In the dim underground corridor of the desert island base, two pools of blood mixed with brain matter stained the cold metal floor.
The bodies, still warm, had been gruesomely mutilated—one headless, the other half decapitated—fallen some distance apart.
The rest of the young soldiers—roughly the same age as Iggy and fresh recruits recently assigned to CP4—were scattered on the ground, paralyzed with fear.
"Please… please don't kill me. I just joined!" one pleaded desperately.
Iggy ignored the boy's cries and stepped forward, his boots splattering blood as he advanced.
"I swear… I don't know where he is!" the teenager stammered, clearly sincere but hopelessly naive.
CP4 was notorious for secrecy and lethal efficiency.
Though Iggy's power wasn't top-tier, but he could hold his own as long as an Admiral or an overpowered Vice Admiral like Garp isn't involved.
"To survive in this world, weakness is a sin," Iggy said coldly.
He placed a hand on the boy's head with unsettling gentleness—like soothing a younger brother.
Before the boy could react, Iggy crushed down hard. A sickening crack echoed as vertebrae shattered and dislocated.
The boy's skull was forced inward, crushing his chest and deforming his organs. Only the top of his head remained visible, blood spurting around his collarbone.
Iggy wiped the blood from his hand and continued deeper into the base, passing by a headless corpse slumped in the corridor.
"This base's facilities are complete and high-tech. It's clearly built for Draco's operations, even the living quarters are top-tier."
The all-metal corridors were equipped with ventilation and power systems rivaling modern standards.
A stronghold like this couldn't be allowed to exist.
Suddenly, a deep male voice echoed from an open door.
"What the hell!"
Iggy peered inside.
The room was lined with two rows of beds, each soldier's personal space neatly arranged with daily necessities—clearly the barracks.
At the noise, over a dozen soldiers turned sharply, their eyes locking on the bloodstained intruder.
"Who are you?" one demanded, voice tense.
Iggy smirked. "Good question. I'm here to kill you all."
Without hesitation, he charged. Some scrambled for weapons, others scrambled to dress, panic turning them into frightened birds.
"Don't panic! Stick together!" barked the highest-ranking soldier, swiftly organizing a counterattack.
Though they had the advantage in numbers, anyone who could infiltrate this base was no ordinary foe.
Gunshots rang out as Iggy moved with a "shaving" stride—dodging bullets effortlessly and closing in on the nearest soldier.
At one meter distance, Iggy delivered a brutal kick to the man's face.
"Wooah!"
The man's jaw shattered instantly, half his face hanging grotesquely, skin torn and muscles exposed.
Iggy landed, spinning on momentum for another kick.
"Die!"
A soldier nearby raised his gun to fire, but a gust of wind swept past, and his arm vanished—severed cleanly at the elbow.
Blood gushed from the wound as the two severed forearms slammed against the wall, still gripping the weapon.
He gasped in shock, chest constricted by the force.
Iggy kicked him airborne, sending him crashing into two comrades behind.
The three collided violently—like exploding watermelons—blood and flesh splattering the walls.
They crumpled, lifeless, forming a mangled heap.
"Where's the CP4 captain?!" Iggy demanded, stalking through the stunned soldiers, leaving a trail of dark red footprints along the aisle.
At his words, four or five knives were suddenly slashed and thrust toward his head.
"What!?"
With several clangs, the blades shattered or bounced off.
The soldiers gasped, noticing Iggy's neck to half his face glowed with a dark, radiant aura.
"Armored Color Domination!"
The organizer of the attack exclaimed, eyes narrowing.
Only someone young and talented could wield Armored Color Domination on their body like that.
Despair crept into his heart.
"Tempest Kick!"
Immediately, a blue crescent arc flashed through the room.
With a sharp pop, the crescent-shaped strike sliced through seven or eight soldiers, carving a massive hole in the wall.
Debris fell as their bodies crashed down.
The cuts were surgical—muscle and bone severed as cleanly as a blade through butter.
"Ghost!!!"
One surviving soldier screamed and bolted for the exit, losing his mind in the chaos.
As he stepped outside, a sharp "chirp" sounded—the whistle of a gas bomb slicing through his chest.
Momentum slammed the deserter against the wall, his body slipping to the corridor floor.
A palm-sized, smoking hole gaped in his back.
"Are you a demon?"
Within minutes, the room was silent save for the organizer.
Night was falling outside; soldiers who had finished their duties were preparing to relax.
But death had descended suddenly, leaving no survivors.
The once lively dormitory had transformed into a hellish battlefield.
"You butcher! I won't let you win!"
The organizer revealed his fighting spirit and lunged at Iggy, wrapping him in a desperate embrace as they both fell.
"You think you can trap me like this?"
Iggy didn't struggle—his gaze held only cold disdain.
"I'm taking you down with me!"
The organizer hissed his last words with a bitter grin.
A grenade rolled between them with a grunt, ready to explode.
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