The Weapon Genius: Anything I Hold Can Kill-Chapter 187: One Night (Part Ten)

The cafeteria in the East Wing wasn’t like the rest of the prison.

It was larger, older. Half of the ceiling lights flickered or buzzed faintly, but the massive skylights overhead kept the room bathed in dull gray. The air smelled of cold rice, burnt soy, and too many bodies stuffed in one space for too long. Rows of stainless steel tables cut across the floor like scars, and prisoners sat hunched over trays, quietly eating, bickering, or glaring at anyone who looked the wrong way.

Joon slouched low on one of the corner benches, arms folded. He picked at the cuffs of the jumpsuit they’d thrown on after slipping in through maintenance. Hanuel sat three rows over, pretending to doze, one hand resting on his knee, the other draped low over his staff, now disguised as a rusted broom. Jisoo was by the back wall, head down, a tray of untouched food in front of her.

They didn’t speak. The plan had been simple: infiltrate, observe, wait for the signal.

But that plan felt like it was unraveling fast.

The sounds from the other sectors were growing louder. Not just muffled echoes anymore—but deep, resonating crashes. Concrete being broken. Metal twisting. People screaming.

Joon shifted in his seat.

"I think that was Chul," he muttered under his breath. "Or Seul."

Hanuel didn’t answer. His eyes were open now, scanning the room through half-lowered lashes. Something was off. The tension had thickened, and the prisoners—dangerous or not—were quiet.

Too quiet.

A sharp buzz rolled over the ceiling as one of the old wall-mounted intercoms crackled to life. The speaker hissed, spat, and then a mechanical voice rang through:

"All inmates in the East Sector cafeteria are to remain seated. Anyone leaving without authorization will be detained. The Sixth Cell is en route for inspection."

Then it clicked off.

Joon’s brow furrowed. "What the hell is a ’Sixth Cell’?"

Hanuel didn’t answer. Jisoo, still silent, reached down slowly and tightened the gloves around her wrists.

A few seconds passed.

Then the cafeteria doors opened.

Not kicked. Not slammed. Just gently pushed—hinges whining with age as a wide figure stepped through the entrance.

She was massive—not grotesque, but powerful. Easily six-foot-three, with arms like reinforced pillars and a posture that gave nothing away. Her jumpsuit was stained in faded crimson and brown, the sleeves cut off at the shoulder. What stood out most, though, was the apron she wore: black, soot-scuffed, and stitched right into her uniform. One side had a cracked emblem of a cleaver. Her hands were wrapped in thick, metal-plated mitts that clinked faintly when she moved.

She stepped in, and the room fell deathly still.

Whispers moved like a wave.

"Big Mama..."

"Oh no."

"Keep your head down, idiot—she’s in one of her moods."

The woman didn’t say anything at first. She walked down the center aisle, her boots thudding softly against the floor. Every step felt too loud.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low—gravel layered over honey.

"Alright, children," she said, eyeing the cafeteria. "We’ve had a little scare tonight. Some pests skittering through the halls, trying to stir our pot."

Her smile was thin. "So I’m doing a sweep. Just a little headcount. You see someone twitching? Let Mama know."

Hanuel’s eyes narrowed.

Joon cursed silently under his breath. "No way she knows, right?"

"Shut up," Hanuel murmured, barely audible.

She moved down the row where Hanuel sat, eyes sweeping the benches. Her steps were light, casual. She passed right by him.

Then didn’t.

One second she was walking past.

The next, she was gone.

Hanuel’s eyes widened.

A sharp gust of air cracked across the space behind him—and then she was there, behind him, already mid-swing. Her fist, larger than most skulls, was plated in steel and slammed toward the back of his head with all the force of a dropped engine block.

The impact landed.

Hanuel’s head snapped forward from the raw force, and his body slammed down toward the concrete floor. But before the full brunt of the blow could crush his skull, his body melted into his shadow.

There was no sound—just a soft distortion as if air warped around the spot where he disappeared.

Big Mama blinked. Her plated fist dug a crater into the cafeteria floor, but her target had vanished.

Then—

The cafeteria trembled as a massive, embiggened version of Hanuel’s staff exploded upward from the ground. Thick and jagged, it carried the full weight of Hanuel’s power and the inertia of repressed retaliation.

It caught Big Mama square in the ribs.

Her body launched skyward, smashing into the steel-plated ceiling with a deafening crash. Metal buckled. A support beam snapped. Dust and fragments rained from above as she left a human-sized dent in the panels before crashing back down to the floor.

The room erupted in chaos.

"Big Mama!"

"She’s under attack!"

"Who hit her?!"

Prisoners leapt from tables. Chairs flipped. Cutlery scattered. A few reached for weapons glowing with low hums of system energy—clearly, many weren’t ordinary inmates.

Joon was already on his feet, floating up onto his disk as it surged with a low mechanical hum. "Hanuel?"

"I’m fine," Hanuel’s voice echoed from the shadows across the room. He stepped out a few feet behind where Big Mama had originally stood, his staff now reduced to normal size, spinning slowly in his grip.

Jisoo rose from her chair without a word, eyes scanning the shifting crowd. Her gaze never left Big Mama’s crater.

From that crater in the ceiling there was movement.

A low grunt rolled through the silence like thunder building on the horizon.

And then—

She fell back to the ground.

Big Mama rolled her shoulders once, and a sickening pop followed. Dust clung to her apron. One of her gloves had split at the seam, revealing metal mesh beneath.

Her eyes locked onto Hanuel.

"You little bastard," she muttered, rubbing her ribs. "That actually stung."

Gasps echoed behind her.

"Big Mama’s pissed..."

Hanuel didn’t flinch.

Big Mama cracked her neck and smiled—not friendly, not warm. Just teeth.

"I was being so polite," she said, stepping forward. "You could’ve just sat your skinny ass down, and have me kill you quickly."

Joon hovered closer to Hanuel’s side, one hand raised, disks already forming along his arm.

"But no." She took another step. The floor groaned beneath her. "You went and made a mess in my kitchen."

Hanuel spun his pole once and set it to the floor. "Guess I should’ve asked for the menu first."

Jisoo cracked a faint grin. "He’s back to normal."

Big Mama tilted her head. "You got jokes. Good. I like my meat tenderized after it talks back."

She clapped once.

It echoed like a drum.

"All of you! You see someone you don’t recognize—grab them. Kill if you have to. The intruders are here."

The cafeteria descended into frenzy.

Prisoners surged from all corners of the room, answering Big Mama’s order with violence in their eyes and power in their veins. Some moved with practiced grace—former killers and thugs with battle-tested instincts. Others came like stampeding bulls, wielding glowing brass knuckles, conjured hatchets, and bone-crafted clubs.

It didn’t matter.

Joon was already airborne.

His disk surged upward, lifting him just above the chaos, and with a flick of his wrist, three of his spheres flew wide—hovering in a tight arc.

They pulsed once.

Then they dropped.

Bolts of lightning exploded from the air like coiled serpents, slamming into the crowd below. Sparks burst against skulls and shoulders, the scent of ozone flooding the air. Prisoners screamed and crumpled, smoke curling from scorched limbs as the floor seared beneath them.

"That’s three down," Joon muttered, snapping his fingers to recall the spheres.

They spun into his palm like loyal hounds.

Below, Jisoo surged forward, chain unraveling from her fingers with a metallic screech. It split into three tendrils—snapping outward like a spider’s legs. One wrapped around a thick-necked man with a war hammer, coiling around his wrist and yanking it sideways before he could swing. The second latched onto the legs of another, pulling them clean out from under him.

The third—

It darted under a table and reappeared through the floor panel behind a man trying to retreat. It locked tight around his ankle, then shot upward—dragging him into the air and slamming him down into a bench hard enough to snap the metal.

She breathed once, eyes sharp. The chain responded, glowing slightly with each command.

"I like this version of you," Joon said as he hovered nearby.

"I don’t," she replied, flicking her hand to throw another link forward.

At the center of it all, Hanuel reappeared in a sweep of shadow, parrying two attackers at once with smooth, compact motion. His staff extended, shooting through the air in wide arcs as he redirected blows and swept feet. One man brought down a cleaver crackling with red energy—Hanuel ducked under the swing, twisted, and jammed the end of his pole straight into the man’s stomach with a burst of shadow that knocked the wind from him.

Then came the follow-through.

Hanuel stepped over the falling man, spun on one heel, and brought the end of his staff down on another attacker’s shoulder. Bone cracked. The man screamed.

For a moment—it seemed like they were turning the tide.

Too many had fallen, too quickly.

The inmates backed up.

Wary.

Watching.

Breathing heavy.

Big Mama exhaled through her nose.

She didn’t speak at first.

Instead, she stepped forward and looked around at the crumpled bodies, lips pressed into a flat line.

"I was gonna let the kids have their fun," she said, her voice low now. "Let them earn their supper."

Joon landed beside Hanuel.

"That’s ominous."

Jisoo rolled her chain back around her arm. "She’s about to get serious."

They weren’t wrong.

Big Mama planted both feet. Her gloves sizzled. Then—without warning—she reached behind her apron and drew two weapons.

At first glance, they looked like butcher knives.

Until you noticed the size.

The first was a cleaver longer than Joon’s arm, thick with a blackened edge. The second looked more like a cleaver-machete hybrid, curved and serrated along one end, glowing faintly red-hot at the teeth.

The prisoners around her took two steps back.

She twirled them once in her hands, casually, like kitchen utensils. The ground cracked beneath her feet from the motion.

Then she smiled.

"Time to clean the kitchen."

[Profile Access]

Subject Codename: Big Mama

Designation: Sixth Cell

Serial Offense Classification:

– First-Degree Homicide (Confirmed: 56 counts)

– Acts of Cannibalism

– Prison Riot Instigation

– Contraband Weapon Manufacturing

– Repeat Assault of System Personnel

Known Moniker: The Cleaver

Prison Status: Life Sentence (No Possibility of Parole)

Current Authority: Eastern Wing Command

System Skill: ░░░░░░░░░░