My Idle System

In a city that had just barely survived the earthquakes shaking the state, a sudden sonic boom and the deep rumble of bombardment — something missile-like — swept through the streets.

Panic gripped everyone who hadn't yet fled… and even those who had come running toward the city in search of refuge.

At first, they thought it was another earthquake.

Then, they feared it was a missile.

Then… they simply became confused, unable to tell what the hell was going on anymore.

And at the heart of that chaos — or, more accurately, very close to the source —

Christian stood on the roof of a tall building, gazing down at the remnants of what had once been an extravagant party.

His eyes tracked the bullet's trajectory, still faintly glowing in the air, like a thin scar carved into the sky.

They glinted with appreciation.

There was something childlike in his expression — a gleam of excitement, pride — as he watched the masterpiece unfold in the hands of a seasoned assassin like Nina.

He looked at the ground-level chaos in the building next door, the screaming figures scattering like ants, and couldn't help but murmur:

"Beautiful."

… Maybe he really did have the potential to join the Liberation Front?

Strangely, that thought came to him without warning.

But Christian only chuckled to himself and dismissed it.

He knew it wasn't the whole truth.

After all, he did feel a twinge of guilt — or something close to it — for the panicked civilians, the displaced families, the ones who had fled here seeking safety.

But that didn't change what had to be done.

He'd already done his best for them too.

He'd informed the local government of the coming battle.

He'd sent anonymous alerts to any still-working phones nearby, urging them to evacuate and take others with them.

That was more than enough.

That they were still living through panic and fear in this moment?

He didn't care.

They needed to adapt to the world that was coming.

And at the very least, he was making sure none of them were injured or killed.

If someone took advantage of the chaos to spread more destruction?

That wasn't his problem.

It was the government's.

Christian, like always, had a lot on his mind.

But his gaze?

It never wavered — still locked on the building across from him.

And now, noticing that some survivors had finally started slipping out, trying to escape, he turned to Alpha at his side and said calmly:

"Don't let anyone run away."

Alpha nodded, her expression gentle, unbothered by the chaos consuming the city around them.

Then, without hesitation, she jumped from the fifth-story rooftop to the ground below, vanishing into the motion and madness.

Christian remained where he was, quietly observing.

His attention now zeroed in on one figure.

The leader of the Drevane family.

A woman who looked to be in her thirties…

But Christian knew she was far older than she appeared.

At first, she had her eyes cast toward the distance — over three kilometers away — toward the place where his lovely Nina continued to snipe her subordinates like chickens in a coop.

She didn't seem concerned by Alpha tearing through her people down below.

But maybe his gaze carried a different weight?

Because, suddenly, she turned.

And locked eyes with him.

Blood clung to her body like war paint.

Her eyes burned with fury.

She glared at him — not startled, not afraid — just cold, sharp anger, cut through with disbelief and rage.

So Christian, always the gentleman, decided to be the accommodating one.

He smiled brightly.

And raised a hand…

Waving at her.

Cheerfully. Almost playfully.

Maybe that wasn't the wisest move.

Because Nyra, irritated by his mocking gesture — and perhaps having correctly identified him as the one behind it all — stumbled in place, then lunged straight toward him.

She jumped.

A blur of motion — muscles coiled like springs, exploding upward.

In that brief instant, time seemed to slow.

Christian tilted his head slightly, considering his options.

Then, casually, he reached into his coat… and drew a pistol.

Maybe it was too big to be called one — heavy, oversized, more like a compact cannon than a sidearm — but he didn't mind that.

He lifted it with ease.

Aimed.

And pulled the trigger.

BOOM.

A thunderous blast erupted. The bullet howled through the air like a roaring beast — too fast to see, but not too fast to feel.

And Nyra?

She, who would have scoffed at firearms on any other day, had just watched some of her subordinates explode into gore thanks to that very weapon.

So, no — she didn't try to take the bullet with her body.

Instead, she deployed her fire technique.

Incinerating the bullet centimeters away from her skin.

She came out unscathed from the first collision.

But Christian wasn't discouraged.

He shot again — a second, a third, and a fourth bullet.

The sound, though not as earth-shattering as the sniper's rifle, was still loud enough to draw attention. And in the end, Nyra was forced to stop midair, repelled backward by the force of each hit, until she finally dropped to the ground.

There she stood, glaring at Christian, who casually waved the pistol at her with a cheeky grin.

Nyra was clearly frustrated.

Frustrated by him. Frustrated by this whole ridiculous situation.

Frustrated by the fact that barely a handful of her subordinates were still breathing.

But even so, she didn't let her emotions take over.

Instead, she exhaled slowly.

Fire — intense, condensed, seething — began to brew in one hand and one foot.

Christian tilted his head slightly as he watched her, intrigued by how calmly she was taking her time to prepare.

And once again, he couldn't help but think —

Why are so many people specialized in fire techniques?

It was getting a little predictable.

His musing ended the moment Nyra's preparation did.

She suddenly stomped the floor — hard. A crater bloomed beneath her, concrete spider-webbing outward. And with that force, she launched herself forward, her speed now sharp and sudden.

Christian, still composed, raised the pistol again and fired two more rounds.

Nyra blocked them both with her free hand — the fire swirling protectively like a living shield — before she closed the distance in an instant.

Her fist, wreathed in a roiling blaze that seemed to incinerate the very air, drove straight toward his face.

But Christian didn't flinch.

Still smiling, he lifted his free hand — the one not holding the pistol — and caught her fist directly in his palm.

Just like that.

He caught it.

The flames that had been burning so violently… vanished.