Chapter Eleven End

The razor-sharp blade sliced effortlessly through the automatic rifle clutched in "Vulture's" hands, severing not only the weapon but also the fingers gripping its handle. Shards of metal and freshly cut fingers spun and intertwined in the air, composing a grisly tableau of blood and steel.

Yet to "Vulture," this was nothing short of a vision of hell.

“Aaaaaahhhhhh!”

The agony shooting from his hands was unbearable; the pain seemed to pierce straight through his soul, drawing from him a shrill, tortured scream. His vision swam crimson, and the torment was so excruciating that he nearly fainted. For a fleeting instant, consciousness slipped away—only for him to be wrenched back, forced to endure that unendurable pain anew.

“Aaaaaaah! Aaah—!”

Gone now was any trace of the wild lord of the wasteland. "Vulture" writhed and rolled on the ground, howling in misery, desperate for even the slightest reprieve. But it was futile—the agony surged in relentless waves, crashing over him without mercy. In that moment, he forgot his subordinates, his sniper, his plans, even the energy crystal; nothing mattered but the pain. He would have given anything, absolutely anything, to end it.

Soon, his wish was granted. A scalpel pierced his forehead, sliced into his skull, and put an abrupt end to both his suffering and his life.

The other bandits fared no better. Faerun barely glanced at the self-styled wasteland lord called "Vulture," for in his eyes, all life was equal—equal in arrival, equal in departure. Titles, status, strength—none of it mattered.

All things must end; only death is eternal.

"Vulture's" death was no more significant than that of his henchmen. In fact, the heavily armed thugs were already in complete disarray. When their boss screamed, most hadn’t even realized what had happened. Instinctively, they turned their guns toward "Vulture’s" position—only to see Faerun appear before them like a specter of death, his scalpel flashing through the air, slashing open throats and limbs.

Faerun did not choose the easy kill. Instead, he danced through the chaos, swiftly slicing through limbs, opening up chests and bellies. He took profound pleasure in this. Guns had never appealed to Faerun; to him, they were cold and impersonal, incapable of delivering the pure satisfaction that came from extinguishing a life with his own hand. Only by driving the scalpel into an enemy, feeling the resistance of flesh, muscle, and bone, and listening to the exquisite, harrowing screams, could he truly appreciate the value of life—of survival and of death.

None could withstand Faerun’s assault. The wasteland bandits, vicious as they were, were no more than jackals. Even the second-tier sniper, whom "Vulture" had relied upon, was helpless. Just as he lined up his shot and squeezed the trigger, a shadow suddenly filled his scope, blocking his view entirely. Before he could react, a massive hammer, as huge as a naval mine, hurtled toward him with a howl, smashing his MK12 sniper rifle to pieces and sending him crashing into the wall behind. Its spike pierced his slight, frail body, pinning him to the ruined wall as nothing more than a mangled smear of flesh.

With "Vulture" dead at Faerun's hands, the rest quickly abandoned any thought of resistance, scattering in all directions. But Faerun was merciless; like a phantom, he pursued the fleeing bandits, his scalpel cutting precisely into their spines, granting them only anguish and oblivion. In the blink of an eye, over twenty heavily armed thugs lay dead or dying, and the survivors collapsed, trembling and hopeless, staring as the figure drew slowly nearer.

“No, don't kill me, please—don't kill me!”

One large man, cornered against the wall, cowered in terror. He had been a member of the so-called "RPG Cult" and had only survived by virtue of distance. When he had heard the screams and turned around, ready to fight, he was shocked to see his comrades already butchered.

Dear God—this was a demon!

His body shook as he gazed upon the corpses. He was no coward; survival in the wasteland left no room for the weak. Many, himself included, had even eaten rotting human flesh just to live. Compared to such hellish nightmares, death itself was not so frightening.

But what Faerun brought was far worse than death.

Behind him, every corpse was torn to pieces—from elbow to shoulder, knee to thigh, chest to waist, and even the heads were not spared. He had seen with his own eyes Faerun, with a mere flick of that tiny scalpel, slice half a bandit's head clean off. God help him, he could swear he saw the man’s tongue still twitching on his jawbone.

“No, stay away!”

As the figure approached, the man screamed, his voice raw, snot and tears streaming down his face and into his mouth, garbling his words. Still, he cried and struggled, refusing to submit. Raising his pistol with shaking hands, he aimed at Faerun and pulled the trigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Bullets spat from the gun, but Faerun did not flinch. Not a single shot struck him; they merely kicked up dust at his feet. Smiling serenely, Faerun stopped before the man. That gentle, graceful smile drained all color from the man's face. After a moment’s hesitation, he drove the pistol beneath his own chin and pulled the trigger.

Click.

But the gun was empty—no salvation awaited him. He looked up, face ashen with despair, terror and hopelessness filling his eyes.

“Don’t worry. It only hurts at first. Soon, it will all be over…”

Seeing the look in the man's eyes, Faerun smiled tenderly and, scalpel in hand, slowly drew near.

“No, no, no—!”

His final, wrenching scream echoed skyward, the last sound to linger over the battlefield. When Faerun returned, satisfied, to Delin’s side, the man was nothing more than a heap of disemboweled flesh.

“It seems you’ve made some gains, master?”

Delin still stood where she had been, unmoving, smiling gently at Faerun. At her words, Faerun nodded.

“Yes… I’ve found a few more mutated tissues. These wild dogs of the wasteland do have research value after all. This will make an important addition to my records.”

As he spoke, Faerun flexed his fingers. With the motion, his silver scalpel shimmered and vanished. He glanced about the area before returning his gaze.

“Well, our task is complete. Time to return and rest.”