The tension in the air almost solidified into a physical mass. The two bodyguards in black riot gear approached the clinic like emotionless killing machines. The telescoping stun batons in their hands emitted a tooth-aching zzzt sound. Blue high-voltage arcs danced in the air—weapons designed specifically for suppressing slum rioters. One hit was enough to send a normal person into shock.

  "Final warning." Charles stood at a safe distance, even taking the time to pull out a slim lady’s cigarette and light it methodically. "Three seconds. Scram, or stay down."

  John stood at the doorway, his legs turning to jelly.

  It was physiological instinct. The weakness brought on by his hemophobia, combined with a natural fear of authority, made him almost want to bolt.

  But he didn't move.

  Behind him was his mother, resting after surgery; the patients who pinned their hopes on him; and this tiny sanctuary he had built with so much effort.

  "Three." Charles exhaled a smoke ring.

  "Two."

  John gripped his tablet tight, his finger hovering over the [Summon] button. But his current Merit Points weren't enough to summon a combat-type Spirit. And even if he did, against a behemoth like the Guild, what could one act of resistance change?

  "One."

  Charles flicked the ash.

  "Do it."

  The bodyguard on the left grinned savagely. He raised his stun baton, aiming not at John, but viciously swinging it at Old Harry, who was blocking the front.

  "Get lost, you old fossil!"

  Harry raised his cane in terror to block.

  Zzzt!

  The baton descended with the sound of wind.

  John tried to rush forward, but he was too slow.

  In that split second.

  Whoosh.

  A white shadow burst out from the shadows of the clinic.

  There were no flashy moves, no earth-shattering roars.

  Just a crisp, hard thud—like metal striking rock.

  Whack!

  The heavy, high-voltage baton stopped mere centimeters from Harry's head.

  It had been caught by a hand.

  A hand with no flesh, only stark white bone.

  Bone.

  He stood before Harry like he’d been there all along, his towering skeletal frame acting as a wall blocking all danger. The high-voltage current—strong enough to turn a normal human into charcoal—conducted through his phalanges and surged through his entire body, emitting loud crackles and sending blue sparks skittering around his empty ribcage.

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  But he didn't even sway.

  He was a skeleton. He had no nerves, no pain receptors, and he certainly didn't fear electricity.

  The bodyguard froze. He tried to yank his baton back, only to find it wouldn't budge, as if it were welded into an iron vise.

  "You..." The bodyguard looked into the skeleton's eye sockets, burning with blue fire, and felt a chill rise from nowhere.

  Bone looked down at the fully armored brute.

  "The Boss said..."

  Bone’s throat, lacking vocal cords, produced a sound of grinding bones that resonated directly inside everyone's skulls—spine-chilling and raw.

  "We run an honest business here."

  "But if you're looking for trouble..."

  Bone’s palm suddenly clenched.

  CRACK!!!

  The police baton, forged from high-strength alloy and touted as indestructible, twisted and warped in his grip. Finally, like a fragile plastic tube, it was crushed into a twisted mess.

  Electric arcs exploded. The weapon was scrap metal.

  "...then that's a different story."

  Dead silence.

  The cigarette fell from Charles’s mouth. His professional smile finally cracked, replaced by disbelief.

  "What... what model of necromantic puppet is this?!"

  The bodyguard recovered, turning his shock into rage. He drew a backup combat dagger from his waist and stabbed viciously at Bone’s chest.

  "Die! You pile of rotten bones!"

  Clang!

  The dagger struck Bone’s rib, sending up a shower of sparks, and then... it snapped.

  Bone looked down at the broken blade, then at the bodyguard.

  "Too slow."

  He didn't use his fists. Instead, he made a move no one expected.

  He reached with his left hand and grabbed one of his own ribs on the right side.

  Click.

  He detached his own rib.

  The bone, tempered by spirit fire, gleamed with a metallic luster, curved like a natural boomerang.

  "Catch."

  Bone flicked his wrist.

  Whoosh—!

  The rib-boomerang flew out with a shrill whistle.

  It was too fast—the naked eye caught only a white blur.

  Thud! Thud!

  Two dull impacts sounded almost simultaneously.

  The rib traced an impossible arc in the air. First, it smashed into the chin of the bodyguard who had tried to stab him, sending the man flying off his feet, teeth scattering in the air. Then, it ricocheted off the wall and slammed hard into the back of the head of the second bodyguard, who was just reaching for his gun.

  Two bodyguards. Instantly down. Cold.

  The rib spun in the air and, like an obedient pet, flew back into Bone’s hand.

  Click.

  Bone snapped the rib back into his chest cavity and rolled his shoulder.

  "If my bones break, I can reconnect them."

  He turned his head, those blue-fire eyes locking onto Charles, who was now frozen in terror.

  "But if your teeth break... you'll have to get implants."

  Charles looked at his elite bodyguards lying on the ground, then at Bone who was advancing step by step. Finally, he felt fear. His legs shook, and the mask of the "upper class" completely crumbled.

  "You... what do you want?!" Charles shrieked, backing away, dropping his briefcase. "I'm with the Guild! If you touch me, you're declaring war on the entire Necromancy Guild! You'll die horribly!"

  Bone said nothing. He raised his massive skeletal hand.

  "Don't!" John shouted suddenly.

  Bone froze.

  John stepped forward, grabbing Bone’s arm. He knew that if they actually killed Charles, the nature of this conflict would change. It would no longer be self-defense; it would be a declaration of war. They couldn't afford a full-scale retaliation from the Guild yet.

  "Let him go," John said coldly.

  Bone lowered his hand and pointed a finger toward the mouth of the alley.

  "Scram."

  Charles looked like he’d been granted a pardon from the governor. He didn't even spare a glance for his fallen bodyguards. He scrambled on all fours into the luxury sedan.

  "You just wait! You just wait!"

  He yelled empty threats from inside the car, then slammed the accelerator. The car spewed black smoke as it fled the scene in a panic.

  The alley erupted in cheers.

  "We won! We actually won!"

  "That skeleton is a god!"

  "A hero!"

  Old Harry excitedly patted Bone on the shoulder (though he hurt his own hand doing it), and Grandma Evelyn tried to stuff a hard-boiled egg she’d just cooked into Bone’s hands.

  John watched the scene, but there was little joy in his heart.

  He knew this was just the beginning.

  Charles was just a dog. If you beat the dog, the master comes out.

  Next time, it wouldn't be low-level thugs. It would be real Mages, or an army.

  "Bone," John said, looking at the skeleton who stood awkwardly surrounded by the crowd.

  "Good work."

  "But we need to prepare for bigger trouble."

  Inside Bone’s empty eye sockets, the blue fire burned calmly.

  "I am not afraid."

  The voice echoed in John’s mind, simple and unshakeable.

  "I told you. I am your shield."

  "No matter who comes... as long as I stand, no one touches you."

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