The Might of a God

Dr. Whitehall was practically petrified after answering the phone.

The composed, behind-the-scenes mastermind demeanor he had put on earlier vanished without a trace. With an expression as if he had seen a ghost, the bespectacled man slowly turned around and stared straight at Richard.

"What did you do?" he asked.

Though it was a question, his bearing had clearly weakened by a considerable margin, and his voice no longer carried the same strength as before. Fear had seeped into it instead.

Daniel Whitehall was a true desperado, even an old man who had experienced death and returned to life. For an ancient fossil like him, who had lived nearly a century, there were few things in this life that could make him so terrified.

What was truly frightening was not how powerful an enemy was, nor even death itself. It was facing something completely beyond your understanding, to the point where you were not even sure what exactly you were confronting.

Whitehall knew that in the mere dozen or so seconds they had been talking, his lair had already been wiped out.

He was certain Richard had remained within his sight the entire time. He had not left, had not called anyone, and had made no suspicious moves. Yet Whitehall had no doubt that Richard was responsible.

And his base had not merely been "destroyed." It felt more as though it had been erased outright. According to the information he had received over the phone, his entire stronghold seemed to have vanished, aboveground and underground alike. Where his base had once stood was now a dense jungle, with a winding river running alongside it.

There had been no ammunition, no signs of fighting, and not even enough time for the base's multiple alarms to go off.

It felt as though—though