Yet as he scanned the surroundings, not only Shea but even the Tide Cultists couldn’t pinpoint where the voice had come from.

Just as they tried refocusing on Shea—

*Crash!*

The adjacent wall exploded inward. A Demon Hand shot through the rubble, seizing the nearest Tide Cultist by the head.

*Crack!*

With a brutal squeeze, the cultist’s body crumpled. Pale, fish-like flesh oozed from his skull like minced meat.

A man then stepped through the jagged hole, fingers resting on his hat brim. His face remained shadowed.

"Quite the party," he drawled. "Didn’t expect a routine patrol to stumble into a seafood nest."

Though his face was hidden, the voice was unmistakable. Abel.

Shea had to admit—he looked kinda cool right now.

*Silver…*

A trace of fear flickered in the Missionary’s eyes. This Hunter’s reputation haunted every shadow in the occult world. No one wanted his attention.

But the Tidal Cult had already drawn his wrath. Retreat was never an option with Abel.

"Shea. Behind me."

"We’re surrounded, *bro*. There’s someone behind you too."

Shea shot him a glare but ducked behind his back anyway. Strangely, with Abel here, the tension bled away. Her shoulders relaxed.

"Give me thirty seconds. The people in front of you will disappear."

"Thirty seconds? Fine. I’ll hold on."

Shea raised her Light Blade. No fancy sword skills—just raw instinct. This blade would buy her time.

"Call if you’re overwhelmed."

Abel patted her shoulder and strode toward the Missionary. The real threat lay here. Most cultists facing Shea were mere Starry Rank, with one or two Crescent Moon Rank at most. Thirty seconds? More than enough.

"Silver Hunter… don’t underestimate us!" The Missionary bristled at the insult.

Abel didn’t reply. His Demon Hand materialized crimson in the gloom. He lunged—a blur no one could track. The blood-red fingers closed around the Lunar Rank Missionary’s throat.

*Squelch.*

The man popped like an overripe fruit. Pale gore and viscous slime splattered across nearby cultists’ robes. Chunks of flesh clung to their hoods.

"Thirty seconds wasn’t for *you*," Abel murmured. His smile froze the remaining cultists to their bones—a primal chill, the dread of prey sensing the apex predator.

"Now it’s your turn."

He plunged into the crowd. The Demon Hands became scythes in a wheat field. Lunar Rank? Crescent Moon Rank? They stumbled like toddlers before him. Escape was impossible. Abel’s speed shredded their mutated bodies before they took three steps.

It was slaughter. Pure, efficient, merciless. Abel moved like a rabid wolf among lambs, tearing cultists apart limb from limb.

Shea stared, stunned. *This* was Radiant Sun Rank power? Not one cultist managed a single spell.

*Who even wounded him that first time we met?*

Abel claimed bishops from the Tidal Cult ambushed him. She’d doubted it then. Now? Absolutely believable.

"Twenty-five seconds. All clear."

Abel flicked gore off his Demon Hand and turned to Shea. The alley was empty—cultists had scattered like roaches. Those thirty seconds weren’t for her defense. They were a head start for the doomed.

She hadn’t even needed to dodge.

"Gone…" Shea sheathed her Light Blade, gazing at the deserted alley. No one would believe this had been packed moments ago.

Panic had turned the Tide Cultists feral. After the Missionary’s death, they’d fled like rats—some diving into trash bins, others burrowing into cracks. Their pliable, mutated bodies squeezed three into a single bin. *Could they at least tuck in those tentacles?*

"Fast little pests," Abel muttered, peering down the hole Shea had cut. Even the giant tumor-creature had vanished. "Like cockroaches."

"Abel…" Shea hesitated. Not gratitude. Not concern. Just burning curiosity. "Those gold coins you stole from me—you said you’d buy gear. Where is it? All I see is a fifty-gold longsword you never use. You just… claw people."

*Hand-ripping cultists instead of devils. Real classy.*

"I *did* buy gear." Abel frowned. *What kind of question was that?* The money wasn’t for Gray’s dates.

"Then *where* is it?!"

Abel smirked. He adjusted his hat, then pulled out a cigarette. Lit it with deliberate coolness. (He didn’t actually inhale.)

"I’m wearing it."

"…"

Shea snatched the cigarette, crushed it underfoot, and snapped. "You spent three thousand gold on a *Hunter’s outfit*?!"

"Damn right! Limited edition. Sharp, huh?"

"*Like hell you are!* You wasteful bastard!"

The fragile trust she’d built for him shattered into dust.