Bab 14: Chapter 14
Chapter 14: The sweet taste of revenge
The flickering blue light of the hologram cut through the darkness of Sam's small hideout. Jason Todd—Red Hood—stood tall before him, arms crossed, helmet gleaming with a cold, metallic red under the dim light.
"You think this is about a paycheck?" Jason's voice rang out, sharp, disdainful. His figure flickered as the hologram adjusted. "You're wasting your time counting bodies and cash. You don't get it, do you?"
Sam's jaw tightened. The silence in the room thickened, tension threading through his body like wire. He glanced at his gear laid out on the table—wooden stakes, silenced pistols with wooden bullets, and grenades loaded with vervain and wooden shrapnel. His black tactical gear, stained with blood, was clinging to him. The night in the Bayou had been brutal. But this—this wasn't about survival anymore.
Jason's voice softened, but it carried a weight that hit Sam harder than any scolding. "We're not mercenaries. You wear the red for a reason. You're the Last Demon Hunter, Sam, you're the Red Hood now. The mission isn't about money—it's about justice. It's about clearing the world of evil. You remember my stories about the Joker? That kind of evil? The kind of evil that doesn't care how many innocent lives it destroys? Genocide, Sam. The blood of those werewolves, that's on Marcel's hands, and you're standing here like you don't know what to do."
The hologram blinked, his digital eyes piercing into Sam's. "I need you to wake up. This is who we are. We don't let things slide. We finish them."
Sam stood frozen, his breath shallow, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Jason's words pressed against his chest like a weight. He knew Jason was right. The title he had earned, The Last Demon Hunter, wasn't just a mark of power—it was responsibility. The world was rotting, and monsters like Marcel ruled the night, unchecked. This wasn't a job—it was war.
Jason leaned forward, the hologram flickering closer. "Stop being the victim. Be the weapon. Remember who we are."
In that moment, something clicked inside Sam. His pulse slowed, a cold clarity rushing in like ice over his skin. His body moved without thought, reaching for the red carbon fiber mask. He stared at his reflection in the dark visor, his own features barely visible beneath the blood-red sheen.
A hum filled the room as his senses sharpened. The sounds of the Bayou night crept in—the distant howls of the dying, the crack of gunfire, the thuds of bodies hitting the wet earth. Each sound mapped itself into his mind, forming a mental grid of the battlefield ahead.
He strapped on the mask. The weight of it settled like a second skin. No more hesitation. No more doubt. He was the Red Hood.
The Bayou was a canvas of death and violence. The blackened sky loomed above, and the moon hung like a pale eye, barely visible through the thick mist that clung to the wetlands. Sam moved like a shadow, his footsteps silent over the uneven ground. His breath was calm, controlled. The air was heavy with the scent of blood and swamp water.
Ahead, he saw the faint silhouettes of werewolves huddled behind a fallen tree, their bodies human, trembling, covered in dirt and wounds. They were cornered—three vampires circled them, their fangs gleaming under the moonlight, eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt.
Sam didn't pause. He moved, his black-clad form blending into the night as he closed the distance.
The first vampire never saw him coming.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, a wooden stake shot out from the sleeve of his vest like a hidden blade, and in one fluid motion, he drove it deep into the vampire's heart. The creature barely had time to scream before it crumbled to ash.
The second vampire turned, eyes wide, but Sam was already on him. He twisted his body, slipping under the vampire's outstretched claws, his movements fast and precise like a machine. A silenced shot cracked through the night, a wooden bullet slamming into the vampire's chest, and it, too, fell into a cloud of dust.
The third one, startled by the sudden deaths of its companions, leaped at Sam with a snarl. It was fast—too fast for a human eye to track—but Sam's reflexes were sharper now. He side-stepped, grabbing the vampire by its throat mid-air, using its momentum to slam it into the ground with brutal force. A wooden stake was in his hand before the vampire could blink. He plunged it down, hard, into the creature's chest.
Dust.
Sam stood, his body humming with energy. The werewolves stared at him, wide-eyed and shaking, but there was no time for gratitude. He could feel it—the air shifting, the night growing thicker with danger. Marcel's men were near. He could sense their presence, like a creeping shadow edging closer.
He moved on.
Minutes blurred into a whirlwind of combat. Every step he took was calculated, every kill precise. He cut through vampires like a reaper, his weapons flashing in the moonlight as bodies fell and turned to ash around him.
In the distance, he saw the gleam of a familiar figure—Marcel. The King of New Orleans, standing tall in the midst of the chaos, his eyes scanning the battlefield. Even from this distance, Sam could feel the power radiating from him. Marcel's aura was different from the others. It wasn't just strength—it was control.
Sam pressed forward, slipping between trees and over roots, moving through the swamp like a ghost. He could feel his heart rate slow, his body entering a trance-like state. The world around him faded. His focus was absolute.
As he approached Marcel, he felt the weight of his presence, like gravity pulling him in. The air crackled with tension, and the sounds of battle seemed to dim, leaving only the heavy thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears.
Marcel turned, his eyes locking onto Sam. For a brief moment, time seemed to stop.
Sam moved first, lunging forward with a wooden stake aimed at Marcel's chest. Marcel dodged, lightning-fast, his hand flashing out to grab Sam by the throat. But Sam was faster. He twisted, slipping out of Marcel's grip, his body spinning in mid-air as he landed a kick to Marcel's side.
Marcel grunted, his body barely moving from the impact, but his eyes flared with amusement. He was stronger—much stronger. But Sam didn't care. He wasn't here to win. He was here to fight.
They clashed again, Marcel's fists swinging like sledgehammers. Sam dodged and weaved, redirecting the blows with calculated precision. Each strike from Marcel felt like a freight train, but Sam used the momentum to his advantage, twisting and flowing around him like water.
A wooden stake shot out from Sam's wrist, slicing through the air toward Marcel's heart. But Marcel caught it, snapping it in half with a grin.
Sam didn't pause. He threw a grenade—a small black orb filled with vervain and wooden shrapnel. It exploded in a cloud of smoke and silver splinters, forcing Marcel to shield his face.
Sam used the opening. He moved in, his fists and stakes a blur, aiming for any weak spot he could find. Marcel was stronger, but Sam was relentless, attacking from every angle, never letting up.
The fight was a dance of violence and speed, each movement precise and deadly. Marcel's strength was overwhelming, but Sam's skill and determination kept him in the fight.
They reached a stalemate, standing opposite each other, both breathing heavily. Marcel's eyes burned with recognition and respect, though he said nothing. Sam's mask hid his expression, but he didn't need words.
In the distance, Sam sensed more vampires approaching—Marcel's close friends, loyal and powerful. He couldn't take them all.
With a final glance, Sam turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the Bayou.
Behind him, Marcel watched, his expression unreadable. The battle wasn't over. Not yet.
The night closed in, dark and malevolent. Sam moved through the swamp, his body bruised but his mind sharp, focused. The mission wasn't finished. There were still werewolves to save, vampires to kill.
He could feel it—the weight of his title, the burden of his responsibility. The Red Hood wasn't just a name. It was a promise. A promise to rid the world of monsters, no matter the cost.
And tonight, in the darkness of the Bayou, he was just getting started.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone