The Invincible Full-Moon System Chapter 1887: Slaughter Under the Rain (1)

Larta City maintained a tranquil and silent demeanor. Order was well-kept, as it stood as one of the central hive cities governing several clusters of realms. It bustled with life during daylight hours but grew quiet under the blanket of night. Citizens and visitors alike adhered strictly to the established rules, acknowledging the authorities' swiftness in banishing transgressors to hostile realms or even executing them discreetly.

However, order always had its exceptions.

Silverbell Street served as the inherent flaw in Larta City's tightly controlled security and order. Before its demise, Silverbell Street was indistinguishable from other thoroughfares within the city, perhaps even more vibrant. It hosted a thriving production sector that contributed nearly ten percent to Larta City's overall economy, employing thousands of Demigods.

Then, an invasion by a former High Lord's adversary shattered the sector, breaching the very fabric of space. For five grueling hours, Larta City was directly linked to a hostile realm, and a fierce battle ensued. A parliament member on a visit to the sector tragically perished during the conflict.

The intensity and bloodshed of the battle left a permanent scar on the dimensional fabric of the area, consequently diminishing the Overseer's dominion over that specific location. While the High Lord initiated efforts to repair the damage and implement preventative measures, it was soon discovered that Silverbell Street was a natural vulnerability within Larta City's defenses. Despite the High Lord's encouragement and financial incentives offered to potential investors, none came forward. When a new High Lord ascended to power and revoked these prior benefits, the fate of the once-lively and productive Silverbell Street was irrevocably sealed. It was subsequently abandoned entirely.

Now, the area had become a haven for small gangs engaging in illicit activities. Because they occupied the deserted street, the authorities chose to overlook their presence. As long as they refrained from crossing boundaries and disrupting neighboring streets, they remained unmolested.

Roger found a seat on an empty barrel near the warehouse entrance, leaning his back against the cold, zinc-plated wall as he watched the sudden, harsh downpour. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled, finding the atmosphere conducive to relaxation.

Beside him, Ardi writhed and groaned in pain while Jack meticulously tended to his fractured wrist. "Take it easy, you bastard!" Ardi yelped. "Shut your trap. If you whine like a damsel one more time, I swear I'll snap your other arm clean off," Jack retorted, his voice stern. "Damn that son of a bitch. I barely even roughed up his whore." Jack scoffed, "Look at your hands – they're caked in dirt and grime. She'll break out in pimples just from having your hand anywhere near her face. I'd be furious if I were him, too." "Screw you, what did you say? I'll stab you! I'll fucking stab you!" Roger intervened, kicking Ardi's leg sharply. "Alright, cut it out. More importantly, get your ass to the bunker and let Clarissa shut you up." Ardi sprang up instantly, his eyes alight with excitement. "Really?! Can I have her?" "No fucking way, you horny idiot. Just cuddling," Roger dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Go on." Without a moment's hesitation, Ardi sprinted into the rain like an overjoyed child, completely forgetting his recently broken hand. He stepped onto a specific patch of concrete, which instantly opened up and swallowed him whole, resembling a dormant beast finally awakening to devour its prey.

"Roger, what about me?" Jack inquired, scratching the back of his head. "Can I have Clarissa too?" "Is your hand broken?" Roger inquired, raising an eyebrow. "No...?" "Do you want it to be?" "Right, I'll go check the warehouse and see if any of the patrons are causing trouble," Jack stated quickly, entering the warehouse and resealing the gate behind him.

Concurrently, Roger noticed his two other subordinates on the far side of the gate. Boredom had led them to a simple game: tossing coins at the zinc wall, aiming to land their coins closest to it without actually making contact. It was a rudimentary game, yet it elicited intense emotions from them, marked by curses and cheers.

Roger leaned his head back and leisurely finished his cigarette. Observing their animated reactions, their triumphant shouts and frustrated groans, provided a strangely calming effect. Unbeknownst to him, he drifted off into a short slumber.

Some time elapsed. Roger's eyelids fluttered open, revealing the same overcast sky, still unleashing its relentless torrent. He stretched with a groan, feeling somewhat revitalized from his brief respite. Though not his intention, the nap had proven beneficial. He had assigned his underlings to maintain watch overnight, making a short nap entirely permissible.

Glancing to his side, he saw the two subordinates still on duty, though their movements suggested growing weariness. Approximately an hour had passed. "Just two more hours," Roger announced, his voice ringing out clearly. "Two more hours until your shift concludes. Keep your eyes sharp and remain vigilant." "Yes, Sir." "Aye-aye."

Just then, Roger cast his gaze to the side, noticing with a frown that Jack had not returned. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and headed into the warehouse to investigate, but found no trace of him. The warehouse was designed as a large central passage with chambers branching off on either side, so finding Jack should have been straightforward.

Yet, there was no sign of him anywhere.

"Did he go inside himself?" Roger impatiently approached the nearest occupied chamber. "How many times must I impress upon him that the chambers are off-limits? Perhaps that man was correct. Maybe I've been too generous, and they've forgotten the consequences of disobedience."

After thoroughly searching all the chambers for Jack, Roger remained unsuccessful in locating him.

A sense of unease began to stir within him.

"Damn it, could he have gone to the bunker while I was asleep?" Roger recalled sending Ardi to the bunker without direct supervision. Given that he was asleep, Jack might have slipped away out of spite, especially since Ardi had gotten close to Clarissa. "If he actually did that… I will make him regret it immensely."

Roger dashed outside and immediately made his way to the specific location.

The ground seemed to swallow him whole.

When his senses returned, he found himself in a dim hallway, with light emanating from the far end.

Faint screams reached his ears.

Instantly on alert, Roger sprinted down the corridor.

A vast room, capable of holding more than a hundred individuals, unfolded before him. Plush carpet covered the floor, silencing every footstep. Along both walls, slaves were confined in cages, their expressions devoid of their usual hollow vigilance.

Every one of them was either weeping or trembling in sheer terror.

At the opposite end of the room stood another group – slaves who were not bound by chains.

These were predominantly ladies, each attended by a single robust man tasked with their protection.

However, at this moment, the protector was pressed against the wall, his eyes wide with evident dread.

Roger hurried towards a petite woman seated at the heart of the space. Her skin shimmered with a dewy glow, and her long, pale blue hair cascaded over her shoulders, perfectly complementing the hue of her eyes. She radiated an aura of innocence and beauty, akin to freshly fallen snow. "Clarissa." He knelt before her, gently grasping her shoulders. "What is wrong? Why are you crying? Did Ardi do something to you?"

Her entire frame shuddered, and despite Roger's direct address, she couldn't meet his gaze.

She actively averted her eyes, though she managed a slight shake of her head.

"No?" Roger's brow furrowed. "Then, what occurred?"

Observing that she was physically unharmed, merely distressed, Roger turned his attention to the burly man. He extended his hand, and the man was instantly levitated off the ground, pulled through the air towards him.

Roger rose to his feet, seizing the burly man by his collar. "What in the hell happened? Why are they all in this condition? Speak!"

For as long as he could remember, the burly man had never dared to defy Roger's questions.

Yet, now, he remained utterly silent.

His eyes were fixed in shock, as if he were gazing directly into Roger's very soul, but no words emerged.

It was as if he believed his terrified stare alone conveyed a sufficient answer.

"And where is Ardi?" he pressed again, shaking the burly man with greater force. "Where is he?!"

Receiving no response, Roger flung the burly man aside and scanned the entire room, seething with anger.

"What the hell happened here?!" he roared, flinging his arms wide in a desperate attempt to capture the slaves' attention. Frustration and bewilderment laced his voice. "Hello?! Why isn't any of you answering me?!" His jaw clenched as he squared his shoulders. "It appears I have been far too lenient with all of you. I provided you with comfort, and this is how you repay my trust. Very well."

His voice lowered, the heat dissipating, replaced by an icy chill. "I shall ensure every one of you remembers precisely who holds dominion over your lives."

A slender sword, forged entirely from pure energy, materialized in his hand.

As his hand moved, the blade shifted and swayed, resembling a whip more than a sword.

Just as he raised it to strike the nearest slave, his gaze suddenly fell upon a stain marring the carpet. A crimson pool amidst the white, gold, and black fibers. He dropped to one knee, touched it, and confirmed his suspicion: the red stain was indeed blood.

There was no room for doubt.

Roger retreated hastily back to the hallway and ascended to the surface.

He made his way to the rear of the warehouse, proceeding to a secluded corner.

Situated at each corner of the warehouse was a small, concealed portal, the gateway to a pocket dimension.

Within these dimensions lay confined spaces, each capable of accommodating no more than five individuals. This was the designated post for the warehouse's reserve guards, a backup contingent for any unforeseen intrusions. Operating a business of this nature was inherently perilous, necessitating additional personnel to ensure its smooth functioning.

Roger stepped through one of the portals, discovering only a table, a deck of cards, and five unoccupied seats.

He then entered another. The scene was identical.

Frantically, he dashed towards the front once more, entering the two portals situated there. Yet, even at the final portal, the guards who should have been present had vanished. Furthermore, near the last entrance, a bloodstain marred the surface of a table.

"Who...?" Roger looked down, observing the water droplets seeping into the floor. "Who did this?"

Merely a few hours prior, his subordinates had thronged the warehouse. Now, they were all gone, leaving behind only faint traces of blood.

What troubled Roger the most, however, was his complete lack of sensory input. He had detected no presence, no shift in the atmosphere that would suggest an intrusion. It was as if an unseen entity had systematically hunted them down, and succeeded.

Exiting the portal, Roger was once again assailed by the downpour. He immediately noticed the absence of the two thugs who had been stationed near the warehouse entrance just moments before. Both had disappeared without a trace.

There were no bodies, no indications of a struggle—just an empty space where the nonchalant guards had stood. However, unlike the previous scenes, the perpetrator made no attempt to conceal their presence. Not far off, at the fringe where the warehouse's shadows merged with the raging storm, a solitary figure remained utterly still beneath the cascading rain. This dark silhouette seemed to absorb the surrounding light, creating a stark disruption in the fabric of the night.

The figure's head was tilted upwards, as if relishing the rain, with eyes closed. A distinct mark adorned its forehead—a crimson sphere that emanated a slow, vibrant glow, akin to a heart beating just beneath the skin. From this mark, sharp scarlet lines radiated outwards, etching the contours of the body like fractured porcelain or the delicate veins of a leaf exposed to moonlight.

Blood trickled from the figure's fangs, meandering down its chin in languid streams. More dripped from the tips of sharp, obsidian claws. The spilled blood collected at the figure's feet, forming a halo of red that spread across the rainwater.

Yet, the storm raged on, its downpour like sheets of silver, relentlessly washing away the crimson from the claws, the fangs, and the figure's pale skin. The puddle diminished, diluted, and was eventually absorbed by the concrete, as if it had never been.

In mere moments, the figure stood unblemished, cleansed of all evidence of the carnage by nature's own intervention. A monstrous being, purified by the heavens' tears, stood in the rain, embodying a silent promise of devastation.

"It's a rather pleasant night for rain, wouldn't you agree?"