the man who had just bathed in spores and came out alive—waiting for permission to run.

  He scowled, and one of them actually flinched.

  Relax, Shane thought, annoyed. I’m not going to bite.

  He had seriously overestimated the average hunters in this world.

  Shane had pushed himself to the brink, breaking through the enemy lines to neutralize a dozen Roses, burning their spore sacs so the [Hallucination Curses] wouldn’t reach the other hunters.

  He’d thought that that would at least be enough for the hunters to stand their ground for at least half an hour, no ten minutes. At least for as long as Henry Stone could keep the Heaven’s Executioner [Binded].

  Since there were still active Roses left, it was only a matter of time before the golden fog reached Henry’s position near the rift if they didn’t get back out there.

  “Answer this.”

  Shane decided to try a gentler approach. He needed them to think logically.

  “If I told you to run, could you outrun those things?”

  No one said a thing. Just the continuous shaking of the ground as the Heaven’s Executioner tried to break free of Henry’s [Bind].

  Are you fucking kidding me? I’m supposed to be gently talking them into fighting, and that’s all I can say? Goddammit.

  He cursed his [Behavior Lock]. It flitered every reasonable words he had and spat it out like a threat from a villain’s monologue.

  Well, still, it wasn’t like he was totally wrong.

  He looked over the group. The hunters here, at least most of them, weren’t here because they were “heroes” or wanted to save people.

  They were just too close to the dungeon breach to escape in time.

  Or maybe they were skilled hunters who planned to put on a show of fighting before retreating, just to stay in their guilds and keep their licenses.

  But by this point, he was getting too curious not to ask.

  “Why did you all become hunters?”

  Every time he opened his mouth, the group collectively stiffened, looking like they were about to have a heart attack.

  He continued anyway.

  “You must have known it wasn’t exactly the safest line of work.”

  They were probably going to run even if he begged them to stay and fight, so he might as well satisfy his curiosity.

  His gaze landed on the B-rank tank from earlier that he had to save.

  “Some of you have such poor skill mastery you can’t even act as a bait properly,” he said.

  The tank avoided his gaze, just staring at the wall.

  To be honest, if Shane himself had the choice, if he’d woken up in this world with these skills but without the System’s gun to his head, he would’ve used his skills and stats to make easy money somewhere safe, like in construction, pro sports, or even show business.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  All he was trying to ask was: “So why the hell are you all out here living life the hard way if you’re this afraid of fighting?”

  But the mood was so heavy it felt like someone was about to cry.

  I’m literally picking the softest words I can think of. Why do I still sound like a drill sergeant from hell?

  As a result of his internal conflict with the [Behavior Lock], his expression grew more tense.

  Suddenly, the rogue who had said they had “thinned the horde enough” screwed his eyes shut and blurted out.

  “I-I’m sorry!”

  Shane blinked.

  What?

  He didn’t know that in that party member’s eyes, the scene was totally different.

  The rogue saw a man covered in blood—mostly his own—standing tall while they cowered in the dark.

  Shane was the one who had fought the hardest.

  He was the one who had charged into the spores and took the brunt of the curses to keep them sane. And now, the blood-soaked hunter was rightfully scolding them for their cowardice.

  But Shane, having no idea why the man was apologizing, just stared.

  Before he could say anything, the concrete floor beneath their feet shook violently. Dust rained down from the warehouse rafters.

  Shit.

  Shane rushed to the metal shutters and crouched to look under the gap.

  Luke disabled his [Stealth] skill to move away from Henry. The Paladins had gotten too close., so he was luring them away from the rift.

  But that left their tank exposed.

  In that single, unguarded moment, the wind shifted. A thick cloud of [Hallucination Spores] drifted across the intersection and washed over Henry.

  The spores had a fifty-fifty chance to inflict status effects.

  Through the haze, Shane saw Henry’s face. Judging by the look of pure terror etched on it, Lady Luck was not on their side.

  Shane didn’t know what Henry was seeing in that hallucination, but he was completely lost in it. The mana chains started to shake as if they were going to break.

  Knew he wouldn’t last.

  Still, the tank was the most crucial piece in this boss fight. Shane couldn't let him die.

  Better get him out of there.

  Leaving the parties who looked like wrung-out towels from what he’d just said, Shane [Blinked] and vanished from where he stood.

  An instant later, he reappeared in the middle of the golden street, directly in front of the dazed tank.

  ***

  A thick, cloying stench of copper blood and wet ash clogged Henry’s throat, dragging him backward through time.

  The weight of his armor vanished. The strength in his adult arms evaporated.

  He was sixteen again, skinny and terrified, standing in the splintered wreckage of his childhood front door.

  The manicured suburban street had been replaced by a warzone.

  Car alarms blared in the distance over the roar of fires consuming houses across the street. It took his paralyzed teenage brain a sluggish second to process what had happened.

  A dungeon breach.

  And then he saw it.

  A monstrosity of blinding light stood perched atop the crushed remains of his neighbor’s car.

  Six magnificent wings unfurled behind it—made of what looked like forged steel, each feather a sharpened blade that chimed softly as they shifted in the smoke. It was clad in immaculate white-gold armor that gleamed amidst the destruction.

  Its gaze, devoid of anything but cold purpose, fell on him.

  The Angel raised an armored hand, palm open. The air shrieked as a spear of pure light materialized in its grip.

  Henry couldn’t move. Just like always, in his every nightmare, his stupid legs wouldn’t budge an inch.

  A shout tore through the chaos.

  “Run, Henry!”

  His heart stopped.

  Heather.

  His sister was sprinting across their ruined lawn, jumping over craters in the asphalt.

  She wore that stupid band hoodie he’d made fun of that morning. Her ponytail whipped behind her as she moved faster than he’d ever seen her run.

  She didn’t have a weapon. She wasn’t a real hunter yet, just a newly Awakened girl with an unrefined gift she didn’t fully understand.

  Yet, without a second’s hesitation, she threw herself between him and the celestial monster.

  No, Henry screamed inside his own skull. He wanted to yell, but no sound came out.

  She shoved him backward.

  The world downshifted into agonizing slow motion. Henry stumbled, his feet tangling as he fell away from her.

  All he could see was her back as she braced for impact. The familiar shape of her shoulders under the thin cotton of that cheap hoodie, waiting for the blow that would define the rest of his life.

  He couldn’t even squeeze his eyes shut, the image burned into his mind.

  Slowly, the faded fabric of her hoodie melted.

  The logo bled away into dark, replaced by tactical nylon stained with fresh blood.

  Recognition held his breath; the figure standing between him and the Heaven’s Executioner was no longer his sister.

  It was Shane Ashwell.