The Phantom Slayer Steps In

The sun hung low over City Z as Azar strolled through the back alleys, searching for anything that could push him to the next level. Lately, the encounters had been too easy; the monsters, too weak. His Law of Devouring gave him a constant, simmering hunger, a need to grow stronger, faster. The power he'd gained so far had left him almost untouchable against most monsters he'd come across, yet he craved more.

As he rounded a corner, the sound of a distant struggle caught his attention. He paused, listening as the noises grew louder—grunts, the sharp clanging of metal, and the unmistakable roar of a monster. A faint smile crossed his lips as he made his way toward the commotion.

A few blocks down, a small group of C-Class heroes were locked in battle with a Tiger-level monster, a hulking creature covered in dense, armored scales with spiked limbs that lashed out unpredictably. The heroes—three in total—moved with admirable coordination, but it was clear they were struggling. Every strike they landed barely scratched the monster's thick hide, and each time they tried to retreat, the creature advanced, relentless in its assault.

Azar leaned casually against a nearby wall, watching them fight with a mixture of amusement and frustration. Despite their best efforts, the heroes' attacks were sloppy, predictable, and ultimately ineffective. The monster showed no signs of slowing down, its roars echoing off the walls as it flung one of the heroes back with a powerful swipe.

The hero—an exhausted young man with a shield—crashed into a dumpster, groaning as he struggled to stand. Azar sighed, shaking his head. The whole scene was almost painful to watch.

Finally, his patience snapped.

He stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "You lot planning on taking it down anytime soon?" he called out, his voice carrying an air of irritation. The heroes turned, their faces filled with a mixture of surprise and relief. None of them had noticed him approach, and his sudden appearance had startled them.

"Who are you?" one of them asked, a young woman with a bow. She was breathing heavily, barely able to keep her weapon steady as she glanced between him and the monster.

"Does it matter?" Azar replied, unsheathing his sword with a fluid motion. "If you can't kill it, I'll take care of it for you."

The heroes exchanged uncertain glances. Though grateful for the assistance, they couldn't ignore the faint sense of intimidation Azar's presence seemed to bring. There was an intensity in his eyes, a calm certainty that he could do what they'd been struggling with for the last several minutes.

The monster noticed Azar's approach, its eyes narrowing as it let out a low growl. It lunged, its spiked limbs crashing down toward him, but Azar moved faster than any of the heroes could follow. With one swift, precise slash, he cleaved through the creature's arm, causing it to stumble back in pain.

He didn't waste any time. Before the monster could recover, he moved forward, delivering a lethal blow to its torso. The creature let out a final, shuddering roar before collapsing to the ground, motionless.

Azar placed his hand on its body, his eyes gleaming as he absorbed its essence. A rush of power surged through him, and he felt his strength increase ever so slightly. The familiar, intoxicating sensation of newfound power brought a satisfied smirk to his face.

The heroes stared at him, awe-struck and speechless. They had barely managed to scratch the monster, and this stranger had dispatched it in seconds, with an ease that bordered on dismissive.

"Thank you… sir," the hero with the shield stammered, stepping forward. "We… we didn't know if we could handle it ourselves. You saved us."

Azar shrugged, sheathing his sword. "If you can't handle a simple Tiger-level monster, you might want to reconsider this whole 'hero' thing," he said, his tone blunt but not entirely unkind. "Getting yourselves killed doesn't help anyone."

The heroes looked down, embarrassed but unable to argue. Azar's words stung, yet they held a brutal truth. They were still new to the hero world, and the dangers they faced were more than they'd anticipated.

The archer, regaining some of her composure, looked up at him, her eyes filled with curiosity. "Are… are you with the Hero Association?" she asked tentatively.

Azar's expression shifted, a faint smirk crossing his lips. "No," he replied simply. "I don't care about your rankings or your titles. I'm just doing what I feel like."

The heroes exchanged glances, both grateful and intimidated by his nonchalance. His strength was undeniable, and his detachment only made him more enigmatic.

"So… are you some kind of rogue hero?" the shield-wielding hero ventured, curiosity lacing his words.

Azar chuckled, shaking his head. "You can call me whatever you want. I don't care about the labels."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the heroes staring after him, speechless. They didn't know what to make of him, this mysterious figure who appeared out of nowhere, dealt with monsters as if they were an afterthought, and left without so much as a second glance.

As he disappeared into the distance, the heroes felt a strange mixture of admiration and unease. He was powerful, that much was certain, but his motivations remained a mystery. In a world where heroes fought for justice, fame, or fortune, he seemed driven by something else entirely, something they couldn't quite place.

The rumors continued to spread, gaining traction with each encounter. Azar was fast becoming a local legend, a mysterious powerhouse with no allegiance, no loyalty, and no care for heroism. To the public, he was an enigma—a force to be respected, even feared.

And as the whispers grew, so did his reputation. The Hero Association took note of him, marking his actions in their records and wondering if this "Phantom Slayer" might be an ally, a rogue, or something far more dangerous.

But to Azar, it was all background noise. He didn't care about the stories or the labels. His only focus was on the next battle, the next source of power, and the steady, thrilling climb toward something greater.

He was not a hero, nor a villain, but a force unto himself—a phantom, moving through the world with a singular goal. And nothing, not monsters, heroes, or the weight of his own reputation, would stop him.