My SuperVillain System: Building Legion of SSS-Ranked SuperHeroines
Chapter 93- Dealing with Villains?

Chapter 93: Chapter 93- Dealing with Villains?

The afternoon sun glazed the sky in molten gold, a steady blaze that shimmered across the sprawling plains.

The train roared through the wilderness like a black dagger, its carriages rattling in rhythm, steam bleeding into the dry heat above. Dust chased it, swirling in coils along the steel tracks.

Above, on its humming roof, six shadows clung low against the wind.

Each of them was masked—angular, silver-faced things that reflected the sunlight like blades. They wore lightweight armor beneath high-collared cloaks, matte-black and wind-swept.

In their gloved hands, polished rods clicked against their thighs, ready and trained.

"We’re approaching Car Five," muttered the one in front, crouched near the seam of the car.

His voice was calm but alert—processed through a voice modulator beneath the mask.

The second closest leaned forward, surveying the roof ahead. "Alpha and Bravo are in place?"

"Confirmed. Cargo’s being swept for the serum. We’re the entry team—secure, interrogate, retrieve."

Another chuckled under his breath. "Feels like overkill for a gene serum."

The leader’s voice cut through. "Commander’s orders. You know how she is... especially when it concerns him."

They all paused for a beat.

That name had passed around like a whisper these past days.

Even the commander—someone they’d never seen flinch—had asked about him again and again.

Then the hatch below clicked.

Unlocked... from inside.

The lid swung open. A breeze rose up from the sudden gap, fluttering their cloaks.

And standing there—looking up at them from within the carriage—was a man.

Cleanly dressed, almost out of place among the grit and dust. A soft cream turtleneck, slim-fitted under a tailored charcoal coat. Polished leather shoes. His hair was dark, swept back neatly, and his posture almost careless. One hand rested in his pocket, the other holding a gun.

He looked at them with the air of someone who already knew too much.

"...Cruxius Blac," one of the men whispered.

There was no doubt.

That face, which they had recognized so many times after searching for details about what he ate, drank, and his daily habits and movements, confirmed that he was the son of Raekin Blac—Head of one of the twenty richest families in the world.

"Took you long enough," Cruxius said calmly, his eyes observing the men who clearly intended to attack him. Their eyes glaring at him in recognition made it apparent they recognized him.

Now, fulfilling his intention to see if they were able to recognize him, he slowly started to wear his mask. Given that it was just a double check, he knew that if they recognized him, then most probably that woman would have been on that train, especially since she would have forced these people to search for details about him.

The glaze in their eyes showed evidence that they were too familiar with him.

Another one of the masked soldiers stepped forward. "Shouldn’t he be on the other train?"

"No," said a third, quieter. "Then that means the commander took the wrong one..."

’This confirms.’ Cruxius smiled faintly as he viciously said, "Not just the wrong one, but one where she might get a gift."

"You don’t understand," one of them hissed, his voice tense now. "The commander cannot be killed."

Cruxius pulled out a sleek black mask with a star pattern from his coat pocket—smooth, angular, and shaped to his face—and slid it on with a quiet hiss of air-seal.

That smile beneath it might as well have remained.

’Comrades.’ He categorized them as close allies who had knowledge of their commander’s ability to be unkillable.

That made them valuable.

But more importantly—it made them predictable.

Cruxius stepped forward into the afternoon light flooding the open hatch.

"Then I suppose," he said, "you’ll all die believing that."

Swish.

"Hope the commander forgives us!"

They rushed him.

The first man lunged in, rod spinning like a blur. Cruxius ducked under the swing and stepped in, elbow jabbing into the man’s side.

A second swung from behind—Cruxius bent forward, letting the rod slice above him, catching only the air where his head had been.

They were fast. Clean. Surgical. Years of training behind every strike. No theatrics—just efficient movement, flawless execution.

But Cruxius wasn’t slow either.

He turned sideways as two rods came from both sides, pivoting on his heel and letting both miss by inches. The wind from them brushed his shoulders.

A knee struck his back.

He grunted, stumbled forward.

And in that instant—

A glint of metal.

A short blade.

It pierced him cleanly, right below the ribs.

Straight through the heart.

"Ow, that hurts," he gasped—just once. He looked down at the blade, the blood soaking his elegant shirt.

The attacker twisted the handle.

One of the others stepped forward, voice even. "Honestly... I was nearly impressed. Your movement is clean. But in the end—"

"You were just outnumbered," another finished.

Cruxius looked up.

Through the mask, they couldn’t see it—but he was smiling.

Then—

The world turned.

Time recoiled like a whip.

Light bent.

Sound faded.

And Cruxius stood again.

Right where he had been, just before the first strike. Fresh, unpierced, breathing slowly.

The six masked men stood in front of him again, about to lunge.

He flexed his hand.

"I might’ve overestimated myself," he said aloud, stretching his shoulders. "Thinking I could keep it clean."

The masked soldiers slowed.

They sensed it.

All around them—like droplets in midair—tiny portals began to open.

They were only a few centimeters wide. Dozens of them. Then hundreds. Floating in every corner of the train car, the aisle, the ceiling. Barely visible, silent... until you noticed them staring back like tiny eyes.

"What the—"

Cruxius reached into his coat and drew a chrome-plated Desert Eagle, sleek and heavy.

"I brought insurance," he said, and pulled the trigger. As a flicker of purple light shrouded his gun, it was clear he used Kino Control to boost the kinetic energy of the bullet, which was split into several dimensions.

BOOM.

The shot echoed like thunder inside the car—but the sound was followed instantly by an orchestra of death.

The portals answered.

From each of the hundreds of mini-tears in space, identical bullets burst out at once.

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT—

The world turned red.

Blood exploded against the glass windows. Limbs flew as bodies were riddled from impossible angles. One man spun midair as five bullets drilled into his spine, throwing him into the wall. Another tried to roll beneath a seat—a portal opened below him, firing straight through his back.

They screamed—but only for a second. Then silence.

The final masked soldier, coughing blood, tried to crawl forward, hand stretched. But the floor was slick. He slipped, falling face-first into the pool of red already growing beneath the seats.

Cruxius lowered his gun.

[Use of Dimensional Morph Detected (B+): Reset time is 24 hours]

[Use of Kino Control detected (B): Reset time is 24 hours]

The portals snapped shut like eyelids closing.

Cruxius observed the system screen, popping and telling him that his ability would now freeze for 24 hours. He was much calmer, even though he knew that he needed to deal with superheroes too, who would arrive here and definitely would not be as weak as these people.