Chapter Forty-Eight: Crossing Swords

“Go to hell!”
With a furious roar, Michael raised his gun and pulled the trigger hard, aiming directly at Ferren. A barrage of bullets spat from the barrel, striking the corpses behind and sending up splashes of blood. In the next instant, a shadow flashed before his eyes—Ferren appeared right in front of Michael, the scalpel in his hand slicing silently through the air, death’s shadow trailing its arc toward Michael’s throat. At that moment, Michael had no time to react; he could only watch helplessly. Yet in his eyes there was no fear or panic—on the contrary, a cold smile flickered across his lips.

The sharp blade pressed against Michael's skin; a mere fraction more force and his windpipe would be severed.

“Whoosh!”

Just then, Ferren abruptly tilted his head. A flash of silver shot past his side, leaving a long scar across the brim of his hat. Michael let out another furious cry, clenched his fists, and launched a left hook at Ferren with all his strength. Ferren dropped swiftly, dodging the attack. Then, with a forceful push of his feet against the ground, he retreated at lightning speed, trailing afterimages as he widened the distance between himself and Michael.

Now, Ferren’s scalpel had vanished from his hand. Opposite him, Michael wiped a trickle of blood from his neck, his face alight with smug satisfaction as he gazed at Ferren with mocking eyes. He raised his right hand and made a provocative gesture.

“What’s wrong? Weren’t you supposed to be so formidable? Let’s see just how tough you really are.”

Ferren did not strike back immediately. Instead, he lowered his head and looked at his right hand. A clear bloodstain marked the web between his thumb and forefinger.

“A gifted one?”

“No, no.”
Hearing Ferren’s question, Michael shook his hand with a self-satisfied air.

“I’m not one of you monsters. I’m a man—a plain, ordinary man. Got it, slitted-eyes?”

“How interesting…”
Ferren murmured, somewhat intrigued. No wonder he felt a sense of strangeness; just moments ago, when his scalpel struck its target, he suddenly sensed a powerful counterforce surging along the blade toward him. If not for his quick reflexes, he might have met disaster himself. But…

“Do you know? In the old days, disobedient slaves had their hands chopped off and their skins flayed.”
As he spoke, Ferren flexed his right hand again. Several scalpels sprang from between his fingers with a sharp hiss. He lifted his gaze, smiling gently at Michael.

“I’ve always wanted to try it. I bet the sensation's quite something—what do you think?”

“I’ll kill you!”
Michael roared, stomping the ground and leaping forward. The black man shot toward Ferren like a bullet from a chamber, arms outstretched to seize his foe. At the same time, Ferren whipped his right hand forward; with his motion, several sharp scalpels flew toward Michael’s eyes, throat, and heart. Sensing danger, Michael didn’t dodge. Instead, he spread his hands, shielding his vital spots. Yet for Ferren, this posed little obstacle; his blades would easily pierce flesh and reach their targets.

That was how it should have gone—but as the scalpels struck, another surprise occurred.

“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!”
The scalpels that had been aimed at Michael suddenly reversed course, shooting back toward Ferren at lightning speed. This time, Ferren was ready; as he flung the blades, he had already activated Shadow Step, darting swiftly out of the tent. As Michael rushed up, swinging a fist, Ferren slipped away like a fish into the dense fog, vanishing from sight.

“Damn you!”
Seeing Ferren disappear, Michael was beside himself with rage. He no longer cared for danger and plunged headlong into the mist.

“Come out, you banana-eating monkey! Get your ass out here—don’t hide like a coward, do you hear me?!”

Ferren did not flee as Michael expected. Instead, he used the fog to conceal himself nearby, squinting as he observed the furious black gorilla—who looked as if his bananas had been stolen—and fell into deep thought.

For Ferren had noticed something odd about this gorilla.

Gifted ones can sense each other’s presence, especially when abilities are being used; if close enough, there’s a feeling akin to the “cosmos” in comics or the “inner force” in martial arts novels. Ordinary people can’t perceive it, only those with powers can sense each other.

But the gorilla before him was entirely different. Before using his abilities, Ferren felt nothing—so he assumed Michael was an ordinary man. Yet when Michael activated his ability, Ferren detected the aura of a gifted one. And as soon as Michael stopped, the aura vanished again?

This defied logic. It was like breathing: usually slow and steady, only becoming rapid during intense activity. But the gorilla seemed not to breathe at all—like a corpse—until suddenly starting during a fight. Could that be possible?

Of course, there were many kinds of abilities in this world; it was possible some were highly concealed. Yet Michael’s words and tone made Ferren doubtful. From the way he spoke, Michael seemed to look down on gifted ones—a strange attitude for someone who used such powers himself.

Moreover, his abilities were peculiar.

Ferren flexed his fingers as he watched blood slowly seep from Michael’s hand and arm wounds. His scalpels had indeed injured his enemy, but what happened next had surprised Ferren. It was less a defensive power than as if, when his scalpel struck, the gorilla’s ability affected the blade itself. Otherwise, there was no explaining how the blade had rebounded so quickly. It wasn’t reflection—it was more like…

Ferren’s eyes gleamed as he glanced at Michael nearby, then quickly contacted his most loyal subordinate.

“Delin, respond if you hear me.”

(Anything you need, Master?)

“How’s your situation?”

(All normal so far, no issues.)

“Good.”

Ferren nodded and once more fixed his gaze on Michael.

“I need your assistance.”