87. The Phantom Stroll

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Dean found the trio of thugs led by Isaac, the man with the horse face, and Cruz in the villa’s parking lot. He quietly hid behind a Jeep, observing them. The distance was too great to catch their conversation, so he checked the Colt tucked under his arm by himself. Then he examined the planchette, running his fingers over its dagger-sharp, icy tip, causing goosebumps to rise on his skin. The smooth glass reflected his eyes—cold and steely, yet tinged with a trace of excitement. Tonight was destined to be a sleepless night.

After Isaac and his gang parted ways with Cruz, they drove off in a gray Ford SUV. Dean, not skilled at car-following and wary of being discovered, memorized the license plate. After waiting five minutes for them to leave, he drove his Bronco southward toward the old street district.

Around nine in the evening, the Ford SUV stopped outside a three-story townhouse by the street. Isaac and his group got out, fist-bumping with a burly guard wearing a woolen hat and carrying a sidearm, his waist thick like a barrel. The guard took out a key and opened the door, allowing the three men to rush inside noisily.

Five minutes later, Dean’s Bronco passed the house without stopping and turned into a secluded alley. He got out, opened the trunk, and rummaged through its contents. Unfortunately, tonight’s mission was spontaneous and unprepared; all he found were a few clothes, including the swimsuit from his trip to Santa Monica Beach.

“Make do with what I’ve got,” Dean muttered. Changing into a black jacket over his sportswear and covering his hair with a black swim cap, he cut a gray T-shirt in half—one piece serving as a mask to cover most of his face, the other cut into smaller sections tied to his hands and shoes, forming crude black gloves and shoe covers to hide any fingerprints or shoeprints.

Fully disguised, Dean left the alley. The stars and moon were dim, the sky heavy and blurred. By now, the streets were deserted. Eight out of ten streetlights on the old street were broken; the few flickering ones did not warm the darkness but heightened the eerie, ghostly atmosphere, as if this was a realm of the dead.

Wrapped tightly against the cold, Dean used the night’s cloak to circle the guarded three-story house outside, pacing quickly and repeatedly. His gaze, like a god’s eye, scanned the streetlights, bus stops, and eaves of the buildings.

After a tedious half-hour of reconnaissance, Dean exhaled. “No surveillance cameras.”

He returned to the opposite side of the street, leaning against a trash bin behind a wire fence like a drunkard, eyes sweeping the brightly lit second and third-floor windows, clearly indicating the occupants were still active inside.

Dean settled in for a boring wait. The cold, pitch-black night was silent—no insects chirping, only the howling wind rushing down the long street and the pounding of his own heart.

After a long wait, the moon vanished completely, and even the sparse starlight disappeared. The fat guard with the woolen hat yawned repeatedly. Dean’s spirits lifted—

Suddenly, the lights inside the house went out. He checked his watch: 2 a.m.—right on time.

Suppressing his excitement, Dean crouched for another hour until 3 a.m. The guard, head tilted, was nearly asleep standing up.

Dean sprang to his feet and dashed forward, agile as a hunting leopard chasing prey.

Thirty meters, twenty meters, eighteen meters.

Dean hurled his right hand like a boomerang toward the guard.

“Shhh—”

The air hissed.

In the dark night, a pale streak like a meteor flashed.

“Shadow” dragged the planchette, blinking past the layers of the fat guard’s neck.

Swish—

The planchette’s tip carved a writhing, centipede-like gash through flesh and blood, a fountain of crimson bursting out. The guard’s eyes widened in shock, mouth opening in a scream.

But Shadow wrapped him instantly in a tight, impenetrable bandage, swallowing his howls and groans.

He was frozen in place; the fat beneath his clothes rippled like waves.

Dean had already reached him, grabbed the planchette firmly.

With a bow step, he plunged the sharp tip diagonally upward!

Squelch!

Blood splattered.

The finger-length, teardrop-shaped planchette pierced smoothly like a hot knife through butter, stabbing into the guard’s vital spot beneath his chin.

Plop!

Withdrawing the planchette left a bright, glaring streak of blood.

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At that moment, it glowed with heat.

A confused soul was absorbed into it.

“You used the planchette to kill Ger... proficiency +3, Combat Level 2 (3/300) → (6/300).”

The entire process took less than two seconds.

The fat guard collapsed silently, legs trembling like a pig with a slit throat. Blood from his neck sprayed the ground like a blossoming rose.

Dean’s own blood ignited; his face flushed slightly as he shoved the guard’s body under the Ford at the door.

Activating his god’s eye, Dean peered through the heavy iron gate into the house.

First floor, second floor, third floor: all pitch black.

In the living room, on the sofas, the floor, and the second-floor bedrooms within ten meters, a group of men lay asleep, armed, tattooed with sleeves, pierced ears and noses, their physiques tough.

Their faces clearly read: “Not to be trifled with.”

They snored deeply, utterly unaware of the watching eyes beyond the wall.

After repeated inspection confirmed no danger within his view, Dean ordered Shadow to slip through the window bars and quietly open the front door.

Creak—

A man wrapped in a blanket on the sofa mumbled and turned over, going back to sleep.

Dean moved silently on tiptoe like a cat, circling and checking every corner from the first to third floors.

The layout was ordinary—living room, kitchen, TV, sofas. No basement, no surveillance cameras, only silence.

Relieved, Dean’s gaze fell on a heavyset man sleeping face-up on the right sofa.

He bent over, gripping the planchette tightly.

Combat Level 2 activated.

In his mind flashed countless experiences of lethal dagger strikes; he became a professional assassin with years of practice.

He summoned Shadow.

He swung the planchette.

Squelch, squelch.

Two swift strikes.

A horizontal slash severed the carotid artery and trachea.

A straight stab pierced precisely between the third and fourth ribs into the heart.

The movements were exact, lethal, without a trace of excess.

Pain briefly flickered across the sleeping man’s face, but seconds later, his head lolled as Shadow’s tight bindings rendered him immobile, plunging him into eternal darkness.

“You used the planchette to kill... proficiency +3, Combat Level 2 (9/300).”

Receiving the system’s death notice, Dean covered the body with a blanket and wiped blood from the planchette, excitement shining in his eyes as he approached the second target.

Squelch, squelch...

Silent slaughter.

Shadow’s control plus silenced strikes to vital points with the planchette.

Nothing stirred.

In the pitch-black hall, six men slept soundly, blissfully unaware, bidding farewell to this world.

Six warm bodies lay sprawled.

Had they been armed or awake, this would have been a fierce battle, drawing neighbors’ attention and the police.

But there were no “ifs.” Under Dean’s ghostly stealth, they were fragile as paper dolls.

Unable to resist.

A pungent, metallic stench filled the air; sticky blood flowed like molten lava over sofas, blankets, and cold floors.

This place had become a living hell.

Dean glanced at his rapidly rising combat skill and lightly ascended the stairs around the corner to the second floor.

Six bedrooms.

Using god’s eye, he scanned through doors—each held one or two sleeping men, totaling ten.

Two bedroom doors were locked from inside, so Dean sent Shadow ahead to enter through the adjacent window and open the doors.

Then the carnage resumed.

Stealth, throat slitting, heart piercing... aiming for swift, painless kills.

Ten kills.

The system flashed a gruesome death notification over a sea of blood.

Combat proficiency rocketed like a rocket launch, reaching Level 2 (51/300) at a pace Dean had never imagined.

A surge of indescribable exhilaration welled up.

Killing was the fastest way to improve!

Ghost walking through the night.

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Reaching the third floor, Dean silently eliminated five more men.

Then, in one bedroom, he found Isaac—the horse-faced man from the birthday party—and two henchmen.

The three lay sprawled on a blue velvet bed.

Beneath their feet, a crimson carpet was littered with empty bottles and cans, the air thick with the acrid scent of whiskey.

On the nightstand were several slender rolls of US dollar bills, scattered papers, straws, and some leftover unidentified powder.

Dean had heard that drug dealers often kept themselves “clean,” but that proved not always true.

Swish, swish—

Dean swung the planchette, dispatching Isaac’s two henchmen one by one. Their thick blood sprayed like a high-pressure water jet, splashing the luxurious velvet quilt and crimson carpet in red.

Then he slowly approached Isaac, scrutinizing the ugly yet peaceful horse-like face—black hair, yellowish skin, deep eye sockets, high cheekbones.

“You picked the wrong man,” Dean said.

He grasped Isaac’s temples with both hands and twisted hard!

Crack.

A crisp sound of bone breaking echoed through the bedroom.

Isaac’s head twisted at a terrifying angle, his chin nearly parallel to his chest.

“You severely injured Isaac Peyton, proficiency +1, Combat Level 2 (67/300).”

Struck hard, Isaac fell unconscious but still breathing.

“Don’t rush off... the long night isn’t over. Do me one last favor.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed into slits as he turned the unconscious man to face him.

Then he raised the planchette—Combat Level 2 skill activated.

Aimed at Isaac’s calf joint.

Down it came!

His arm traced phantom arcs; the planchette was agile as a butcher’s knife.

A series of horrifying sounds of blades slicing flesh filled the room...

Dean released the planchette and dropped the bloody corpse.

“You killed Isaac Peyton, proficiency +3, Combat Level 2 (72/300).”

A bright red notification flashed:

No one else alive in the house except you.

You have perfectly eliminated all threats.

Mission complete: 100%.

Extracting rewards!

Experience +50, Personal Level 2 (180→230/300).

Dean gathered the rolls of dollar bills from the nightstand, grabbed a bottle, and poured the remaining whiskey over the bed and bodies.

He tossed in a lighter.

Boom!

A blaze of orange flames erupted.

The firelight illuminated the bloodstained eyes behind his mask.

A fleeting hesitation flickered in them.

This time, no survivors.

Bold, brutal, seemingly against his principles.

But as the thought arose, Dean recalled the bloodied face of the Devourer from his dream and Isaac’s creepy, nervous smile at the party.

The human heart hides the decay of the world. If he did nothing, these men would surely retaliate, harming him and his friends, forcing a slow, defensive counterattack.

“I did nothing wrong. I killed scum—those who threatened my life. And no one will find out.”

Dean comforted himself, his gaze resolute once more.

He turned and went downstairs, selecting a young man with a common face to take a blood sample in a test tube for his shapeshifting ability.

Before leaving, Dean dragged the guard’s body from under the car inside and set fire to the first floor.

Closing the door behind him, he returned to the alley where he had parked.

The house blazed, flames growing rapidly in the night wind.

The crackling fire, leaping red light, like a dancing demon, tore through the midnight silence.

A white Bronco quietly passed the burning house, disappearing into the darkness beyond.

No one knew.

(End of Chapter)