Reincarnated with a lucky draw system

Life force wasn't the only thing he stole, though, as fragmented memories flooded into his mind—flashes of tactical briefings, personal regrets, and hidden vulnerabilities within the stronghold's defenses—providing him with invaluable insights.

With the commander dead, his body slumping to the ground like a discarded puppet, the stronghold's soldiers were thrown into even greater confusion, scattering like herdless sheep in the midst of a ravenous wolf, their chain of command shattered beyond repair.

Edmond made his move quickly and methodically, devouring the blind soldiers first with Abyssal Predation, their screams echoing briefly before silence claimed them, while the other soldiers fired at him without any semblance of total organization like they normally did, their shots wild and uncoordinated.

In the face of certain death, the soldiers lost their composure entirely, fear gripping them tightly like icy claws around their throats, turning disciplined warriors into panicked individuals scrambling for survival.

The soldiers fired aimlessly into the shadows, bullets ricocheting off walls and vehicles in sparks of futility, unable to pinpoint Edmond's elusive position all the time until he was already closing in on one of them for the kill.

Edmond would disappear with no trace of him anywhere, melting back into the darkness like a phantom, and when he resurfaced, it was invariably behind one of them, materializing with a dagger writhing with shadows in his hand—forged on the spot from Umbra Dominion—that he plunged ruthlessly into their vital points before moving on to the next victim, or he would simply devour their life force with a touch, leaving desiccated husks in his wake.

---

Bam!

Luthor was enraged within the control room, a fortified chamber buried deep within the stronghold's core, throwing the chair he was sitting on away in a fit of unbridled rage, the furniture crashing against the wall with a splintering crack that reverberated through the space.

"Damn it all! I thought you all said you had it under control!!" Luthor demanded furiously, staring at the scene unfolding on the multiple holographic screens as Edmond ripped through his defense forces with merciless efficiency, bodies falling like dominoes amid the chaos.

"We didn't account for that ability, sir," the lead scientist stammered, his face covered in a sheen of cold sweat as he watched Edmond decimate the forces on the monitors, fearing what Luthor's wrath would bring upon him and his trembling colleagues for the catastrophic failure they were witnessing firsthand.

"Shouldn't you have accounted for this?! Isn't that the reason I made you part of my think tank?!" Luthor yelled further, his voice thundering like a storm, his eyes bloodshot and bulging with barely contained fury, veins pulsing on his forehead.

"We couldn't possibly think of that, sir. There are thousands of potential abilities to consider if we have to be thorough, and there was not enough time to simulate them all," one of the young researchers couldn't help but interject, his voice laced with frustration at being unfairly blamed despite their tireless efforts and hard work under impossible deadlines.

"Brave of you," Luthor said calmly, an eerie shift in his tone that sent chills through the room, as he raised his personal sidearm—a sleek, high-caliber pistol—with deliberate slowness, pointing it directly toward the researcher's head, the barrel gleaming ominously under the fluorescent lights.

"Sir, I didn't mean to offend—" the researcher, now face-to-face with death, tried desperately to apologize and seek forgiveness, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush, his hands raised in supplication.

But an already incensed Luthor wasn't going to allow that, his finger squeezing the trigger with cold precision, shooting the temple of the researcher in a deafening report that splattered blood across the nearby console.

"Who's next?" Luthor asked coldly, his voice devoid of emotion as he stared at the rest of the researchers, all of whom had their heads bowed in abject fear, the acrid smell of gun smoke hanging heavy in the air like a pall.

"Sir," Luthor's secretary called out to him tentatively, her voice cutting through the thick tension ever so lightly, her pretty face pale but composed as she held a communication device.

"What is it?" Luthor asked gruffly, lowering his gun slightly, the barrel still warm from the discharge.

"A call from Stronghold One. They demand you answer at once," the secretary relayed to Luthor, her tone professional yet urgent, the incoming transmission beeping insistently on her tablet.

Luthor stretched his hand with a deliberate, impatient gesture, motioning for his secretary to bring the tablet closer, a deep scowl etched across his rugged features, his displeasure palpable in the tense air of the control room. The flickering holographic displays cast harsh shadows across his face, accentuating the tight lines of frustration around his mouth and the glint of barely restrained anger in his eyes.

"Luthor, I was beginning to wonder when you'd accept the call," a calm, cool, and unmistakably arrogant voice drawled through the tablet's speakers, the tone dripping with a confidence that bordered on mockery, cutting through the low hum of machinery in the room.

"Bruce," Luthor replied curtly, identifying the owner of the voice with a single word, his tone clipped and laced with irritation as he gripped the tablet tightly, his tattooed knuckles whitening under the pressure.

"What's the matter? Not happy to talk to me?" Bruce, the leader of Stronghold One, asked with a teasing lilt, his voice carrying an almost playful cadence that belied the dangerous undercurrent beneath it.

Bruce was a young man, barely into his thirties, who had ascended to leadership in the wake of his father's retirement, inheriting the mantle of power with an ease that unnerved those who knew him. To the public, Bruce was known for his constant, disarming smiles and the carefree, playful air that seemed to surround him like a halo, his youthful features framed by neatly styled dark hair and piercing eyes that sparkled with mischief. But beneath this sunny exterior lurked a demon that defied such a cheerful facade—a calculating cruelty unmatched across Astrid. His reputation for ruthlessness preceded him, whispered in fearful tones among the strongholds, tales of his unrelenting tactics and merciless judgments painting him as a figure both charismatic and terrifying.

"You called at the wrong time. I'm in the middle of an unpleasant situation right now," Luthor replied, his voice tinged with irritation as he conversed with the daredevil Bruce, his eyes flicking briefly to the screens displaying Edmond's relentless assault, the bodies of his soldiers piling up like discarded toys in a child's forgotten game.

"Edmond, is it? I heard he has a pretty interesting attribute," Bruce commented casually, his voice carrying a hint of amusement, as if discussing a particularly intriguing game rather than a life-and-death struggle.

"Heard? Or seen?" Luthor asked sharply, his tone devoid of trust, his eyes narrowing as he leaned closer to the tablet, searching for any hint of deception in Bruce's words, the air between them crackling with unspoken suspicion.

"A little bit of both. His skills are impressive, even I must say. Consider me impressed by his moves. From what I can see, it's only a matter of time before he comes for your head," Bruce said with a mild chuckle, his words delivered with a chilling nonchalance. He sat in a luxurious office within Stronghold One, a stark contrast to Luthor's utilitarian control room, holding a delicate crystal glass filled with deep crimson wine that caught the soft glow of ambient lighting. He tipped the glass ever so softly, letting the liquid swirl in a mesmerizing dance, his mild smile never wavering as he stared at the large, curved screen dominating his office. The screen mirrored the same feed Luthor was watching, broadcasting Edmond's decimation of the soldiers in vivid detail—shadows twisting, bodies falling, and chaos unfolding with relentless precision.