The transformed Deep Sea King was a monument to raw, desiccated power. Every cord of muscle stood out in sharp relief, his form compact and vibrating with lethal intent. The rain from the shattered roof poured down upon him, but it was no longer absorbed; it simply slid off his hardened hide. His eyes held a new, feral intelligence—the cunning of a cornered predator.
"You… you forced this upon me," the King snarled, his voice a dry, grating rasp. "I will make your death last for an eternity of pain."
Hakai's exhilarated smile didn't waver. The taunting was gone, replaced by a pure, focused intensity. "An eternity is a long time. Let's see if you can last a minute."
The King moved. His speed was transcendent, a blur that eclipsed his previous form. He was behind Hakai in an instant, a clawed hand slicing through the space where Hakai's neck had been. But Hakai was already leaning forward, the attack whistling harmlessly over his back. He didn't turn. He simply jabbed an elbow backward, feeling it connect solidly with the King's ribs.
It was like striking iron. The King grunted but didn't yield, his other hand sweeping down in a guillotine chop. Hakai flowed under it, his movements becoming a seamless fusion of evasion and offense. This was no longer a test. This was the culmination.
He stopped using En.
His hands became blurs, his fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. Now, he used Zen.
The difference was instantaneous and horrifying. Where En scored the surface, Zen sought the core. A flick of Hakai's wrist and a deep, precise gash opened on the King's thigh, severing a minor tendon. The monster stumbled. Another flick, and a slash traced from the King's shoulder to his opposite hip, biting deep into the muscle, seeking vital organs. The King roared, not in frustration, but in genuine, shocking pain.
Hakai was a sculptor, and his medium was living flesh. He moved around the King in a relentless, circling dance, his red pupils analyzing every flinch, every tightening of muscle. He wasn't just cutting; he was disassembling. He targeted joints, ligaments, and pressure points. Each slash was a calculated step in a brutal equation whose final answer was utter defeat.
The King's attacks grew wilder, more desperate. He was a brawler being systematically taken apart by a surgeon. He swung a fist with all his might, and Hakai didn't just dodge—he leaned into the monster's space, his hand flicking upward. A Zen slash traveled up the length of the arm, shearing through muscle and leaving the limb hanging, useless.
"Your resolve is breaking," Hakai stated, his voice calm amidst the storm of violence. "A king should fall on his feet, not on his knees."
The Deep Sea King, driven by primal instinct and agony, lunged forward in a final, suicidal tackle, his good arm outstretched to crush Hakai in a bear hug.
It was the overcommitment Hakai had been waiting for.
In that split second, as the King's massive form filled his vision, Hakai's expression was one of serene, almost beautiful finality. He didn't retreat. He stepped into the lunge, his body a blur of motion.
He didn't use a single technique. He used a symphony.
A brutal uppercut snapped the King's head back. A spinning kick to the already-wounded knee shattered the joint with a sickening crunch. And as the monster began to collapse, Hakai finished the performance. He brought both hands across his body in a wide, intersecting arc—a final, flurry of Zen slashes that crisscrossed in the air before the King's chest.
There was no loud sound. Just a soft shhhhk-kt.
The Deep Sea King froze, his momentum arrested. He stood for a moment, a grotesque statue, before his body separated into four clean, heavy chunks that slid apart and thudded wetly onto the flooded floor. The fight was over.
Silence returned to the shelter, deeper and more profound than before. The only sound was the relentless rain pouring through the hole in the roof.
Hakai stood over the remains, his chest rising and falling steadily. He looked down at his work, his face devoid of triumph, only a quiet, professional satisfaction. He had extracted the fight's full potential. The end was, as he preferred, a beautiful, overkill flourish.
He then turned, his sharp eyes scanning the terrified, awe-struck faces of the civilians. They stared back, a sea of wide eyes and open mouths. They saw a savior. He saw a disappointing conclusion to an otherwise stimulating exercise.
Without a word, he turned and began to walk away, back towards the shadows from whence he came.
"W-wait!" a man stammered. "Who are you?!"
Hakai didn't stop. He didn't even turn his head.
As he reached the shattered doorway, a half-melted security camera, its housing cracked and lens fogged with moisture, managed to capture a single, fragmented glimpse. A blurry image of a black hoodie, a hint of a blue serpentine design on the back, and for one single frame, a profile of a sharp face with unnerving white-and-red eyes, looking over his shoulder with an expression of detached finality.
And then he was gone, vanished into the curtain of rain, leaving behind a shelter full of saved lives, a dismembered monster, and a mystery that would haunt the Hero Association for weeks to come.
The dragon had given the world a single, fleeting glimpse. It was enough to know it was real, and more than enough to know it was utterly, terrifyingly beyond their control.