章 267: Chapter 267
The old man sat in his decaying mansion, a place once grand but now drenched in decay. His hands rested on the armrests, knuckles swollen, veins visible beneath skin thin as parchment. The walls groaned, windows cracked and cloudy, unable to reflect any light from the dim streetlamps outside. He wasn't supposed to be here. Not anymore. He had left this life behind, but it had called him back. Tokyo, his city, his kingdom, had been crumbling for years.
Once, he had controlled it all. With one hand, he gripped the city's pulse, and with the other, he crushed anyone who tried to take it from him. They had feared him, respected him. He could break a man with a single thought, crush skulls, snap necks, even though his body, now bent and frail, didn't seem capable of it. But he knew better. He could still feel the power lurking inside him, waiting to be unleashed.
The police had tried, their calls to arms and their promises of safety had meant nothing. They were powerless against him. Not just because of his strength, but because of something deeper. He had seen their leaders bow before him in the past, kissed his ring as they begged for mercy. They knew who he was. They knew that even now, at the age of seventy-eight, he could still rip through them like paper.
The city had forgotten him. They thought he was gone, but the old man had been watching. In the quiet hours, he had returned to his streets, under the cover of night, leaving nothing but broken men in his wake. He wasn't just a memory; he was a force, and now the force was ready to take back what was his.
The first sign came when the lights in the city began to flicker. Not an ordinary flicker, but a dimming, as if the power itself feared what was coming. Then the sirens. The police had mobilized, gathered their forces, but it wasn't enough. The city had too many memories of what he had done to forget so easily.
By the time the first officers arrived at his mansion, the old man was already standing in the doorway, eyes cold, face unreadable. His hand was resting on the large sword that hung at his side, an ancient weapon, old enough to have seen the fall of empires. No one knew where it had come from, and no one dared ask. He had never needed a weapon; his body had always been enough. But there was something symbolic in this sword, something that held all the weight of his past.
"Leave, or I will not stop," he said, his voice rough, raspy, barely a whisper. The officers hesitated. They had come for him before, but they knew this time it would be different. They had no idea how right they were.
The first officer moved forward, his gun raised. He never had a chance. With a single motion, the old man's hand shot out, faster than any of them had expected. The officer's gun exploded into the air as the old man crushed his wrist. There was a sickening crack, followed by a scream.
Another officer raised his weapon, his finger shaking on the trigger. The old man turned his head slowly, and the officer froze. He didn't need to be told that he was already dead.
And then the city erupted.
The old man was everywhere. At every corner, every street. He tore through the city with the fury of a beast long caged. He knew every alley, every hidden passage. His presence alone crippled the police. They couldn't track him. They couldn't stop him. Each officer who tried to stand against him was crushed, their bones shattered, their bodies left in a pile of blood and broken flesh.
It was a massacre.
They called for reinforcements, but the reinforcements were never enough. The old man's power only grew. It wasn't just the physical strength. It was something else, something far older. The energy of his crimes, the blood of his victims, coursed through him like a river. It gave him strength. It made him something more than human. The city had birthed him, and it would kneel to him once again.
For days, the streets ran with blood, the sirens wailing and the police cowering. The city became a ghost town, abandoned by those too afraid to even walk outside. There were rumors that the old man never slept. That his eyes never closed, that he waited in the dark corners of the city for his next victim. They spoke of him like a legend, a nightmare that had returned to claim its throne.
The final stand came in the heart of the city, near the police headquarters. The mayor, terrified and desperate, had called for a last-ditch effort. They would trap him, corner him, and take him down with everything they had. But the mayor didn't understand. He didn't understand what the old man had become.
The old man walked into the headquarters like it was his own home. He didn't even need to lift a finger. The building trembled as he entered, and the sound of footsteps echoed through the halls, louder than any siren. His eyes were dead, hollow, devoid of any humanity.
In the command center, the mayor stood shaking, staring at the monitors. The screen was filled with images of the destruction, the devastation. He knew it was over. He just didn't know how much worse it could get.
The old man stood before him. The mayor had seen him before, long ago. But this was not the same man. This was something different, something darker.
"You should have stayed out of my way," the old man said, his voice cold, like a blade.
The mayor didn't speak. He couldn't. His throat closed as he looked into those empty eyes, into that abyss. He knew there was no escaping this.
With a single swing of his hand, the mayor was crushed against the wall. Blood spilled from his mouth, his body bent in ways it shouldn't have been able to. The air grew still, suffocating, as the old man stood over him, his face expressionless.
The final blow came. The mayor's body crumpled, broken and lifeless.
And then, just as the old man had killed everyone who had opposed him, he was alone.
The streets fell silent. The power grid collapsed. Tokyo was in ruins, a city swallowed by the ghost of its past.
But the old man felt something shift within him. It wasn't the same. This victory, this triumph, tasted like ash. It didn't bring him the satisfaction he had expected. He stood there, surrounded by the wreckage, his strength no longer a symbol of power but a burden.
He had conquered everything. But in doing so, he had lost himself.
The city had paid the price for his return. His strength, his brutality, had reduced it to rubble. And now, there was nothing left. No one left. No one to respect him, no one to fear him. The legacy he had built was dust, scattered across the broken streets.
And so, he stood there, alone in the ruins of his kingdom, the only sound the distant rumble of a storm that would never come. The man who had once controlled the city was now a ghost, his power fading, his purpose hollow.
His strength had consumed him, leaving behind only a shell of the man he once was.
But there was no one left to see it. No one left to mourn him.
No one left to care.
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