The Hero Returns with his Yandere Wife-Chapter 27 - 26

Four grunts blocked his path, their sudden presence a wall of menace that stopped him cold.

One warrior wielded a massive hammer, its head scarred and heavy with the weight of countless battles, promising destruction with every swing. Another gripped an axe, its blade worn and dulled, yet no less lethal. The third bore twin blades, so sharp that they sparked when their edges grazed each other. The last carried a gun, its barrels trained on Ryn, trembling with uncertain hands.

Their eyes widened as they spotted Ryn, flames flickering faintly from his body, a beacon of threat in the dim light, and one shouted, his voice cracking with alarm—"Intruder!"

The three melee fighters charged forward in a ragged line, their weapons raised, while the gunman held back, fingers twitching on his trigger, covering their advance.

Ryn's eyes blazed, twin infernos of rage and desperation, as fire roared from his hands with a sound like a storm breaking, the heat warping the air as he lunged forward to meet the first grunt head-on.

The hammer swung toward Ryn's head in a brutal arc, a blow meant to crush his skull, but he ducked low, flames wrapping around his leg in a searing coil as he kicked upward with explosive force, shattering the man's jaw with a sickening crunch that echoed through the foyer.

The second grunt with the axe lunged next, his weapon slicing through the air toward Ryn's side, a strike aimed to cleave him open—but Ryn twisted, grabbing the axe mid-swing with a hand wreathed in fire, and with one fluid, savage motion, he buried it into the grunt's chest, blood spraying across his face in a hot, visceral arc as the man crumpled lifeless to the floor.

The third grunt, wielding dual blades that gleamed with malicious intent, slashed toward Ryn in a flurry of steel, his movements quick and frenzied—still holding the axe, Ryn swung it in a brutal, quick, sweeping arc, cleaving the man's throat in a spray of crimson, the body collapsing with a sickening thud that reverberated against the tiled walls.

The gunman fired, bullets slicing through the air with a sharp whine, each one a deadly promise aimed at Ryn's heart.

Ryn raised a wall of fire with a flick of his wrist, the flames surging upward in a roaring curtain, melting the bullets into harmless droplets of lead before they could reach him, the heat so intense it scorched the air itself.

The gun clicked empty, the grunt's hands fumbling in panic as he scrambled to reload, his eyes wide with terror.

Ryn didn't wait—he closed the distance in a single, predatory bound, driving the axe through the grunt's skull with a force that split bone and silenced his cries, the body slumping as blood pooled beneath it in a dark, spreading stain.

More footsteps echoed down the hall, rapid and heavy, as two additional grunts burst from a side corridor, their presence a sudden surge of danger that tightened Ryn's grip on the axe, its handle slick with the blood of those he'd already felled.

One carried a rifle, his finger squeezing the trigger as bullets spat forth in a wild spray—Ryn ducked, rolling to the side with Elena cradled against him, the projectiles pinging off the tiled floor in a chaotic ricochet that sparked against the walls.

The second grunt, a wiry figure with eyes glowing an eerie green, snarled as his hands crackled with energy, arcs of electricity dancing between his fingers—a superpower, Ryn realized, his gut clenching as the grunt thrust his palms forward, unleashing a bolt of lightning that streaked through the air, bright and deadly, aimed straight for Ryn's chest.

Ryn dove, shielding Elena with his body as the bolt struck the ground where he'd stood, the explosion of energy shattering tiles and sending a shockwave that rattled his bones—he grunted, pain flaring through his shoulder, but he rolled to his feet, axe raised, his dark eyes blazing with unyielding fury.

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The rifleman fired again, bullets whizzing past Ryn's head as he charged forward, closing the distance with a roar that echoed through the foyer—he swung the axe in a vicious, downward arc, catching the grunt's outstretched arm and severing it at the elbow with a spray of blood and a scream that pierced the air, the rifle clattering to the ground as the man staggered back, clutching the stump in agony.

Ryn didn't pause, driving the axe into the grunt's chest with a force that split ribs and silenced his cries, the blade sinking deep as blood gushed forth, the body collapsing in a lifeless heap that joined the growing carnage at his feet.

The powered grunt hissed, his green eyes flaring brighter as he unleashed another bolt, this one wider, a crackling wave of electricity that tore through the air with a sound like thunder—Ryn dodged, diving low with Elena in his arms, the blast scorching the wall behind him, leaving a blackened scar and the acrid stench of ozone in its wake.

He sprang up, his breath ragged, his muscles trembling with exhaustion, and hurled himself at the grunt, the axe swinging with all the desperation and rage he could muster—the blade met resistance as the grunt raised his hands, a shimmering electric field sparking to life to deflect the strike, the air humming with power as the axe's edge skidded against it.

Ryn roared, pressing harder, flames licking along the axe's blade as he poured his heat into the weapon, the metal glowing red-hot—the electric shield wavered, flickering under the onslaught, and with a final, savage push, it shattered, the energy dissipating in a burst of sparks that lit the foyer like a storm.

The axe plunged into the grunt's chest, then his shoulder, then his skull in a relentless flurry of blows, each strike a thunderous testament to Ryn's refusal to let Elena die—blood sprayed, hot and thick, coating his arms, his face, his soul, as the grunt's green glow faded, his body crumpling to the floor in a broken, lifeless heap, the electricity dying with him.

The last surviving grunt stumbled back from the carnage, his rifle slipping from trembling hands, terror etching deep lines into his face as he met Ryn's gaze—those dark eyes blazing with a fury that promised no mercy, no reprieve, only the end of everything he was.

Ryn's voice was a low, dangerous growl, dripping with the weight of every life he'd taken to reach this moment, a sound that carried the exhaustion and resolve of a man who'd waded through hell—"Where's the medic?"

"T-Top floor! T-Top floor!" the grunt stammered, his words tumbling over each other in a frantic, pitiful plea for mercy that Ryn had no intention of granting, his heart too consumed by the need to save Elena to spare a single thought for this coward.

Without hesitation, Ryn buried the axe in his chest, the blade sinking deep with a wet, visceral crunch that reverberated through the foyer, the body crumpling to the ground as blood pooled beneath it, joining the growing sea of crimson that marked his path through this slaughter.

Adjusting Elena in his arms, her faint warmth against his chest the only thing keeping him grounded, Ryn sprinted toward the stairs, his muscles ached with every step but his will unyielding.

He raced up the narrow flights, taking two steps at a time, his breath burning in his lungs like molten steel, Elena's faint pulse quickening against his chest—a fragile thread of hope he clung to with every fiber of his being.

"Hold on, Elena—just a little longer," he whispered, his voice a ragged prayer as he pushed himself beyond the limits of exhaustion, the weight of her life driving him forward when his body begged to stop.

He reached the top floor, his legs trembling beneath him, and kicked the door open with a deafening thud that splintered the frame, the sound reverberating through the darkened hallway like a war drum announcing his arrival.

The corridor stretched before him, dim and shadowed, lined with broken gurneys and shattered glass, the air thick with the stench of antiseptic and decay—a hospital turned battlefield, its sanctity long lost to the war that raged outside.

Footsteps echoed from the far end, heavy and deliberate, accompanied by the faint hum of machinery—a generator, perhaps, or something more sinister.

Ryn's dark eyes narrowed, flames flickering along his hands as he stepped forward, Elena's weight a constant reminder of why he couldn't falter.

Soon, he reached the top floor and kicked the door open with a deafening thud, and he looked at the figure bounds by chains, all alone, in the darkness lit only by the moonlight.