Chapter 35: The Warlord’s Cache

The heavy, suffocating stench of scorched flesh and vaporized arterial blood completely overwhelmed the sharp peppermint cologne that had previously dominated Major Sterling’s penthouse suite.

Ren stood over the slumped, headless corpse of the Warlord, his breathing slow and entirely controlled. The amber light from the shaded floor lamps cast long, jagged shadows across the opulent Persian rug, highlighting the dark, viscous pool of crimson rapidly expanding from Sterling’s ruined chest cavity. The ambient hum of the Stadium’s subterranean generators bled through the thick mahogany walls, a constant, low-frequency vibration that masked the complete absence of human life in the room.

Ren did not linger over the kill. He turned his back on the butchered Warlord, walking directly toward the massive, steel-reinforced safe bolted securely to the far wall behind a heavily varnished executive desk.

The safe was a pre-apocalypse bank-grade vault, measuring four feet high and three feet wide, forged from two inches of solid, high-carbon tungsten steel. A heavy, digital biometric keypad sat flush against the dark metal door, completely devoid of physical tumblers or hinges. It was designed to withstand a thermite breach or a localized C4 detonation.

Sterling’s safe isn’t just a piggy bank for his retirement, Ren thought, his violet eyes analyzing the microscopic seams around the heavy steel door. Warlords hoard information just as fiercely as they hoard weapons. I need to know exactly what the military is hiding beneath this Stadium before I burn it to the ground.

Ren did not bother searching Sterling’s severed arm for a biometric pulse. The Warlord’s biological systems were completely offline. Instead, Ren stepped squarely in front of the massive steel box, planting his combat boots firmly against the polished hardwood floor.

He raised his right hand, extending his fingers.

[Skill Activated: Rending Claws] [Passive Activated: Iron Skin]

The ten-inch, pitch-black scythes erupted from his knuckles with a wet, metallic snick. Simultaneously, the newly acquired Iron Skin passive triggered, drastically hardening the biological density of his own forearms, turning his pale flesh into an immovable, cast-iron anchor.

Ren drove his right hand directly into the two-inch-thick tungsten steel door.

The physical resistance was immense, but the sheer, monstrous kinetic force generated by his Level 12 Strength stat, combined with the unnatural density of the Iron Skin, allowed the Rending Claws to puncture the high-carbon metal. The steel shrieked violently, a deafening, high-pitched tear that echoed off the mahogany paneling. Ren sank his talons exactly four inches deep into the vault door, bypassing the internal locking mechanisms entirely.

He braced his left hand against the solid frame of the safe, coiling his heavy shoulder and back muscles, and pulled.

The agonizing screech of tearing metal filled the suite. The two-inch tungsten door buckled outward, the heavy internal deadbolts snapping like dry twigs under the raw, geometric torque. Ren tore the entire door completely off its hinges in a single, sustained pull, tossing the hundred-and-fifty-pound slab of ruined steel casually onto the Persian rug.

He peered into the dark, insulated interior of the cache.

The Warlord had hoarded well. Stacked neatly on the top shelf were exactly twelve pristine, unassimilated monster cores. They radiated a faint, icy blue luminescence, indicating high-tier aquatic or subterranean origins—likely harvested by the military engineering squads before they were entirely wiped out in the Red Line.

On the middle shelf sat a heavy, military-grade encrypted datapad, constructed from matte black polymer and featuring a cracked, non-reflective screen. Beside the datapad rested a small, velvet-lined mahogany box containing a single, physical brass key entirely unlike the standard room keys used in Sector One. The bow of the key was stamped with a deeply engraved, crimson Coalition insignia.

Ren swept the twelve monster cores into the deep, zippered pockets of his ruined grey hoodie. The Gluttony skill thrummed eagerly in his chest, but he did not consume them immediately. He needed absolute situational awareness for the extraction, and the intense physiological heat generated by assimilating twelve high-tier cores simultaneously would leave him briefly vulnerable.

He grabbed the encrypted datapad and the heavy brass key, securing them in the scavenged tactical webbing strapped tightly across his chest.

He had the loot. Now, he needed to control the timeline.

Ren turned away from the ruined safe, his Echolocation pulsing outward through the heavy mahogany double doors. The sixty-yard corridor outside remained empty, but the mobile patrol of two Coalition guards was scheduled to loop back past the elevator bank in exactly four minutes. If they rounded the corner and saw the two butchered, headless enforcers bleeding out on the plush beige carpet, they would instantly trigger the Stadium-wide alarm. Ren would be forced to slaughter his way through three hundred armed soldiers to reach Chloe, burning valuable stamina and entirely forfeiting the element of surprise.

He walked swiftly to the double doors, gripping the brass handles and pulling them inward.

The metallic stench of fresh arterial blood in the hallway was staggering. The two massive, Level 4 and Level 5 enforcers lay exactly where they had fallen, their heavy ceramic trauma plates completely soaked in dark crimson. Blood had pooled heavily across the pristine carpet, soaking deeply into the thick synthetic fibers.

Ren stepped out into the corridor. He reached down, grabbing the thick Kevlar drag-handles stitched into the back of both tactical vests simultaneously.

Each guard weighed roughly two-hundred-fifty pounds with their heavy armor and drum-fed shotguns. Ren hauled them backward with effortless, mechanical precision, dragging five hundred pounds of dead weight across the threshold and into the Warlord’s penthouse. The rubber heels of their combat boots dragged heavily across the carpet, leaving two thick, parallel smears of dark red blood trailing directly into Suite 101.

He dropped the corpses onto the Persian rug next to Major Sterling’s headless body.

He could not erase the massive bloodstain in the hallway, but without the physical bodies blocking the corridor, the mobile patrol might simply mistake the crimson pool for a spilled hazard in the dim, yellow LED light—at least for a few critical minutes. It was a sloppy concealment, but it bought him the necessary window to extract.

Ren stepped back into the corridor, pulling the heavy mahogany double doors shut. The broken internal deadbolt, severed earlier by his Neuro-Wire, failed to engage, but the heavy friction of the wood held the doors perfectly closed.

He turned his back on the Warlord’s tomb and began the sixty-yard march back to Suite 114.

The corridor felt incredibly long. Ren maintained a brisk, utterly silent pace, his heavy combat boots easily bypassing the smeared bloodstains. The cloying synthetic lavender pumped through the vents violently battled the raw copper scent clinging to his skin and clothes. He kept his right hand resting casually near the hilt of the deactivated vibro-sword, his violet eyes scanning the intersecting archways of the elevator bank.

He reached the heavy mahogany door of Suite 114 with exactly ninety seconds to spare before the mobile patrol looped back around.

He raised his hand and knocked exactly twice, a sharp, rhythmic sequence against the solid wood.

Immediately, the heavy brass deadbolt clicked loudly from the inside. The door swung inward, revealing the dim, amber-lit interior of the opulent suite.

Chloe stood directly in the center of the room, her bare feet planted widely on the plush beige carpet. The oversized white cotton bathrobe swallowed her frame, but her posture was entirely rigid. She had the heavy FN P90 submachine gun shouldered tightly, the black polymer stock pressed hard against her collarbone, the barrel aimed squarely at the center of the doorway. Her finger hovered millimeters from the trigger, her knuckles stark white, her eyes wide and bloodshot from sheer, suffocating adrenaline.

I can’t sleep, Chloe thought, her chest heaving as she kept the weapon leveled, the heavy scent of sandalwood soap failing to calm her racing heart. Every single creak in the floorboards sounds like a shotgun racking. I have the P90 pointed directly at the deadbolt. I just need him to walk back through it before I lose my mind in this pristine, lavender-scented cage.

When she saw Ren’s face, the aggressive, defensive tension immediately shattered. She gasped, a ragged, wet sound, and lowered the muzzle of the P90 toward the floor.

Ren stepped fully into the suite, pushing the heavy mahogany door shut behind him and manually re-engaging the brass deadbolt.

He was a horrific sight. The grey fabric of his hoodie was entirely saturated with fresh, dark crimson blood, adding a new, wet layer over the dark blue stains of the Benthic Weaver. Splatters of Sterling’s arterial spray dotted his pale jawline and the strong column of his neck. His Chitin Shell was retracted, but his violet eyes still burned with the cold, unyielding luminescence of a predator returning from a successful hunt.

Silas, the frail, silver-haired steward, remained huddled in the far corner of the room near the blackout curtains. When the Warlord returned covered in fresh human gore, the broken spy let out a pathetic, high-pitched whimper, pulling his bony knees tightly against his chest and burying his face entirely in his arms, utterly destroyed by the psychological reality of his situation.

“Sterling is dead,” Ren stated, his voice a low, flat rumble that carried zero emotional weight. He walked past Chloe, moving toward the heavy mahogany dresser where she had previously discarded her tactical gear.

“Did they trigger the alarm?” Chloe asked, her voice trembling slightly as she engaged the safety on the P90 and slung the weapon back over her shoulder. She stepped carefully around the shattered crystal and spilled whiskey from Silas’s dropped tray.

“No,” Ren replied, unclipping the heavy tactical webbing from his chest. “But I dragged the bodies into his suite. The corridor carpet is heavily stained. The mobile patrol will discover the anomaly within the next three minutes. The entire Stadium will go into absolute lockdown.”

Ren placed the encrypted military datapad and the heavy brass key onto the glass-topped writing desk. The dark polymer of the tablet contrasted sharply with the pristine, polished wood.

“We are not staying here,” Ren commanded, looking directly at Chloe. He reached into his deep pockets, retrieving the twelve glowing, icy blue monster cores, lining them up in a perfect, glowing row beside the datapad. “Gear up. Put the plate carrier back on over your clothes. We are breaking into the Stadium’s subterranean sub-level before the Coalition realizes their Warlord has been butchered.”

Ren picks up the encrypted military datapad, his blood-stained thumb pressing firmly against the cracked power button as he prepares to rip the military’s deepest secrets from the digital drive.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep