Game Without Limits

"I've had enough of this charade," roared Takehiro, his voice cutting through the tense air like a shard of glass. His sharp gaze flicked toward Nicholas, whose eyes immediately flared with icy resolve.

"Fire!" The curt, precise command shattered the silence like a thunderclap.

The mercenaries, moving as one seamless unit, raised their weapons. The room erupted in deafening chaos as gunfire roared, the sheer force of their assault making the walls tremble. Whatever this target was, however bizarre its appearance, there was no way it could survive such an onslaught—or so they thought.

But the stranger didn't flinch. Not even a blink. Instead, he calmly, almost lazily, lifted his right hand, as though dismissing the scene as an insignificant nuisance.

What happened next stole the ground from under the feet of even the most battle-hardened soldiers. Bullets, unleashed with deadly precision, stopped mid-air. They struck an invisible barrier, unable to move a fraction further. Metallic rounds clattered to the floor with a hollow, eerie sound that sent chills down their spines.

Shock spread across their faces like wildfire. Even the steely-eyed veterans, men who had seen horrors beyond imagining, stared at the phenomenon as though a door to the otherworld had been thrown open before them.

No one looked more shaken than Nicholas. A man whose name inspired fear even among seasoned warriors, he now stood paralyzed, struggling to comprehend what his eyes were telling him. He had seen it all—conflicts in the blistering deserts of Africa, covert missions in the dense jungles of Asia—but this… this was beyond comprehension.

"Is this… magic?" he muttered under his breath, his fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the stock of his weapon.

The figure at the center of the chaos tilted his head, an amused smirk curling his lips, as though savoring their disbelief.

"Well, there's no need to be so rude," he said, his voice deceptively soft, as if he were commenting on a minor inconvenience rather than a room full of armed men trying to kill him. With a slow, deliberate movement, he brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. Then, with a mocking grin, he added, "You've just ruined my suit with your glares, you know. It was rather expensive."

That unbearable composure—more unsettling than any display of power—gnawed at their nerves. It was as if this man, or whatever he was, existed on a level far removed from anything they understood.

Takehiro, barely restraining his fury, stepped forward. His face was a mask of tension, his booming voice shattering the uneasy stillness once again:

"I'll ask you one more time—who the hell are you?!"

The stranger chuckled, low and rich, as if Takehiro's anger was nothing more than an amusing anecdote.

"Who am I?" he repeated, savoring each syllable like a connoisseur savoring fine wine. His tone was contemplative, almost mocking. "Well, you can call me Keito Shigero. But let's not pretend that's my real name, shall we?"

Meanwhile, Ayanah and her family huddled in the corner, their wide, horrified eyes fixed on the unfolding scene. To them, it was a nightmare come to life, a vision of reality unraveling at the seams.

"Fire! Shoot him now!" Nicholas bellowed, his voice laced with desperation and fury.

One of the soldiers immediately raised a grenade launcher, the loud whoosh of the projectile filling the air. The explosion rocked the room, a blinding flash followed by a shockwave that sent clouds of dust cascading through the air, plunging the scene into chaos.

"That got him for sure," someone muttered, their voice barely audible over the ringing in their ears.

But as the dust settled, their confidence evaporated like mist. The figure remained exactly where he'd been, untouched and unbothered. His outline became clearer as the smoke thinned, and on his face was the same maddening grin, as though all of this were nothing more than a passing amusement.

"Well, well…" he mused, brushing off an imaginary speck of dirt from his sleeve with exaggerated care. The gesture was equal parts dismissive and taunting, as though their efforts were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "Now, shall we say it's my turn?"

With an almost lazy motion, he raised his hand, crossing two fingers before slicing them through the air in a casual arc.

For a moment, the room fell silent, as if holding its breath. The soldiers exchanged uncertain glances, their expressions asking the question none dared to voice: What just happened?

The answer came too quickly. A sharp, almost imperceptible whist cut through the air. Then, without warning, the soldier nearest him staggered, blood gushing from a sudden, unseen gash across his neck. Another dropped to the ground mere seconds later, clutching at his throat as crimson sprayed across the walls. Their bodies hit the floor with a dull thud, the sound reverberating in the deathly stillness.

Ayanah screamed, her hands clamping over her mouth as her knees buckled. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted from the bodies to the unscathed figure at the room's center.

Nicholas stood frozen, his face carved into a mask of disbelief. In his eyes flickered fear—something he hadn't felt in years.

"What… What the hell is that thing?!" someone choked out, their voice trembling with dread.

"Oh, how clumsy of me," the stranger said, his grin widening as if he were genuinely apologetic. "But really… you brought this upon yourselves."

There was no urgency in his tone, no sign of strain or effort. It was as if he were a predator toying with his prey, savoring the moment before the final strike.