"President?"
"Yes. The President wishes to ask whether you'll accept American citizenship— become a US citizen. If you agree to serve the country, I can guarantee immediate exoneration."
"..."
Fenric blinked. The answer clicked into place instantly.
His morning massacre of dozens of officers had reached the ears of the country's top brass. Senior officials had judged him valuable enough to recruit rather than simply execute. No wonder no police had troubled him the entire previous day. Even Death had been restrained.
He understood the calculation now.
"What if I refuse?" he asked.
The lead agent's face hardened. "Sir, the crimes you committed are punishable by life at minimum. You would likely spend the rest of your life behind bars."
Fenric laughed. "Give me two days to think."
The agent's jaw tightened. "I'm afraid we can't. Your actions have provoked public outrage — protests are happening outside right now, calling for your execution. The penal code is in flux; capital punishment has been abolished and reinstated before. At the moment the highest penalty is life. We need an answer within twenty-four hours."
Twenty-four hours. Fenric nodded. "Fine."
"I hope you make the right decision," the agent said, and left with his team.
The right decision? Fenric thought, smiling. He only meant to delay. One more day could be the difference between being torn down by Death and slipping back into Samsara's Space to claim the Super God evaluation.
The seventh day passed with an odd calm. Guards brought him food; the cell felt almost comfortable. Time trickled, then accelerated. Before he knew it the eighth day had come — the last day.
That morning the suited men returned promptly.
"Mr. Fenric, have you decided?"
"Think about it," Fenric replied. "This cell suits me. Can I have two more days?"
The lead agent's patience snapped. "Mr. Fenric, this isn't a joke."
"I'm serious." Fenric's voice was steady. He glanced at the wrist bar—then froze. The horizontal gauge had begun to inch toward red.
"Is something wrong?" the lead agent asked, watching Fenric's face.
Before Fenric could answer, the agents began foaming at the mouth. Blood spilled from their eyes and ears; they collapsed without a sound.
Fenric's chest tightened. Of course. It was the god of death's handwriting — crude and desperate. Death couldn't commandeer thoughts, so it manufactured blame instead: plant death, make it look like Fenric's doing, force him into the open.
Footsteps thundered in the corridor. Someone outside barked, "Don't move!"
Guards swarmed toward the cell. Surveillance cameras presumably recorded the scene; the police would count the dead agents on Fenric's head. That was the plan — a trap shaped by Death's hand.
"Sigh."
Fenric sighed. He had to leave; staying meant being crushed by the contrived outrage. Even invulnerable bodies could be neutralized by clever means — sealed rooms, gasoline and flame, suffocation by smoke.
He stood.
The handcuffs snapped apart in his grip as if they were biscuits. The guard at the door aimed a pistol and yelled, "Stop! Don't move!"
Fenric ignored him. With a casual flick of his hand, the guard's head turned a full, grotesque 360 degrees and the man slumped, dead. Fenric stepped over the corpse and walked out.
Armed officers rushed him. Fenric moved the same — quick, emotionless. Necks snapped under his force like brittle twigs. He progressed through ranks of shields and rifles; ordinary weapons were no barrier. Each strike left another body on the floor.
Alarms shrieked. Riot shields rose like the teeth of a rampart. Machine guns barked. Grenades detonated. The police headquarters dissolved into chaos — gunfire, smoke, shouts. It was a battlefield more than a precinct. Explosive-proof shields and armor meant little against Fenric's brutal efficiency.
"Command to all units: the headquarters has been compromised! That man is an unkillable demon! Repeat: support needed immediately!" a dispatcher cried into the radio.
When the smoke cleared, the interior was a carnage-littered ruin. Fenric lost count of the bodies; the numbers blurred into a single, unrelenting pace. When he finally exited the shattered doors, a crowd had gathered at the gates: protesters holding placards and chanting slogans, faces flushed with fury. Their banners bore his portrait and words of accusation.
They saw him and roared.
"It's the murderer! Kill him!"
"Execute him!"
"Death to that alien murderer!"
Fenric's face fell at the words — at the xenophobic venom threaded through the chants. His jaw tightened, then a savage smile spread across his features.
With a flick of his wrist, two automatic weapons flew from the ruins of the lobby into his hands. He didn't hesitate.
The first burst was a violent counterpoint to the crowd's shouts. Bullets carved through the air; bodies collapsed. The protesters had already demanded his death and smeared his ethnicity with hatred. For Fenric, that stripped any remaining restraint away.
He fired relentlessly.
Puff-puff!
The sound of bullets tearing through flesh echoed endlessly.
One by one, protesters fell into pools of blood, their resistance crumbling beneath Fenric's ruthless barrage.
He was like a demon incarnate, harvesting lives without hesitation.
It was the final day.
Fenric no longer restrained himself — he killed without scruples.
"AHHHH!"
"HELP!"
Screams filled the air.
The mob that had so brazenly shouted only moments ago scattered like frightened animals, fleeing from the relentless power of Fenric's machine gun. The once-united crowd devolved into chaos. Bodies fell, and blood stained the streets.
Soon, corpses carpeted the pavement.
By the time Fenric's weapon clicked empty, not a single living protester remained. The survivors had all fled; only silence and the dead kept him company.
Standing amidst the carnage, Fenric threw back his head and laughed.
"Death! What else do you have!? Use everything! I'll play with you!" he roared at the sky.
Boom!
Engines thundered overhead.
Two Apache gunships cut through the clouds, their pilots clearly under strict orders. Without hesitation, each launched a missile toward Fenric.
Whoosh!
Fenric's lips curled into a cold sneer.
His psychic power surged. With a sweeping gesture, he seized control of the missiles mid-flight, turned them around, and sent them streaking back.
Boom—!
One helicopter exploded into a fireball, spiraling to the ground in a storm of debris.
The second pilot reacted quickly, barely avoiding destruction. The craft swung around, its Gatling Vulcan cannon already trained on Fenric.
Whirrrrr!
The barrel spun with a banshee's wail, spitting thousands of rounds in a rain of steel.
Fenric's expression never wavered. He crossed his arms, Armament Haki and psychic strength flaring. Bullets ricocheted off his body with a metallic chorus — ding-ding-dang-dong — sparks dancing across his frame.
Inside the helicopter, the crew gasped in disbelief.
"Damn!"
"My God!"
Words failed them; their terror was absolute.
Fenric didn't bother wasting energy to crush the craft with his mind. Instead, he walked calmly to a car parked nearby.
With one hand, he lifted the vehicle overhead as if it were weightless.
The soldiers' eyes widened in horror.
"That's impossible—!"
"Evasive maneuvers!"
"It's too late!"
Boom!
The car smashed into the helicopter, ripping it apart in mid-air. The wreck spiraled into a nearby building, erupting into flames.
Fenric dusted off his hands, raised his head, and curled a finger toward the heavens.
"Death," he growled. "F@ck You! IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT!?"