The battlefield continued to pulse with death.
Ash drifted down like black snow beneath the shrouded moon, settling on rubble slick with gore. Snarls tore through the smoke as the horde surged forward relentlessly.
And through it all, the stranger moved.
Like a phantom, in a long, dark coat, his eyes glowing faintly red beneath the haze, he weaved between the undead with inhuman grace.
His Staccato P pistols whispered—thwip, thwip, thwip—each shot slicing the air, each bullet shattering bone. Rank-ones fell in droves, skulls bursting cleanly between the eyes.
Rank-twos—faster, stronger—fell without resistance, taking the lesser rank. None survived the moment his gaze fixed upon them. Their bodies crumpled, heads ruined by perfect, surgical fire.
He wasn't just fighting. He was erasing.
Kara's staff shook in her hands, its glow fading. She couldn't look away. No one moves like that. No one human should be able to move like that, especially a rank-two warrior. Her heartbeat climbed as she realized the horde had shifted, abandoning her squad almost entirely, swarming instead toward him—as though the man himself were a beacon of blood.
Ethan crushed a stray Rank-one with his axe, sweat burning into his eyes. His chest heaved, his rage sharpening into disbelief. They're pulling away… why?
Philip's sword whirled, steel flashing, but his eyes never left the stranger. Calm. Too calm. Not a single wasted motion. This… this isn't right.
Jace stood pale as ash, lips trembling, his horror unhidden. His words from before echoed inside him like a curse: How the hell is he still alive?
Eryn's sword wavered in her grip. She was drained, bloodied, mana hollow—but even through the exhaustion, awe mingled with her fear. Every bullet the stranger fired landed true, even as the chaos closed around him.
Then the horde tried to crush him.
A ring of Rank-twos closed in, claws screeching as they scraped across ruined stone. They lunged all at once, a cage of muscle and teeth. The man moved like a shadow through their assault—bullets flashing, heads snapping back in grisly bursts. Thwip. Thwip. Thwip. Three fell before claws ever grazed him. The rest dropped seconds later, bodies skidding lifeless across cracked concrete.
He stepped out of the encirclement without pause, coat snapping behind him. But then—his rhythm faltered.
For the first time, his face changed. A faint frown tugged at his calm mask. His red eyes narrowed to the opposite horizon. The direction of the transport. The path to the Citadel. The path the supposed reinforcement was meant to come from.
Kara caught it instantly. 'Something's wrong,' she thought, while looking in the same direction.
Philip's blade stilled mid-swing. Ethan lowered his shield. Eryn blinked through her exhaustion. Even the civilians huddled in the shattered transport felt it—the weight of his sudden attention, as though the air itself held its breath.
Then Mary's voice sliced through their comms, tight with strain:
"We have a problem.... A big problem. Another Rank-three Rook Zombie is moving toward your position—fast."
The words detonated in their ears.
Exhaustion surged through Kara, rapidly transforming into a gnawing dread that coiled tightly in her stomach, quickening the frantic rhythm of her heart. Beside her, Ethan struggled to maintain his grip on the axe, his fingers slipping along the slick handle.
.....
His face contorted into an expression of profound despair, the stark reality of their dire predicament pressing down on him like a suffocating weight, each moment amplifying the burden of their situation.
Philip's expression shifted, the flicker of uncertainty hardening into a steely resolve, as he faced the grim reality that lay ahead.
Jace's complexion paled even further, his lips parting slightly in a silent gasp, unable to find his voice amidst the suffocating tension. Eryn tightened her grip on her sword, its blade catching the dim light, but her body quivered, betraying the fear that coursed through her veins.
The man lowered his pistols just a fraction, the weight of the situation evident in the deepening lines of his frown.
His intense gaze bore into the horizon, where a swirling cloud of dust rose ominously in the distance.
A stray Rank-one staggered toward him, its movements erratic and menacing—thwip—the crack of a shot rang out, and its skull shattered like glass, crumpling to the ground before it could advance another step.
Yet, he appeared scarcely affected by the chaos, lost in thought as the scene unfolded around him.
He stepped forward, his coat sweeping around him, his gaze fixed ahead as he awaited the monstrosity that was on its way.