The swarm descended like a landslide of teeth and claws.
Dozens of them poured from the shadows of the ruined barracks—Class 2 Scavengers, scuttling on four limbs like oversized, skeletal crabs; Class 3 Hounds, baying with sounds that grated against the bone; and the hulking, armored forms of Class 4 Bruisers. They chittered and shrieked, a cacophony of hunger directed entirely at the two humans standing amidst the gore.
Max took a step back, his boot sliding in the mud and blood. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. There were too many. Even with his new powers—powers he didn't even know how to turn on—he felt like an ant facing a lawnmower.
"Commander..." Max choked out.
Commander Zog didn't look worried. He didn't even blink. He reached over his shoulder and gripped the handle of the massive slab of metal strapped to his back. It wasn't a standard issue HPF weapon. It was a claymore that looked like it had been forged from the hull of a spaceship, etched with glowing blue circuitry.
"Vegetable chopping time," Zog muttered.
With a motion too fast for Max to track, Zog drew the blade.
The air shrieked as the metal cleaved through it. Zog didn't wait for the monsters to reach him; he launched himself into the center of the horde. What followed wasn't a fight; it was an industrial accident.
Zog spun, the massive sword moving as light as a feather in his hands. A blue arc of kinetic energy trailed the blade, extending its reach. Three Class 4 Bruisers, monsters that could tank a grenade, were bisected instantly, their upper torsos sliding off their legs with wet thuds.
The Commander didn't stop moving. He was a whirlwind of violence. He ducked under a Hound's pounce, carving it upward from belly to chin, then pirouetted to decapitate two Scavengers behind him. He was laughing—actually laughing—as he worked.
"Is that all?" Swish. "Come on, ugly!" Crunch. "My grandma hits harder than you!" Splat.
In less than sixty seconds, the swarm was gone. The courtyard was silent again, save for the wet sounds of settling gore and the hum of Zog's sword.
"See?" Zog wiped a splatter of black ichor from his cheek. "Appetizers. Now... let's find the main course."
They stepped over the piles of dissolving monster flesh, heading deeper into the facility toward the administrative block. The darkness here was thicker, oppressive. It felt like walking underwater.
Then, they saw it.
In the center of the crushed parade ground, standing atop a pile of rubble that used to be a statue of the HPF founder, was the source of the violet gaze.
"Class 7," Zog said, his voice losing its humor. "Siege-Breaker."
But then, Zog stopped. He lowered his sword slightly, his single blue eye narrowing in confusion.
"That's... not right."
Max looked up, squinting through the gloom. He had memorized the charts Harry showed him. Class 7s were supposed to be behemoths—towering, twenty-foot-tall monstrosities with thick armor and massive fists, designed to smash walls. They were beasts.
The thing standing on the rubble was barely seven feet tall.
It didn't look like a beast. It looked... humanoid.
Its body was sleek, comprised of tightly wound muscle fibers made of solidified shadow. It had two legs, two arms, and a torso that mimicked the human form perfectly, down to the definition of abs and pectorals. It didn't have the jagged, chaotic spikes of the lower classes. It was smooth, streamlined, and polished like obsidian.
It stood perfectly still, hands at its sides, watching them.
"It's standing on two legs," Max whispered, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "Why is it so small?"
"Compression," Zog breathed, his grip on his sword tightening until his knuckles turned white. "It condensed its mass. It traded size for density. And speed."
The Guut tilted its head. It didn't roar. It didn't hiss. It raised one hand and beckoned Zog forward with a single finger. A human gesture. A mocking gesture.
"It's mutated," Zog growled. "This isn't just a Class 7. It's an anomaly."
Zog turned to Max. "Stay back. Do not engage. If you get within ten feet of that thing, it will turn you into paste before your neurons even fire the signal to blink."
"But I can help!" Max protested, though his voice lacked conviction.
"No, you can't!" Zog snapped. "Watch. Learn. Survive."
Zog turned back to the creature. The air around the Commander began to distort. Blue electricity crackled off his armor. "Alright, you mutated freak. Let's see what you've got."
Zog vanished.
To Max's eyes, it looked like teleportation. One second Zog was standing beside him, and the next, there was a sonic boom—KRAKOOM—and Zog was mid-air, bringing his massive sword down on the Guut's head with enough force to split a tank.
It should have been a killing blow.
But the Guut didn't dodge. It didn't brace.
It raised its left arm.
CLANG.
The sound was deafening, a bell tolling for the end of the world. Max covered his ears, the shockwave knocking him onto his back.
When he looked up, he saw the impossible.
The Guut had caught Zog's blade. It hadn't used a shield or a weapon. It had caught the razor-sharp, kinetic-charged edge of the Commander's sword on its forearm. The shadow-flesh hadn't even been cut. Sparks showered down around them as Zog pushed, his veins bulging, trying to force the blade down.
The Guut stood firm, its feet sinking inches into the concrete, but its arm didn't budge.
Then, the Guut moved.
It didn't swipe or maul. It punched. A straight, technical, martial arts jab.
Zog saw it coming and twisted, but the speed was unnatural. The fist clipped his side.
BAM.
Zog was launched sideways like a ragdoll. He skipped across the pavement, crashing through a brick wall and disappearing into the rubble of a supply depot.
"Commander!" Max screamed.
The Guut didn't pursue. It casually brushed invisible dust off its shoulder, then turned its eyeless face toward the hole in the wall.
Rubble exploded outward as Zog burst back into the fray. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, and his armor was dented, but he was grinning. A feral, angry grin.
"Okay," Zog spat blood onto the ground. "You know Kung Fu. That's new."
Zog charged again, but this time, he didn't go for a power strike. He went for speed. He unleashed a flurry of attacks—thrusts, slashes, overheads, low sweeps. The blue light of his sword became a blur, painting the air with deadly arcs.
The Guut matched him. It weaved, ducked, and parried with terrifying precision. It moved like water, flowing around the blade. When it struck back, it was with calculated efficiency—a knee to the gut, an elbow to the spine.
It was horrifying to watch. A monster acting like a beast was scary; a monster fighting like a grandmaster was a nightmare.
Max scrambled to his feet, his hands trembling. I have to do something. The beam. I did it before.
He thrust his hand out, palm facing the Guut. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall the feeling of the Void. Come on! Shoot! Blast him!
Nothing. No shadow beam. No violet light. Just his own sweaty palm shaking in the air.
"Dammit!" Max yelled in frustration. "Why won't you work?!"
In the fight, the tide was turning. Zog was strong—immensely strong—but the Guut was faster, and its hide was harder than diamond.
Zog feinted a high strike, then dropped low to sweep the creature's legs. The Guut anticipated it. It hopped over the blade, landing on the flat of the sword, pinning it to the ground.
Before Zog could let go, the Guut spun and delivered a roundhouse kick to Zog's head.
CRACK.
Zog's helmet shattered. The Commander went flying again, skidding across the ground, carving a trench in the asphalt. He tried to stand, but stumbled, falling to one knee. He shook his head, dazed.
The Guut didn't wait this time. It sprinted.
It moved on all fours for a split second to gain momentum, then launched itself into the air, bringing both fists down in a hammer blow aimed at Zog's exposed skull.
"NO!" Max shrieked.
Zog rolled at the last millisecond. The Guut's fists slammed into the ground where Zog's head had been. The impact created a crater ten feet wide. The shockwave lifted Max off his feet again.
Zog scrambled up, missing his sword. He was unarmed. The Guut rose from the crater, a low, gurgling sound emanating from its throat. It sounded like a chuckle.
"You think this is funny?" Zog panted, wiping blood from his eye. "Limiters... Disengage."
Hiss.
Steam erupted from the vents in Zog's armor. The blue lights on his suit turned red. His muscles seemed to swell, straining against the fabric.
"Round two," Zog roared.
He didn't need the sword. He charged the Guut bare-handed.
He tackled the creature, slamming it into the ground. He rained punches down on its face—thud, thud, thud—each blow creating a sonic boom. The Guut's shadow-skin cracked.
For a moment, it looked like Zog had it. The raw violence of the Commander was overwhelming the technique of the mutant.
But the Guut adapted.
As Zog pulled back his fist for a breaker blow, the Guut's chest suddenly split open. Ribs made of razor-sharp shadow-bone burst outward like a bear trap.
"Gah!" Zog yelled as the spikes drove into his armor, piercing his shoulder and chest.
The Guut kicked Zog off, flipping to its feet. The bone-spikes retracted, the wound sealing instantly.
Zog stumbled back, clutching his chest. Blood—bright red and copious—leaked between his fingers. He was breathing heavily, his movements sluggish. The red lights on his suit flickered and died.
Max watched in horror. The Commander was losing. The strongest man in the HPF was bleeding out in the mud.
The Guut sensed victory. It stopped playing. The shadows around its arms began to swirl and condense. They elongated, sharpening into massive, scythe-like blades that replaced its hands.
It walked slowly toward Zog, the blades dragging on the concrete, carving deep grooves. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Zog fell to his knees. He tried to stand, but his legs gave out. He looked up at the approaching executioner, his single eye defiant but dim.
"Run, Max," Zog wheezed, not looking back. "Get to the VTOL. Run."
"I'm not leaving you!" Max cried, tears streaming down his face.
"I said RUN!" Zog roared, coughing up blood.
The Guut raised its scythe-arms high above its head. It was going to bisect the Commander.
Max's mind went blank. The fear vanished. The panic vanished. All that was left was a singular, burning need.
He's going to die. Just like Raj.
NO.
Max didn't think about triggering the power. He didn't think about hand gestures or aiming. He just let go of the leash he had been holding on his own soul.
He felt a coldness in his chest—absolute zero. It spread through his veins, turning his blood to ice. The world around him seemed to darken, the colors draining away until everything was grayscale.
The Guut brought the blades down.
Max didn't shoot a beam. He didn't throw a punch.
He screamed.
It wasn't a human scream. It was a distorted, multi-layered shriek that sounded like tearing metal and whispering voices.
"STOP!"
A pulse of violet energy exploded from Max's body. It wasn't a beam; it was a tidal wave. It washed over the courtyard in a blink.
The Guut froze. The scythes stopped inches from Zog's neck.
The creature shrieked—a sound of genuine pain. The violet energy wasn't hitting it; it was invading it. The shadows that made up the Guut's body began to boil. It turned from the Commander, clutching its head, thrashing as if burning from the inside.
Zog looked back, his eye wide with shock.
Max stood twenty feet away. But he wasn't Max anymore.
His eyes were completely black—no whites, no irises. Just the Void. The violet aura around him was raging like a bonfire, rising twenty feet into the air. He hovered inches off the ground, his hair floating as if underwater.
He looked less like a savior and more like the end of the world.
The Guut abandoned Zog. It recognized the greater threat. It recognized the predator.
With a screech of fury, the mutated Class 7 turned and charged at Max.
Zog reached out weakly. "Max... don't let it take over..."
Max didn't hear him. He watched the monster coming. And for the first time in his life, Max didn't feel small. He felt hungry.