Reincarnated with a lucky draw system - Chapter 203

Chapter 203: ASTRID’S NEW ALLY
“Spit it out already, Bruce. What do you want?” Luthor demanded, cutting straight to the point with a voice like gravel, unwilling to indulge Bruce’s penchant for mind games, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he gripped the tablet with a force that threatened to crack its sleek casing.

“Come now, Luthor. It’s not what I want this time around. It’s more like how I want to help you,” Bruce replied, his voice smooth and confident, carrying a calculated charm that was designed to pique curiosity. As he expected, his words hooked Luthor’s attention, the bait too enticing to ignore in the midst of his dire situation.

“What do you mean?” Luthor asked, his brow furrowing deeply, the creases in his forehead etching lines of reluctant intrigue. He hated giving Bruce the satisfaction of knowing he’d sparked his curiosity, but with the perilous situation closing in—Edmond tearing through his defenses like a storm through a flimsy barricade—he couldn’t resist probing further, his fingers drumming restlessly against the tablet’s edge.

“Knowing you’re in a tight spot, and for all the warm times we’ve shared as… friends,” Bruce said with a deliberate pause, his tone dripping with mock sincerity, “I sent an ally your way to save you from your impending doom.” A confident smile played across his lips, visible even through the tablet’s high-definition feed, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a chess player unveiling a masterful move.

Luthor’s expression darkened, his skepticism warring with a flicker of desperate hope. “You don’t understand, Bruce. Not even your Alpha Squad can stop him. He’s different from us—better, almost like a higher being,” Luthor explained, his voice low and grudging, unwilling to let false hope take root only to be crushed by Edmond’s shadowy wrath. The memory of his soldiers’ futile attempts flashed in his mind, their bodies strewn across the battlefield like broken toys.

“Of course I’m aware of that. It would be foolish to bring sticks to a gunfight,” Bruce replied, his voice laced with a smug assurance that grated on Luthor’s nerves. “That’s why I sent someone special. Just like him. Perhaps… too special.” He swirled the wine in his crystal glass, the deep crimson liquid catching the soft glow of his opulent office’s chandeliers, his mild smile never wavering as he watched the same feed Luthor was monitoring, Edmond’s shadowy figure dispatching soldiers with ruthless efficiency.

“What do you mean?” Luthor pressed, his voice sharp with urgency, leaning closer to the tablet as if proximity could extract the truth faster, his tattooed arm tensing as he braced for whatever scheme Bruce was unveiling.

“You’ll see. His appearance is going to change the game for you. It’s a new revolution for planet Astrid, achieved through my dutiful foresight,” Bruce said proudly, his tone carrying the weight of someone who believed himself the architect of destiny, his eyes glinting with ambition as he leaned back in his plush chair, the tapestries behind him depicting Astrid’s glorious past now seeming like a backdrop to his own grandeur.

“What did you do, Bruce?” Luthor asked, his voice heavy with suspicion. He knew Bruce too well—every achievement of his came with a hidden cost, a negative ripple that could destabilize everything. The leader of Stronghold One was not one to act without a calculated agenda, and Luthor’s gut churned with unease at the thought of what strings might be attached to this so-called aid.

Boom!

The conversation was abruptly shattered by a deafening explosion, the sealed door of the control room blasted inward with a force that sent fragments of reinforced metal scattering across the floor like shrapnel, the air filling with the acrid scent of scorched steel and dust.

“Luthor,” a calm voice called out, its tone carrying an eerie serenity as a figure stepped through the jagged remains of the doorway, shadows wrapping around his visage like a living cloak, their tendrils writhing with a life of their own, casting an ominous silhouette against the flickering lights.

“Edmond,” Luthor replied, identifying the young man with a single word, his voice steady despite the dread coiling in his chest. He remained seated, exuding a calm defiance as he awaited his fate, his cocky grin replaced by a grim acceptance, his hands resting casually on the arms of his chair.

“Ah, Edmond. Nice to finally meet you in person,” Bruce greeted through the call, now broadcast on a larger monitor screen mounted on the control room wall, his voice warm and familiar, as if welcoming an old friend. His smile was genuine, a rare glimpse of sincerity beneath his usual mask of calculated charm, his eyes fixed on Edmond’s shadowy figure displayed on his own screen in Stronghold One.

Edmond’s gaze shifted to the monitor, his eyes narrowing as he met Bruce’s projected image with cold indifference. “Bruce. Wait patiently. I’ll be coming for you as well. Before then, I advise you surrender and pledge loyalty to my lord when he returns,” he said calmly, his voice carrying an unshakable conviction, each word resonating with the weight of his mission, his shadowy form seeming to pulse with latent power.

The special security guards within the room, clad in advanced tactical gear, had their weapons trained on Edmond, barrels gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. But none dared pull the trigger, their hands trembling slightly as memories of Edmond’s ruthless efficiency flashed through their minds—soldiers torn apart, shadows consuming life with terrifying ease. In the face of such a deathly presence, no one was willing to sacrifice their life needlessly, their breaths shallow and eyes wide with fear.

“Nah, I’m not sold on your god or lord or whatever,” Bruce replied, waving off Edmond’s offer with a dismissive flick of his hand, his wine glass catching the light as he leaned forward slightly. “I don’t serve people who seek my loyalty through proxies on this planet. If he wants to control Astrid, he should have come through me and no one else,” he said flatly, his tone laced with defiance, his smile sharpening into something predatory.

“Very well then. We shall meet soon,” Edmond promised, his voice cold and final as he vanished into a linked shadow, reappearing instantly behind Luthor with blinding speed, his shadow dagger pressed lightly against Luthor’s neck, the blade’s edge a whisper of death against his skin.

“What about you, Luthor? Will you surrender or not?” Edmond asked, applying just enough pressure to draw a thin bead of blood, the crimson droplet sliding down Luthor’s neck and staining the collar of his beach shirt.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to stop your actions. He’s a leader of Astrid, and per our new agreement signed and sealed by Bruce, we can’t allow you to kill any more leaders of Astrid,” another voice interjected, its calm authority drawing the attention of everyone in the room, a sudden shift in the atmosphere that made the air feel heavier, more oppressive.

Sitting calmly on a chair in the corner of the control room was a young man with intricately braided hair, his dark skin contrasting sharply with the glowing red gem embedded in the center of his forehead, its hue pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. His slim but fit physique exuded a quiet strength, his posture relaxed yet commanding, as if he belonged to the space more than anyone else present. The man’s presence was a shock to everyone, for the way he sat—legs crossed casually, hands resting lightly on his knees—suggested he had been there for a long time, unnoticed and unacknowledged, blending seamlessly into the background until this moment.

“Oh, it seems you’ve been there all along,” Bruce called out through the monitor, a triumphant look spreading across his face, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a plan unfolding perfectly.

“Who are you?” Edmond asked, his stance shifting subtly as he went on guard, his instincts prickling with unease. Since gaining his powers from Aaron, this man—calmly seated and radiating an aura of unshakable confidence—was the first to make him feel genuinely threatened, a sensation that crawled up his spine like icy fingers.