Hunt In Reverse

The air in the H.A.R.M. Medical Ward buzzed with a nervous energy. Agents, some limping, others with bandages stained crimson, shuffled between the thirty or so attic rooms lining the hallway.

Amidst the sterile white walls and the metallic scent of antiseptic, a simple bamboo hut stood out like a wildflower in a hospital bed.

The figures striding into the hut wore uniforms emblazoned with at least four stars, each one signifying the rank of lieutenant colonel or higher.

A sturdy young man approaching the hut stood out as an exception. He didn't even wear uniform, just simple civilian clothes.

Cradling his right arm close to his body, he pushed open the small door with his left hand. To the figure inside—clad in pristine white against the bamboo walls—he respectfully called out, "Senior Brother Bai."

The young man inside chuckled. 'Must you always greet me with such a frown?"

Dr. Bai, as others called him, possessed effortless charm. His dark chocolate eyes held a playful glint, and his smooth, porcelain skin glowed. He sat before a low table, his deft hands quickly sorting through a plate of fragrant medicinal herbs.

Without looking up, he said gently, "Place your arm here."

Max Vierkant obediently sat down cross-legged and lifted his right arm onto the low table.

Senior Brother Bai deftly produced a few fine needles, as thin as ox hair, and inserted them into Max's arm without even glancing at it. As he continued sorting the precious herbs, he said, "Bear with it—you'll be almost fully healed after today."

Max Vierkant hung his head, his eyes vacant. His broad back resembled that of a bear. The intense agony of vein repair—enough to make a battle-hardened agent grit their teeth—couldn't elicit a reaction from him. Yet, something weighed heavily on his mind.

"No need to worry." Sensing his distress, Senior Brother Bai pushed the herbs back into the cabinet and finally looked up. "The opponent didn't strike hard," he reassured Max, his voice gentle. "There won't be any lasting effects."

"Thank you, Senior Brother."

Max snapped back to reality, his mind clearly preoccupied with matters beyond his injured arm. Yet, he offered no further explanation for his distraction.

Just then, two individuals carrying clay pots entered the bamboo hut, whispering and nodding respectfully towards Dr. Bai.

Alex Bai, the Admiral's third disciple and a Lieutenant Colonel, had attained the peak of the Wave Realm over thirty years ago. He was also acclaimed as H.A.R.M. Cascadia's finest physician.

"Go ahead," Dr. Bai said, gently nodding his chin towards the inner room.

Suddenly, he noticed a flicker of tension in his junior brother's eye. The sturdy figure abruptly stood, turning to grip one of the men's wrists, his voice laced with ice. "Why are you here?"

Being stared at by those sharp, battle-hardened eyes was like being targeted by a ferocious beast.

Dave Gray and Stewart Atzmon's hearts raced, causing the clay pots in their hands to rattle. Their voices came out breathless: "Sir… Sir Vierkant…"

Before they could finish, Max Vierkant, ignoring the fine needles still sticking in his right arm, rushed into the inner room.

Senior Brother Bai's clinic was reserved for lieutenant colonels and above, or those with critical injuries beyond the capabilities of the general medical ward. An exception to this rule was Ethan Atzmon, who was on the verge of promotion to lieutenant colonel.

Sure enough, as soon as Max lifted the curtain, he saw Ethan Atzmon lying on the bed, swathed in bandages like a mummy.

Max's pupils constricted, his teeth clenched. He strode over, abruptly pulled Ethan Atzmon upright. "Where is he?" He roared.

A silver needle flashed through the air, finding its mark with pinpoint accuracy. A wave of weakness washed over Max, forcing him to release Ethan. He stumbled back, his shoulder hitting the wall with a thud. He looked helplessly towards the young man standing calmly in the doorway.

Senior Brother Bai, his needle case now tucked away, gestured for the enraged Stewart Atzmon and his companion to leave. He then turned his attention to Max. "Come," he said, his voice soothing. "Tell me what's going on. Who are you looking for?"

Max approached and sank onto a stool, his shoulders slumping. "John Kane," he mumbled. "I'm afraid something might happen to him."

"Who is John Kane?" Dr. Bai withdrew his gaze.

With a sigh, Max recounted the entire story, from Senior Sister Hightower's recommendation to John Kane's abrupt departure from the admiral's residence, leaving no detail unexamined.

"So, he's the one who injured your arm?" Alex chuckled, finding it rather amusing.

"I was careless," Max admitted, closing his eyes as if to banish the memory.

"You didn't think much of him anyway," Alex pointed out, "so why does it matter that he left? Why are you looking for him?" He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. Cascadia was a vast land, teeming with talented individuals and strange encounters. Even someone with innate divine eyes mastering the Shadow Touch in a single day was hardly surprising.

"Senior Sister recommended him as a disciple," Max countered, his voice tight. "Whether he stays or not is Master's decision. My opinion of him is irrelevant. But he shouldn't have overstepped the bounds." Max struggled to control his right arm.

"Even if you had stopped him that day," Alex Bai said, a faint smile playing on his lips, "Master wouldn't have kept him." He glanced towards the inner room, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

H.A.R.M., short for Hazardous Anomaly Response and Mitigation Division, not Vampire Response and Mitigation Division, deals with far more than just vampires. Martial artists who surpass the First Realm are anomalies themselves, exceeding the boundaries of the ordinary.

H.A.R.M. wields butcher knives to clear the path, then lures with precious treasures, drawing Cascadia's young talents into its fold.

The organization provides access to the finest martial arts training and potent elixirs, deploying these recruits to slay vampires and eliminate threats, consuming both vampires and martial artists in the pursuit of a delicate balance.

Schools and families who refuse to surrender their disciples to this system, like Everwatch Securities, become targets themselves. After all, uncontrolled martial artists can wreak havoc on par with any vampire.

None of the Admiral's five disciples hail from established schools or influential families. The most privileged among them is, perhaps, the child of a tobacco merchant. The same holds true for the H.A.R.M. generals overseeing the twelve cities.

Lacking powerful backings, these individuals are bound to New Terra, willing to risk their lives battling vampires. This unwavering loyalty is the Admiral's primary criterion for selecting disciples.

Talent is a secondary concern. Resources can be invested to develop potential. Unless an individual is a once-in-a-century prodigy or utterly incapable of grasping even basic martial arts, the differences in ability are ultimately negligible.

"In any case, the decision isn't mine to make," Max said, his voice firm. "Besides, Senior Sister Hightower's interest in him goes beyond simply recommending him as a disciple. There's trouble brewing in Pinewood County; he can't just disappear."

Max Vierkant stood up, pulled the needles from his arm. He then bowed respectfully. "I'm a rough man, Senior Brother," he admitted. "I hope you can guide me."

Alex Bai raised an eyebrow. "Speak like a civilized human," he advised, "and act like one."

Max blinked, confusion evident in his eyes. "Could you be more specific?"

"..."

Alex sighed, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Pay him a visit," he instructed. "Bring gifts, offer a sincere apology..." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "And be careful. Don't come back here with another injury, wasting my precious medicine. You're not a Lieutenant Colonel; these treatments are expensive, and I'm footing the bill."

"I understand," Max replied, "Thank you for your guidance, Senior Brother Bai."

He turned and walked out of the bamboo hut, his gaze falling upon the two men squatting nervously outside. He hesitated, then spoke, "May I ask—"

"Ask what?" Dave Gray scrambled to his feet.

"Where is John Kane?" Max asked, frowning slightly. The effort of politeness felt unfamiliar.

"He's at—" Dave Gray began, instinctively pointing, but Stewart Atzmon abruptly grabbed his arm.

Damn, he's being so polite. Dave thought, his heart pounding. Almost forgot this guy is a martial fanatic.

Max, his gaze lingering on the two men for a moment, turned and strode out of the medical ward.

An hour later, a sturdy figure walked across a quiet park, pausing before a closed door. He hesitated, then raised his hand and knocked.

Knock, knock, knock.

The door swung open, revealing a pot-bellied man, a head taller than Max, his burly frame filling the doorway. Butcher Garcia, his eyes heavy with sleep, blinked at the young man standing on his doorstep, oranges in his left hand, dried meat in his right.

"Are you … looking for someone?" Garcia mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "May I have your name?"

"Max Vierkant," the young man replied, his expression unreadable.