EVIL SYSTEM

The news spread like wildfire, stirring up a massive uproar around the entire tournament.

The name "Butcher of Azakur" became notorious across the nation.

Academia Valthor was exposed for the various activities Patrick had been involved in and the things they forced their students to do.

This sparked an online feud between those who supported the Butcher's actions and those who couldn't stomach his lawless behavior.

On one side, his supporters argued it was right for criminals to get what they deserved. On the other, people claimed these actions were outside the law, and encouraging this behavior could spawn a generation of kids who'd think they could trample over rules and plunge society into chaos.

While the internet erupted in activity, the university tournament pressed on, because today was the grand opening.

Staff rushed back and forth, scrambling for equipment—lights, microphones, screens, water bottles.

"Are all the bands ready?" asked a stern woman with large glasses on her face.

"Yes, ma'am," nodded a young guy clutching some papers. "Everyone's checked in and waiting for their cue."

"There can't be a single mistake," the woman said, her tone strict as she pointed at the guy. "We're broadcasting not just nationally—some foreign countries bought the streaming rights. This has to be flawless!"

"It will be, ma'am," the guy nodded confidently.

But as soon as the woman turned away, his legs started trembling, and his face went pale.

Contrary to what he'd told her, not all the bands had arrived yet.

The most important one was missing—the band slated to open the event.

The guy gnashed his teeth in nervousness and fear. He knew if he didn't fix this, he'd never work again.

With every passing minute, his breathing grew more ragged, and he paced back and forth.

The calls he'd made to the band and their manager were countless.

When the stage lights dimmed and Ricardo heard the crowd's roar echo around the stadium, his heart stopped for a second.

He didn't want to face the music when the lights came back on and the audience found an empty stage.

Ricardo spotted a small staff door and locked himself inside, shaking.

---

The stadium buzzed with excitement. Every seat was taken, and the crowd was so pumped they were screaming at the top of their lungs.

Everyone knew the tournaments kicked off with huge performances—bands, dance shows, and dazzling special effects.

The first band was as famous as they were controversial. They had massive hits but were also known for being insanely arrogant, even insulting and spitting on their own fans.

Still, their fame was undeniable.

The stadium lights suddenly went out, and the excitement hit a fever pitch.

People started stomping their feet, the sound reverberating through the whole place.

Then the lights snapped back on, and on the stage—broadcast across the stadium, the city, the nation, and even internationally—something appeared that no one ever expected to see.

Entire families sat in front of their TVs, jaws dropped at the sight unfolding before them.

The people in the stadium, the families, the officials, the participants, even the police couldn't make sense of what they were seeing on their screens.

Could this be some kind of staged act?

There, in front of millions, right in the middle of the stage, was the band Black Lock—tied up and gagged.

Slowly, a figure emerged from the darkness, a guitar in his hands, and began playing one of the greatest electric guitar intros in history.

"*Thunderstruck!*"

The stadium shook as the first chords of "Thunderstruck" ripped through the air, a jolt of raw power that hit like a punch to the chest. A figure stood alone on the stage, cloaked in shadow, his face hidden behind a jagged black plague mask—beaked, eyeless, a relic of death staring down millions. The guitar roared, fast and ferocious, as he tore into the intro, fingers dancing over the strings like they were bleeding.

*Aaaah!!*

*Aaaaahh!!*

Distant voices joined the guitar, and moments later, they united in a single word.

*Thunder!*

*Thunder!*

*Thunder!*

"*Thunder!!*" Ben shouted with all his might, his voice exploding, deep and gravelly, a growl that blasted through the speakers and rattled every spectator. Huge currents of electricity shot from his body, dancing across the stage, adding weight and power to his cry.

No one knew who he was—not the roaring crowd, not the families glued to their TVs, not the suits in the control booths sweating bullets. The mask tilted forward, its empty gaze sweeping over Black Lock—tied, gagged, and helpless, a trophy for this nameless storm.

"*I was caught in the middle of a railroad track!*" he rasped, the words spitting out like venom, dripping with an untraceable fury.

The beat slammed down, hard and unforgiving, a rhythm that didn't care who it crushed.

"*You've been… thunderstruck!*" he bellowed, pointing a gloved hand at the bound band, then out to the sea of faces, the nation, the world. The guitar screeched, a banshee's wail cutting through the chaos, while he stalked the stage, every step deliberate, every note a threat. This wasn't just music—it was a damn takeover, a faceless force hijacking the spotlight and bending it to his will.

A banner unfurled behind him, painted in what looked like red paint:

*The Criminal Band!*

The stage lights also focused on two figures lurking in the shadows.

A man played the guitar with skill, wearing a wolf mask that hid his identity, though the excitement in his eyes couldn't be concealed. Nor could the girl's, who played the bass with a kabuki neko mask on her face.

The crowd didn't know what to make of it—some cheered, some froze, but all felt the weight. Cameras zoomed in on the plague mask, its eerie stillness a stark contrast to the violence of his playing.

"*Thunderstruck!*" he roared again, his voice cracking with savage glee, as the drums pounded like a heartbeat on the verge of bursting. Black Lock squirmed behind him, a silent warning to anyone watching: this guy didn't play by rules—he made them, then broke them.

As the final chords rang out, the stage lights flared, and the masked figure raised his guitar like a weapon, letting the last note hang in the air—a scream that dared the world to challenge him. Then, silence. He didn't bow, didn't speak, just stood there, a plague-ridden specter who'd owned them all. No one knew he was Ben, the Butcher of Azakur, but they'd felt his shadow—and it wasn't going anywhere.

The last chord of "Thunderstruck" thundered through the stadium like a storm refusing to die, and then silence fell—a heavy silence, broken only by the hum of the speakers and the collective gasp of thousands of throats. The figure with the black plague mask stood motionless in the center of the stage, guitar still raised like an axe ready to drop. Black Lock, tied and gagged at his feet, trembled like trapped rats, but no one paid them any mind. Every eye was locked on him.

Suddenly, a roar erupted from the stands, a wild scream that surged like a wave and crashed against the stadium walls. Thousands leapt to their feet, some howling like madmen, stomping the ground until the concrete shook. "More! More!" they bellowed, voices hoarse from shouting, while others clutched their heads, unable to process what the hell they'd just witnessed. Phone flashes lit up the stands like lightning, everyone desperate to capture the guy who'd torn the stage—and the rules—apart with one song.

"What the hell?!"

"What kind of band is this?!"

"They've got guts! I love it!"

But not everyone was yelling. In the back rows, some stayed seated, pale, eyes wide, hands clenched on their thighs. "What the fuck was that?" muttered a guy, his voice trembling as he stared at the giant screen looping the masked figure endlessly. A woman beside him covered her mouth, as if scared the plague mask guy could see her from there. Families in front of their TVs at home stared at each other in silence, kids asking, "Is he a hero or a villain?" with no one able to answer.

Online, chaos was already ablaze. "That bastard just humiliated Black Lock live!" someone wrote, while another posted, "This isn't music—it's a damn declaration of war."

Those who supported the Butcher—unaware it was him—jumped on the hype train, saying they hoped this masked guy was the Butcher himself, because this was pure justice. The haters, meanwhile, flooded forums with insults: "He's a psycho—they're turning the tournament into a blood circus."

Down near the stage, a group of college kids started jumping and shoving each other, shouting the "Thunderstruck" chorus like a battle anthem, while the cops at the entrances exchanged looks, unsure whether to step in or clap. The organizers, hiding backstage, were in full panic mode.

Ricardo, still trembling in his little room, bit his nails until they bled, knowing this was his end.

And at the center of it all, the masked figure didn't move. Not a gesture, not a word. Just that black plague mask, staring into the void, as the world around him tore itself apart between screams of worship and whispers of fear. No one knew who he was, but they all felt the same thing: whatever had just happened, it wasn't just a song. It was a blow that would echo far beyond the stadium.