Chương 70: 69: The Pharaoh’s Ichor

IX. The Landing The sedan raced directly beneath him. Fifteen storeys below. He jumped. His body arced over the highway before crashing through the roof with catastrophic force. Metal folded inward. Glass burst apart. The cabin collapsed around him. For a heartbeat, everything froze. The thieves stared at him. Neither spoke. Their faces drained of colour as they tried to comprehend what had just happened. Nobody should have survived that fall. Nobody should have chosen it. The passenger's lips trembled.

The driver stared at the crater where the roof had once been, then back at the boy kneeling inside it.

"…He's fuckin' insane." The thief nearest Sangmin recoiled so violently he slammed himself against the door.

"No… no, no…"

"He jumped…"

"HE JUMPED!" Every trace of arrogance had vanished. He recoiled, screaming incoherent gibberish, terror and confusion tangling his words into meaningless noise as his hand shot toward the pistol. Sangmin was faster. His palm clamped over the barrel as the trigger was pulled. The gun exploded. Steel fragments ripped through the thief's hand, the driver's arm and the car's interior. Sangmin's own hand was shredded, flesh peeling away until white bone flashed beneath the blood. He didn't react.

His free hand closed around the thief's throat, ripped him from his seat, tore the door from its hinges and hurled him onto the highway. The driver screamed and tried to scramble away before a single kick launched him out the opposite side. Moments later, Sangmin slid into the driver's seat. His ruined hand gripped the wheel. The sedan accelerated. X. The Drive The car handled terribly. He didn't care. He forced it through traffic, weaving between vehicles with reckless precision.

Behind him, the highway dissolved into chaos. The thief lay broken across the asphalt. The driver crawled toward the shoulder while stunned bystanders rushed to him. Cars braked, collided, and scattered in the wreck's wake. None of it mattered. The backpack did. He reached into the back seat and pulled it forward. The cash was still inside. The documents too. He opened the folder. Bora's photograph looked back at him. She was still there. A slow breath escaped his lungs. Only then did he look at his hand.

It was ruined. Blood soaked the steering wheel. Flesh hung in strips, exposing bone beneath. He frowned. The bone hadn't broken. Not even a crack. He stared for a moment before shaking his head. His bones were effectively stronger than steel. Carefully, he reached into the wound and pulled out the flattened bullet lodged between torn muscle. It dropped into his lap with a metallic clink. The serum was already rebuilding the shredded flesh around his fingers. It would heal. Eventually. He couldn't wait.

Tearing a strip from his shirt, he wrapped the wound as tightly as he could and kept driving. The compound was still hours away. Bora was waiting. Nothing, not thieves, bullets, trucks, nor his own broken body, would stop him. Part Four: The Rescue I. The Compound Night cloaked the compound deep in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Hidden behind towering concrete walls crowned with razor wire and motion sensors, the sprawling estate resembled an exclusive resort from above, but up close it was a fortress.

Floodlights swept the grounds, watchtowers overlooked every approach, and armed guards patrolled the perimeter, gates, rooftops, and balconies with the easy confidence of men who'd never faced real resistance. The compound never slept. Luxury cars glided through the gates beneath the distant pulse of nightclub music. Laughter drifted across courtyards as glasses clinked, dealers called wagers, and poker chips rattled.

Escorts mingled with wealthy guests, bodyguards shadowed every VIP, and waiters carried liquor worth more than most people earned in a year. Behind the glamour, the real business continued. Armed enforcers escorted shipments through secured entrances, cameras watched every corridor, and steel doors sealed off the parts no guest was meant to see.

It was a kingdom built on gambling, drugs, trafficking, and every appetite money could buy, wrapped in enough wealth and security that its owners believed themselves untouchable. Sangmin moved straight through them, his black backpack bouncing lightly against his shoulders. Stealth no longer mattered. He'd reached the compound. Bora was here. The first guard spotted him and raised his rifle. THUD! THUD! THUD! Three rounds slammed into Sangmin's chest. Pain flared, but he barely slowed.

The bullets hit like heavy rubber slugs, his body absorbing the impact as he kept walking. The guard's eyes went wide.

"How the hell is he still walking?!"

"Shoot him!" More rifles barked.

"He's got a bulletproof vest!"

"No vest tanks that!"

"Keep firing!" Sangmin's eyes flicked toward the muzzle flashes. A thought crossed his mind. Can I catch one? His hand snapped out. CRACK! His fingers closed around something moving too fast for the guards to follow. He looked down. A flattened rifle round rested in his palm.

"…Huh." He'd actually caught it. Silence swept across the firing line. One guard lowered his rifle.

"I saw that."

"You all saw that, right?"

"He…"

"He just caught a bloody bullet." Another took an involuntary step backwards.

"What the hell is he?" Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Sangmin let the mangled round fall to the ground. It bounced once. He kept walking. Panic spread through the line. Rifles shifted upward in unison as trembling fingers tightened around their triggers.

"Aim for his eyes!" one guard screamed.

"His joints! Any soft spots! Don't waste your shots on his chest!" Sangmin's fist caved in his face, driving him into the concrete hard enough to leave a shallow crater. Gunfire echoed across the compound.

"INTRUDER!"

"GET HIM!" Men poured from every direction. Thick-necked enforcers with tattooed arms, shaved heads, heavy beards, curled moustaches, and scarred knuckles, their massive frames built by years of violence. Rifles, machetes, crowbars, pipes, batons, sledgehammers - they came without hesitation. Sangmin welcomed them. A steel pipe swung toward his head. He slipped inside the swing and buried a hook into the man's liver. BOOM! The guard folded, coughing blood before collapsing. Another raised a machete overhead. CRACK!

SMASH! Sangmin twisted the wrist until the elbow snapped backward, then drove his forehead through the man's nose, sending him crashing into two others. A tattooed giant lunged with a combat knife. THOOM! A shovel hook buried beneath his ribs launched him through a concrete pillar, leaving it veined with cracks. Bullets ripped through the night. Rounds struck Sangmin's chest, shoulders, and back, drawing blood but little else. He charged the shooters before they could react.

"He's a freak!"

"Keep him back!" He charged the shooters before they could react. An elbow shattered one man's jaw. A backfist launched another into a parked SUV, crumpling the door. A third attacked from behind. Without looking, Sangmin caught the wrist, ripped the shoulder from its socket, and drove the man headfirst into the pavement, bursting the concrete. Bodies littered the ground. Sirens wailed. Floodlights swept the compound. More armed men flooded out of casinos, brothels and gambling halls. Sangmin never slowed.

He held back. Every punch, every elbow, every throw was measured just enough to incapacitate instead of kill. He'd already learned why. One kick, delivered a fraction too quickly, had taken a man's jaw clean off. The memory still sat in the back of his mind. After that, he deliberately reduced his strength, forcing himself to strike softer despite every instinct telling him to end the fight as quickly as possible. Every second they spent coming to him was one less second Bora had to wait. II.

The Bazooka Sangmin was halfway to the main building when the night erupted again. A helicopter thundered overhead, its searchlight locking onto him as the mounted cannon opened fire. BRRRRRT! Concrete and dirt exploded around him. He sprinted through the barrage, weaving between tracer rounds before rolling beneath another sweep of gunfire. His fingers closed around a pebble no larger than his thumbnail. He threw. FWIP! The pebble crossed hundreds of meters in an instant. The pilot's head snapped back.

The helicopter clipped a communications tower, then spiraled into the compound, erupting into a fireball that scattered flaming wreckage across the courtyard. Sangmin barely looked at it. A panicked guard stood on the rooftop, hoisting a rocket launcher onto his shoulder. The missile screamed toward him. He could've dodged. Then doors burst open. Drugged women, terrified workers, servants, gamblers, and trafficked victims poured into the courtyard as rifle fire chased them.

If he moved, the rocket would plow straight into them. He planted his feet. BOOM! His forehead slammed into the missile, denting the casing and sending it spinning back toward the rooftop. The explosion swallowed the gunner. The blast hurled Sangmin into a concrete wall, splitting it with a web of cracks. Blood ran from a fresh gash above his eye, but he ignored it, already charging toward the fleeing civilians as bullets tore after them. The kick came from Sangmin's blind side.

It crashed into his ribs, sending him skidding across the courtyard. He rolled with the impact and sprang upright just as another figure dropped from a balcony in a flying dropkick. Sangmin caught it on crossed forearms. The impact shoved him back several steps before he dug his heels into the concrete. Confusion flashed across his face. That shouldn't have happened. He could stand still and let a silverback gorilla hammer its fists into his chest without moving an inch. So how was this man staggering him at all?

A chuckle echoed through the courtyard.

"Well... you're tougher than the others." A lean man stepped into the floodlights, a brown hood draped over loose black trousers, his wiry frame hiding tightly coiled muscle beneath simple cloth.

"What are you looking for?"

"My sister." A grin spread across the man's face.

"No one the Master owns leaves." Steel whispered through the night. Two more figures emerged from the shadows, each carrying a pair of curved blades. One drifted to Sangmin's left with fluid, circling footwork. The other settled behind him in a low, relaxed stance, moving almost silently. They attacked together. The hooded man exploded forward with a front kick that flowed into a spinning elbow. Sangmin slipped outside it and answered with a straight right, but the strike missed by inches. His eyes narrowed.

Something felt off. They were too fast. Not compared to him, but far too fast to be ordinary humans. Their movements flowed with impossible fluidity, every strike chaining perfectly into the next atop elite technique. They're enhanced. The realization settled quickly. But how? He only knew of the serum. Was there something else that could strengthen a human? A herb? A concoction? Whatever it was, these men had it. The fighter on his left was already there. Twin blades flashed toward Sangmin's ribs.

He twisted just enough for one to slice across his side while the other ripped through his sleeve. Before he'd finished turning, the third swept low for his knee. Sangmin jumped. A rising kick caught him in midair, driving him back onto the concrete. They never relented. Every strike flowed into the next. Kicks became elbows, elbows became joint locks, forcing openings for blades that stabbed from impossible angles. The three fought like one body attacking from every direction. Sangmin planted his feet.

His boxing shattered their rhythm. A jab. A cross. A hook. The combination finally forced the hooded man backward. The circling fighter slipped in behind him. Without looking, Sangmin trapped the incoming kick beneath his thigh and clamped both hands around the ankle. CRACK! The leg folded sideways. Before the scream escaped, Sangmin ripped him forward and buried a hook beneath his ribs. The man's chest collapsed inward as he flew across the courtyard. The third fighter filled the opening instantly.

Sangmin answered with a compact left hook. The man's jaw shattered. The hooded man seized the opening, spinning into a heel kick. It smashed into Sangmin's temple, stars bursting across his vision. His body screamed in protest. Bruised ribs burned, blood streamed into one eye, and every wound dragged at his movements. He wasn't fighting at full speed anymore. Only fast enough to match them. The hooded man settled into another stance, his grin widening.

"Good. Let's see how long broken bones can keep standing." Sangmin slowly straightened. A knife still protruded from his side, bruises spread beneath torn flesh, yet his fists rose once more into a familiar boxing guard.

"Come." The three attacked again. Two of them shouldn't even have been standing anymore. The damage alone should've put them on the ground, but their glassy eyes and erratic movements told Sangmin all he needed to know. One launched into a flying kick aimed at Sangmin's jaw. Sangmin stepped forward. His left hand caught the ankle. His right seized the knee. For a heartbeat, the attacker hung weightless. BOOM! He swung him into the ground with both hands. Concrete erupted into a crater.

Before the man could move, Sangmin buried a punch in his chest. Ribs collapsed inward. The body went still. The second lunged, twin blades flashing. The first sliced across Sangmin's arm. The second never landed. Sangmin let out a furious roar that shook the courtyard.

"RAAAAAAAAGH!" He slipped inside the strike and drove a right hook beneath the man's jaw. The impact tore his head clean from his shoulders. It spun across the courtyard before smashing into a wall, while the headless body remained standing for half a heartbeat before collapsing. The last fighter hesitated only an instant before charging, his blades weaving silver arcs from every angle. Sangmin walked through them. One blade buried itself in his shoulder. He ignored it.

His hand shot forward and wrapped around the man's throat. CRACK! The neck collapsed in his grip. Still holding him aloft, Sangmin drew back his free fist and roared. The punch caved in the man's ribs, rupturing everything beneath. Another followed. Each blow drove the limp body deeper into the shattered concrete until the ground itself fractured beneath them. Only then did Sangmin let go. The man collapsed into the crater. He coughed. Blood splattered across the broken concrete. Sangmin paused.

"…You're still alive?" He strode over, grabbed the front of the man's torn shirt and hauled him upright by the collar.

"How?" The assassin smiled through shattered teeth.

"P-Pharaoh's Ichor." He coughed again, crimson spilling down his chin.

"The Embalmer's Potion. The Black Natron. Call it whatever you like."

"It grants strength… speed… life itself."

"In exchange for vitality."

"The harder you push your body, the faster you wither. Kill enough people…" His grin widened.

"…and you steal back the years you spent." Sangmin's eyes narrowed.

"The master has it too?" The assassin laughed, the sound wet and broken.

"The master?" He shook his head.

"He discovered it. Ancient Canopic Elixirs buried beneath one of his expeditions to Egypt."

"He didn't just drink Pharaoh's Ichor. He perfected it." Sangmin's brow furrowed. So that was it. The master had enhanced his most elite subordinates. His grip tightened again.

"The trafficked girls." The assassin looked up.

"They're for draining vitality?" A dark grin spread across the man's bloodied face.

"Would that really be sustainable in the long run?" He laughed, coughing between breaths.

"Use that skull of yours." Sangmin fell silent. If not the women... Why only women? His thoughts stopped. His breath caught. Babies. The answer crashed into him all at once. Women gave birth. New life. An endless supply of vitality. His stomach lurched. Bora... Is that what they made her do? All these years... Something inside him snapped. His fist drove the assassin back into the crater with a single, furious blow. The man went still. Sangmin remained standing over him, his entire body trembling.

His hands refused to stop shaking. He couldn't tell whether it was rage...... or fear. If he was right, every second he wasted meant another second his sister remained trapped in that nightmare.