Dusk was wandering around in search of prey when suddenly, a burly man appeared. He recognized him immediately — Darius Blackthorn, a dockworker whose massive frame was nearly one and a half times Dusk's weight and stood nearly seven feet tall.
"Dusk, you're bleeding. Are you alright?" Darius asked, pointing at the blood trickling down Dusk's arm.
Dusk was a little surprised to see him here. In his previous life, he remembered Darius had a promising start—just unfortunate to have died young.
Still, Darius was someone worth befriending. After all, Dusk had experienced what it felt like to have no allies. Being ganged up on wasn't exactly pleasant.
"I'm fine," Dusk replied. "I just wanted to see if there were any survivors around here. I want to help people… to ease their suffering. As many as I can."
Darius stared at his colleague, with whom he'd never been particularly close, in astonishment. He hadn't expected someone so noble to be among his acquaintances.
His expression turned to one of admiration and deep respect. To him, this man was someone worth calling a brother.
"From now on, you're my brother. Let's rescue everyone from this wreckage together," he declared, his voice full of spirit and determination. He almost reached out to drag Dusk along with him.
"Haha…" Dusk chuckled softly. He hadn't expected to stumble upon such a fortunate encounter.
'So forming bonds is this easy after all. Still, I can't go with him—if I do, I won't be able to hunt freely.'
"Thank you for your kind offer," Dusk said, smiling as he patted Darius on the shoulder. "I'd be honored to call you my brother. But it wouldn't be efficient if we stick together. There are too many who need saving. We should split up—I'll take Building A, and you go to Building B. What do you think?"
Darius froze for a moment, realizing how short-sighted he had been. Dusk's words lit a fire in his heart, like a beacon of clarity. Overwhelmed with emotion, he nodded enthusiastically.
"A man as kind and wise as you is rare in this world. Once we've rescued everyone, drinks are on me!"
Darius ran off, waving back with a bright smile on his face—as if he had just met a living saint.
Dusk smiled in return, but once Darius disappeared from sight, the corner of his mouth twitched. He raised a hand to his forehead, wearing an expression of disbelief.
"System, tell me… Am I a villain or a saint? I think Darius genuinely sees me as some sort of holy man."
[Please don't forget who you are, Master. You are the greatest villain of all time. If you're not, then this system might as well pack up and leave.]
"Haha, to be honest, I still think my actions are more villainous than anything else. But building a righteous façade isn't a bad idea either. With a good reputation, it'll be much easier to establish my own faction."
As Dusk spoke, he began pondering what form his future organization should take.
A short while later, Dusk had successfully freed four more people from their miserable lives—by sending them to the afterlife, of course.
At the same time, he also made sure to rescue a few survivors as well, carefully maintaining the image of a good man for future convenience.
"This journey is going too smoothly... it doesn't feel real," Dusk muttered to himself. Everything today had gone in his favor with uncanny ease.
His steps came to a halt. Looking down, he spotted a young man lying face-down on the ground. Blood was smeared on his forehead, and a long iron rod was stabbed into the earth mere inches from his skull.
"I'm not sure whether to call you lucky or unlucky," Dusk said with a sigh. "You just barely avoided death, only to run into me."
He found the man's luck oddly perplexing. But before Dusk could make a move, the system's voice rang out in his mind.
[Master, be careful. The one before you is the Child of Destiny—or, in simpler terms, the protagonist. They are the natural-born enemies of villains, blessed with extraordinary luck. Whenever you face them, you must stay alert every second. No matter how powerful you are, a single slip could mean your end.]
Dusk's lips twitched again at the system's absurd explanation.
He looked down once more at the motionless young man sprawled on the ground—he didn't look the least bit like someone capable of resistance.
"You... you're serious? And I'll have to face more people like this in the future?" Dusk voiced his doubts aloud. While the system was usually reliable, this time he found it hard to believe.
[The system would never lie to you, Master. In the future, there will be individuals blessed with outrageously good fortune. As long as they are still alive, your life will remain in danger.]
Dusk's expression turned grim. He was smart enough to grasp just how serious this could be.
Still, he wanted to test it—just how absurd could the luck of a so-called protagonist really be?
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a pristine, razor-sharp knife—his best one. He raised it high above his head, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to strike with full force.
But something ridiculous happened.
The moment he swung the knife, the blade detached and clattered onto the ground before it could even reach its target.
'What the hell?! What kind of stupidly broken luck is this? I bought the best knife, double-checked its quality before purchasing, and it still fell apart the instant I moved!'
Dusk cursed internally, but his sense of caution skyrocketed.
Luck might be abstract to most people, but when it came to protagonists, it was a concrete weapon they could rely on.
The clanging of metal against stone startled the young man awake. He clutched his head, then looked up—only to see Dusk standing there, holding the broken knife hilt in the air. His eyes caught sight of the detached blade nearby.
He was smart enough to put two and two together. This guy tried to kill him.
In an instant, he sprang up, yanked the iron rod embedded in the ground next to him, and thrust it straight toward Dusk's heart.
Dusk's eyes widened as he instinctively dodged to the side.
'Shit! Where did that strength come from? He just woke up! And that movement... he's definitely trained with a sword before.'
Though startled by the young man's reaction speed and technique, Dusk was no amateur himself. After all, he had lived for 300 years—he didn't survive that long by luck alone.
No matter how talented this "protagonist" was, raw experience was something he couldn't yet match.