February 16, 1983.
The frigid winds of the Volokolamsk Plain howled like a chorus of wolves, carrying with them the sting of ice and the heaviness of history. Deep in Moscow's outskirts, buried beneath the shadow of an ancient, crumbling castle, the ground trembled violently—like the beating heart of some colossal beast.
"ROAR!"
A monstrous bellow tore through the underground like a hurricane, shaking loose rocks from the vaulted ceilings. The sound reverberated through the castle halls, echoing endlessly, a roar so piercing it seemed to burrow into the bones of anyone who heard it.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The roar was quickly joined by the cacophony of combat—deafening crashes, the sound of flesh slamming against stone, and guttural growls that carried both fury and pain.
Beneath the castle lay a cavern of staggering scale, walls etched with claw marks, blackened with scorch marks, and littered with debris from long-forgotten battles. Inside, two colossal figures waged war.
A red-skinned man, tall and broad-shouldered, stood at the center of the maelstrom. His right hand—a massive, stone-like gauntlet—gripped an enormous broadsword that gleamed with a faint, ominous light. His name was known in whispers, both feared and respected: Hellboy.
And before him loomed a nightmare given flesh.
A monstrosity, towering hundreds of meters tall, its grotesque body a writhing mass of tentacles. Its core resembled some abyssal octopus, a swirling amalgam of muscle, slime, and fangs. Each of its appendages cracked like whips through the cavern air, pulverizing stone and gouging trenches into the earth. The beast exuded an aura of suffocating malice, as though it had crawled directly from the bowels of Hell itself.
Every tentacle swing could crush a building, every strike sent shockwaves across the cavern floor.
And yet—Hellboy endured.
Despite his size, the red-skinned warrior moved with remarkable speed. His body twisted and pivoted between attacks, narrowly avoiding the monstrous lashes, his sword occasionally flashing to sever a writhing limb. Each successful cut sent ichor splattering, the monster screeching in rage.
But it was clear.
No matter how tenacious Hellboy was, no matter how sharp his blade or how fierce his resolve, the gap between them was vast. His chest heaved, his skin slick with sweat, his footing beginning to falter.
The inevitable came.
A tentacle, thick as a tree trunk, whipped across the battlefield with blinding speed and wrapped around Hellboy's torso. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, bones groaning under the pressure as the limb constricted like a python crushing its prey.
"Ah, well…" Hellboy hissed through clenched teeth, his face twisting in pain, though his voice carried more annoyance than fear. "This is… a bit troublesome."
The monster tightened its grip, dragging Hellboy closer, its maw opening wide with a grotesque hunger.
Then—
BOOM!
A sharp sonic crack split the air. The atmosphere itself seemed to ripple, a shockwave pushing outward as a figure materialized mid-battle.
In a blur of motion, Alex appeared.
His presence was overwhelming—like a storm compressed into human form.
Hellboy's yellow eyes flicked toward him, narrowing with resentment. "Are you kidding me, Alex? What the hell are you doing here!"
Despite dangling on the verge of being devoured, Hellboy's voice dripped with irritation, his pride bristling at the sight of his unexpected "savior."
Alex floated in the air, expression calm, almost amused. His molten gaze swept the battlefield, landing on Hellboy's restrained form. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Looks like you're in quite a sorry state, Hellboy."
The mockery was subtle but undeniable.
Hellboy's jaw tightened. His voice, strained though it was, carried a growl. "Tch. Don't you dare mock me."
Yes—this was Hellboy, the so-called harbinger of doom, the son of a demon king. Yet here he was, tangled up like prey, while Alex stood effortlessly untouchable.
The irony wasn't lost on either of them.
But Hellboy's pride flared even brighter than his rage. "You think I can't handle this? Get the hell out—I don't need your help!"
Even as he was whipped violently into the cavern walls, leaving cracks spiderwebbing through the stone, he shouted defiantly. To admit weakness in front of Alex—the man who had unwittingly stolen Liz Sherman's affection—was worse than death itself.
The irony? Alex had never once tried to compete for Liz.
And that indifference hurt Hellboy more than anything.
Before he could shout another insult—
Sizzle!
A beam of searing red heat vision lanced through the cavern, slicing cleanly through the tentacle that bound him. The monstrous limb shriveled, cauterized instantly, and Hellboy was sent plummeting hundreds of meters.
CRASH!
He slammed into the cavern floor, stone exploding outward from the impact. Dust rose in plumes as he lay sprawled across the ground, groaning.
"Damn it…" Hellboy muttered, his voice hoarse, every bone in his body aching. But still, the fall hadn't killed him—couldn't kill him. He was, after all, no ordinary demon.
"You bastard!" Hellboy roared upward at Alex, voice filled with fury. "I was just about to finish him! I didn't need your damn help!"
But Alex didn't answer.
Because Alex hadn't come here to save him. Not at all.
This wasn't about Hellboy. It wasn't even about the monster.
It was about source points.
Ignoring Hellboy's rage, Alex soared higher, effortlessly weaving past the forest of tentacles. His eyes burned brighter, and in the next instant—
SZZZZT!
His heat vision erupted like molten rivers, cleaving cleanly through the beast's head.
BOOOOM!
The monster collapsed like a toppled mountain, its massive body crashing into the cavern floor, shaking the ground like an earthquake. Dust and ichor filled the air, the sound of its death cry fading into silence.
And then—
A crisp notification echoed within Alex's mind.
> [Mission complete. Congratulations, Host, on receiving a reward of 10,000 source points!]
Alex arched a brow. "Only 10,000? For a demon straight from Hell?"
He scoffed, unimpressed. Of course, considering even Hellboy was supposed to handle this thing with little more than explosives, perhaps the system was right. Its reputation outweighed its actual strength.
But then—
Another chime rang out.
> [Detected: Host's remaining source points have exceeded 300,000. Template upgrade available. Would Host like to proceed?]
Alex's chest tightened with sudden exhilaration.
For two decades, he had been hoarding points—through missions, through energy extractions, through every scrap of opportunity the system allowed. And all this time, with his Alex template already at 100%, he'd been unable to use them. They had simply piled higher and higher, without explanation, without direction.
If Alex hadn't known what awaited him in the future—hadn't seen glimpses of Silver Alex—he might have abandoned the grind out of sheer impatience.
But now.
At last.
The opportunity had arrived.
His voice was steady, unwavering. "Upgrade."
> [Congratulations, Host. Template upgrade complete. The Alex template has entered its second stage.]
[Please assign a name to the second-stage Alex template.]
Alex's lips curved into a thin, decisive smile. His reply was immediate.
"Call it… Silver Alex."
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