The city burned in front of him—
not just a fire, but an unholy blaze, a roaring, crackling beast that devoured timber and stone without remorse. Flames writhed like serpents across rooftops, throwing manic shadows across the shattered skyline. Rain poured in sheets, useless against the inferno, hissing where it met the embers drifting like fireflies in a storm-tossed night.
Neon ran.
His boots struck the cobblestones hard—
clack, slap, clack—each step splashing through water laced with soot and blood. The alleys were slick with ash and rain, the very stones steaming beneath him as the inferno breathed heat down his neck. Smoke bit at his eyes. The stink of burning oil curled through his nostrils, sharp and suffocating.
His lungs screamed. His heartbeat thundered.
Orange light painted the walls, graffiti twisting in surreal relief as if the city itself had gone mad. Rain slid in cold rivulets down his face, tracing through grime and the blood trickling from a gash near his temple. Somewhere behind him, a building groaned—and collapsed with a shriek of shattering glass and bone-deep thunder.
He didn't look back.
The sirens wailed—
not the clean, ordered wail of safety services, but a rising chorus of something ancient, wrong. Beneath them, human voices broke through—screams, orders, sobs swallowed by the roar of fire.
Then he saw him.
Pinned beneath a half-collapsed awning, a man clawed at the ground, breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Neon skidded to a stop, slipped, caught himself, and crouched low.
His hands met splintered wood. Hot, wet. Unyielding.
He gritted his teeth and heaved.
The beam shifted with a scream of metal. Just enough.
Neon dragged the man free, his arms shaking with effort, muscles twitching under the strain of soaked leather and dwindling mana.
"Go east!" Neon gasped, voice raw and jagged as the smoke around them. "Barricade by the canal—run!"
He'd seen it earlier—when he stood on the jagged cliffside watching the city burn. Through the waves of fire and ruin, that small stretch of canal had held. A wall of scavenged metal and mana-scorched stone. Still standing. Still untouched.
It was a sliver of hope. The only one left.
The man staggered away, limping toward some thread of hope.
Neon turned.
A snarl froze his blood.
It slithered from the firelight—an abomination of slick limbs and needle teeth, its form warping like a shadow that refused to obey the laws of light. A Netherling. Its eyes locked onto him—void-black and bottomless.
He struck before it could lunge.
His dagger sang—ice-blue and merciless—flashing once in the gloom. The creature split apart in a hiss of shrieking shadow, dispersing into a cloud of ash that spiraled into the rain.
But his dagger glowed. A sickly, pulsing light.
A warning.
It didn't burn too fast—it hungered for it, like every flicker of power was a gift it had waited ages to devour.
Neon winced. The pain lanced up his arm, deep and cold. He tucked the blade away, breath shallow. He didn't have time to think. Just run.
Keep moving.
The alley yawned into a crossroads.
Then—steel.
A Knight. Gleaming, radiant even in the soot-choked dark, standing like a bastion of light amid the ruin.
But something else moved.
The beast emerged behind him—massive, claws jagged like rusted saws. A nightmare given flesh.
It struck.
The Knight didn't have time to scream. The blow crunched through steel like paper. Blood sprayed. His helm hit the ground with a hollow clink as his body folded.
Neon froze.
The fire's roar faded. The rain became distant.
Grief crashed over him, swift and brutal—grief laced with helplessness, with guilt, with rage. Another death. Another face.
Gone.
But he couldn't stop.
Not here.
He ran—past the body, past the flames, past the place where his soul threatened to crack.
Toward the workshop.
Toward the man who'd raised him.
Toward the faintest chance that his only family was still alive.
Toward home.
Tears blurred his vision. He blinked them away, each one burning worse than smoke.
Grief was a weight in his chest—
molten iron, heavy and alive.
But his legs moved.
And so, he ran.
---
The door nearly exploded off its hinges.
Neon slammed into it at full speed—
wood split with a sharp, violent crack, shards flying like brittle rain across the dim interior. The hinges groaned in protest, metal grinding like the cry of a wounded beast. His boots slipped the moment they hit the cold stone—
thud.
He collapsed forward, body sliding through a smear of blood and rainwater, limbs loose with exhaustion.
Behind him, the sound of metal—
clackclackclack—
S.A.B.R.E. scrambled in after him, its spindly limbs ticking a frantic rhythm across the stone. The spider-bot's sensors glowed dim blue in the candlelight, its chassis dripping wet, servos buzzing with anxious energy.
The scent hit him next.
Not fire. Not ash. But oil—thick and warm. Herbs hung from the rafters in neat bundles: rosemary, sage, starwort, thyme. Somewhere beneath it all, a lingering sweetness—lavender crushed beneath calloused fingers.
This place smelled like home.
Or the closest thing that hadn't burned.
"Lad?!"
The voice hit like a hammer.
Broad. Deep. Drenched in Highland grit.
"Ye're alive?!"
Calder.
From the shadows by the window, the old alchemist stepped into view, arms straining as he shoved a thick iron bar into place across the frame. Rain pelted the glass. Firelight flickered on the warped panes. He turned—
Dust streaked his clothes. Grease painted his cheeks like warpaint.
But those eyes—sharp, keen, grey as cut stone—
They saw everything.
They landed on Neon.
And they widened.
"Och, by the sigils…"
Neon didn't speak.
Couldn't.
His knees hit the floor. Hard. The pain barely registered.
He knelt—
soaked, trembling, blood mixing with soot as it slid down his face. His body shook like something half-shattered. Water dripped from his hair in slow, deliberate drops, tapping against the floor like a second ticking clock. Candlelight flickered across his pale features, casting long shadows beneath eyes that had seen too much.
"They're…"
His voice cracked.
"…everywhere."
His breath came in shallow gasps.
Rain. Smoke. Screams. The crash of falling stone. The crunch of steel through armor.
It echoed in his chest.
Calder moved—fast, deliberate. No hesitation.
Boots slammed the stone floor with heavy thuds as he crossed the space in three strides. His hands—wide, worn, steady as anvils—gripped Neon by the arms.
Calloused fingers met skin that burned with cold.
"Breathe, boy," he muttered, voice rough but quiet. "Just breathe."
Neon blinked, slow and unfocused.
His breath stuttered. His muscles refused to listen.
But Calder held firm.
He hauled the boy up—not with violence, but with the practiced strength of someone who'd lifted wounded soldiers from battlefield rubble and carried broken machines home to repair them by hand.
He turned and locked the door.
CLACK.
The sound echoed through the workshop like a warding spell. Like the world outside had been shut out… for now.
"Yer safe," Calder said, low and firm. "Ye hear me?"
"Safe. Here. With me."
Neon swayed in his grip.
The word safe felt unreal. Distant.
Like something from another lifetime.
But Calder didn't let go.
The room buzzed faintly—S.A.B.R.E. clicking softly nearby, scanning the shadows. Rain beat against the windows, wind howling like a wounded beast. Somewhere far off, another structure fell—dull, distant thunder.
"For now," Calder repeated, quieter.
And the way he said it—
soft and worn—
it sounded like a prayer.
A fragile thing, pressed between flame and fear.
But Neon clung to it anyway.
He let himself sag forward into the old man's arms, tears lost to the blood and water already on his cheeks.
Just for a moment.
He was home.
---
Neon's fingers quivered as he fumbled open the old cabinet, its wooden doors creaking in protest like something awoken from a long slumber. Inside, vials glinted faintly—liquids of deep emerald, cobalt, and molten gold swirling like captured weather. His breath hitched. He grabbed two. No time to think. No time to savor.
He tilted them back.
The taste hit like glass shards and fire. Bitter. Metallic. Alive. The burn carved down his throat, searing away the damp chill that clung to him like death.
His chest seized.
"I'm out of mana," he muttered, voice little more than gravel scraping the back of his throat. His eyes flicked to the bench. His helmet—his lifeline—rested there, darkened, its arcane core flickering faint and dim.
Without pause, Neon yanked the leather pouch from his belt and pulled a new mana core—a smooth crystalline shard, thrumming with soft azure light. It pulsed in his palm like a captured breath, humming with restrained energy.
He popped the helmet's side panel open, fingers slick and clumsy. The old core dropped out like a spent heart. The new one slid in with a click. The glow surged—steady, eager, alive again.
From across the shadow-drenched room, Calder's voice cut through the quiet like a rasping blade through cloth.
"Ye're runnin' yerself to cinders, lad," he warned. His Highland brogue rolled heavy with concern. "Burn that mana too fast, an' ye'll be nothin' but smoke an' bones before the next hour's out."
Neon didn't turn. He didn't need to.
"They don't have an hour," he said, tone sharp, urgent, alive with something just short of panic. "And neither do we."
Calder wiped soot from his forehead, eyes glinting in the candlelight, face carved from fire and stone. He didn't argue. Not yet.
Outside, the world screamed. Faint at first—distant cries, distant crashes. But they crawled closer. A mournful howl rose like a beast in mourning, met seconds later by a low boom that made the old shutters rattle and the dust rain down in fine, glittering sheets.
The workshop groaned with age, but it stood. Somehow, it still stood.
Neon sat hunched over the main bench, breath ragged. The air around him stank of burnt oil, sweat, and coppery blood. Brass gears were strewn across the tabletop, tangled wires coiled like sleeping snakes. A shattered vial glinted in the guttering candlelight.
The flame danced erratically, casting shadows that flickered across Neon's strained face. The light clung to him—barely, stubbornly—as if even the fire refused to abandon him.
"We need parts," he whispered hoarsely. His voice was low, yet it cut cleanly through the noise. S.A.B.R.E., nestled against the bench leg, responded with a nervous skitter. Its tiny mechanical limbs clicked in a rhythm that sounded eerily like pacing.
The spider-bot chirred once—a whirr of acknowledgment—then darted into the dark, vanishing into the maze of shelves and shelves of scrap.
Neon surged upright, fueled by borrowed energy and sheer will. He hauled a rusted bin onto the table and dumped it out. Screws, gears, coils, plates—all of it spilled forth in a clattering downpour, cold and bright.
His hands moved like he was born to this.
Wired for it.
Brass and copper, iron and bone, all blurred beneath his fingers as he sorted, stripped, snapped, and stacked. Each motion was deliberate, driven, and tinged with desperation.
"Master!" he called, not pausing. His voice cracked under the strain. "I need your help! Can you build this?!"
Calder looked up mid-swing, hammer buried halfway into the fresh barricade he was reinforcing. The wood shuddered with the force, dust and resin misting into the air.
"What're ye—" he started, but Neon slapped a parchment down, half-sketched already. Lines rough but intentional took shape under his frantic strokes.
A weapon. Brutal. Compact. A stripped-down crossbow with no elegance—just kill power. No artistry. Just survival.
Calder dropped his hammer, his footsteps heavy and sure as he approached. He leaned over Neon's shoulder. The candlelight flickered in his eyes.
"Where'd ye learn that kind o' linework?" he asked, eyebrow raised beneath the soot.
Neon didn't answer. Couldn't. S.A.B.R.E. returned with a leap, landing beside the blueprint, tapping one limb against the sketched trigger with a deliberate clink.
A flaw. A fix. A warning.
Neon nodded.
Behind him, Calder exhaled through his nose, deep and tired. "Ye are a mad child," he muttered, but his hands were already reaching for the heavy toolset on the wall, pulling down clamps and calipers, spanners and solder.
Then Neon did something that made Calder pause.
He reached into his coat and drew out a long, jagged object. Not steel. Not stone.
A tooth.
Dark and wet with something thicker than blood. Its edge shimmered faintly with a rune pulsing beneath the surface—alchemical and ancient, like a secret whispered into the marrow of the world.
He slammed it into the table with a sharp clack. The sound rang loud. Clear. Final.
"This," Neon said. His voice was low, iron wrapped in fire. "This is what I'm planning."
Calder stared, eyes narrowing, every inch of him bracing like an old wolf smelling storm.
"Ye do know what that is, aye?" he asked quietly.
Neon nodded once.
"Then ye also know," Calder continued, voice rough with dread, "this path yer drawin'? It'll cost. It always does."
"I'll pay," Neon said, unwavering. "Just help me build it."
For a moment, there was only the wind outside and the ghost-hum of mana pulsing in the helmet core. Then Calder moved.
He rolled up his sleeves.
"Aye, then," he growled. "Let's make the bastards regret ever steppin' foot in this realm."
And the forge came alive.
---
The workshop fell still again, the silence thick and suffocating, like fog curling in the lungs. Outside, rain tapped against the warped glass panes with growing urgency, each drop smearing the smeared orange glow of the city beyond—like blood running down rusted steel. Inside, the world shrank to breath and shadow, to dust and firelight.
S.A.B.R.E.'s delicate whirring echoed through the workshop like a distant heartbeat, the spider-bot's metal legs tapping softly along the wooden floor, searching. Thinking.
Calder didn't move.
His eyes stayed fixed on the jagged tooth buried in the workbench, the rune's faint glow pulsing in rhythm with the candle flame. Shadows fractured and stretched across the scarred surface like claws reaching from another world.
His brow furrowed—not in confusion, but something deeper. Older. The kind of weight a man carried only after witnessing too much.
"Where…" he murmured, voice low and hoarse, like gravel shifting beneath heavy boots. "Where'd ye get that, lad?"
Neon didn't answer right away. The firelight glinted off the sweat beading his brow, mingling with the grime and the scent of damp earth that clung to his clothes. He leaned in slightly, fingertips brushing the rune etched deep into the monstrous fang. It pulsed beneath his touch, warm and alive. Like a sleeping heart.
"You recognize it, don't you?" he asked, his voice brittle and tired.
Calder's hand hovered over the dagger—not touching it, just feeling it, the space around it charged with quiet danger. The rune hummed, the candle's flame trembling in its presence.
He didn't speak for a long moment.
Then—barely above a whisper—"Rune of Alchemical Resonance…"
His voice carried the weight of a name too dangerous to speak aloud.
"Anything forged from the same essence," he muttered, eyes wide with old knowledge, "it'll shatter on contact. Violently. An' I mean violently, lad."
Neon stiffened. The memory of the beast rupturing—its body tearing itself apart from within, bones breaking like splintered glass, blood evaporating into light—rushed back through his mind like a wave of fire and thunder.
"That's what happened," he whispered. "It wasn't me. It was the tooth. The rune—it made the thing explode."
But Calder didn't nod. He didn't agree. Instead, he reached for the embedded tooth with careful, almost reverent fingers. Slowly, he pulled it free, the rune's glow flaring faintly as the tip left the wood with a sharp crack—like a spark snapping in the silence.
He held it up to the light.
Turned it.
Studied it with the narrowed eyes of a man who had seen too much alchemy go wrong and lived to regret it.
"Naw…" he said at last, the word dragging out like a stone dropped doon a well. "This... this is somethin' else entirely."
Neon blinked, unsure if the poundin' in his ears was his own pulse or the rain hammerin' outside.
Calder's voice dropped low, grim. "This isnae just resonance, lad. This... this bloody thing breaks bonds. Molecular bonds." He shook his head, eyes locked on the faintly glowing rune. "It's no some wee alchemical spark—this is true transmutation. Perfect transmutation." He swallowed hard, throat bobbin'. "No rebound. No mana backlash. No entropy. Nothin'."
The candle flickered hard then, throwin' long, twitchin' shadows across the bench. Calder squinted at it, like it had whispered a curse.
"This rune... it disnae belong tae any circle. Not in my books. No the old scrolls. Not even the Black Scripts."
He looked at Neon then—not as a boy, not even as a soldier—but as something unfamiliar. Something uncertain.
"Where did ye get this?" he asked again, voice tight, laced with something rare in him.
Fear.
Neon didn't answer right away. His fingers curled around the edge of the workbench, cold and slick. His heart beat hard behind his ribs, each pulse echoing the rune's thrum. He couldn't find the words yet, not for what he'd seen in that breach—what he'd felt.
Instead, he reached into his satchel with a shaky hand and dropped two more teeth onto the table.
They clattered like bones across the wood.
Each one pulsed with that same unholy light, runes gleaming like old scars beneath the soot and blood.
Calder stepped back instinctively, his hammering breath briefly audible over the rain.
"By the old stones…" he whispered. "They've all got it."
"I'll explain later," Neon said, voice low but resolute, heat flickering beneath the exhaustion. "Right now... can we make bolts out of it?"
Calder stared at him, then at the teeth.
And for the first time in years, the old man hesitated—truly hesitated—between forging a miracle and inviting a curse.
His reply came like an oath carved into iron.
"Aye," he growled, reachin' for his tools. "But if this thing comes back tae haunt us, I swear, it's your name I'm writin' on the casket."
---
The workshop was a warzone.
Not of swords or spells, but steel, fire, and purpose.
The table had become a battlefield of blueprints and burning metal, its surface swallowed by curls of parchment, half-melted schematics, and loose bolts still hot to the touch. Tools clanged sharp against iron. The forge roared like a beast roused from slumber, casting wild shadows that lunged and twisted across the soot-streaked walls. Sparks burst in bright arcs—tiny comets lost in the swirling haze of smoke and dust that clung to every breath.
S.A.B.R.E. scuttled across the floor in a frenzy of movement—its thin legs tapping with rhythmic urgency, mechanical eyes glowing like embers. It moved like a surgeon mid-crisis, snatching up gears, adjusting clamps, tightening rivets with impossible precision.
Neon hovered over the workbench, pale and trembling. His breathing was shallow, every inhale rattling against ribs that felt carved from glass. The blueprint beneath his hands curled at the edges, heat-warped and smudged with oil and soot. He jabbed a finger toward the core mechanism, his voice hoarse and tight, desperation making it sharp.
"Repeating construct. Mini-sized. Auto-loaded." His words came out between clenched teeth. "Can we etch the rune? Onto the bolts?"
Across the room, Calder paused. The old alchemist stood stripped of his coat, sleeves rolled high to reveal forearms laced with old burns and new sweat. Soot streaked his cheek and temple. He'd been working the forge for hours, face lit by molten glow, jaw clenched tight against exhaustion.
His voice came out like gravel soaked in whisky—low, rough, and thick with the weight of the Highlands.
"Ye an' yer bloody machines..." he muttered, shaking his head as he ladled glowing metal into a narrow mold with a hiss loud as serpents. "Aye. We'll make it. But dinnae count on gettin' any sleep this night, lad."
Neon gave a tight nod. He looked ready to drop, but the fire in his eyes kept him upright—barely.
Calder wasn't finished. He turned, holding up a copper plate freshly pulled from the etcher. A faint rune pulsed dimly at its center, no brighter than dying coal. It was a pale imitation of the one carved into the beast's tooth. Weak. Flickering. Wrong.
"I cannae replicate it," Calder said, voice dropping low, almost reverent. "Not like that dagger. The rune's nae just carved. It's embedded. Like the bloody thing was born with it." He nodded toward the tooth-blade clamped in the vice, its jagged edge still catching stray licks of forge-light.
"Ye see that glow? That's nae ink, nor etching. That's essence, I'd wager. Burned into bone with fire older than any spellbook I've touched." He hesitated, then glanced toward the darker corners of the workshop. "We'd need more than teeth to copy it. We'd need part o' the creature's spirit. Its core."
Neon stared. "But the dagger—"
"Naw." The word snapped like a whip. Calder stepped closer, eyes fierce now, no longer a master craftsman but a battlefield veteran staring down a cursed relic. "That tooth won't yield, lad. I've handled relics from the ash pits of Arkenvale, reforged Gravium, even danced wi' Aeternium once. But this?"
He gestured toward the dagger gripped in the vice.
"This thing fights ye. I tried splittin' it once—just once. Nearly cracked the grindstone and set the bench on fire. Dinnae touch it again unless ye want the whole bloody workshop in the sky."
Still, they tried. Carefully. Not with the dagger, but the other teeth Neon had brought.
Calder worked the wheel slow, the grindstone whispering its way down the jagged edge of a splintered fang. The sound was dry, rasping—like wind dragging bone across stone. Every turn released a faint, curling dust, sour on the tongue and laced with the stench of burnt ozone.
As they shaped each fragment into bolts—slim, sharp, and purpose-built—the old man muttered beneath his breath, prayers or curses. Maybe both.
Some teeth cracked. Some resisted. But ninety survived.
Each bolt held only a sliver of the original rune—fractured, unstable, but alive. They pulsed faintly in the candlelight, a breath behind each glow, like hearts trying to remember how to beat.
Neon leaned in, sweat dripping from his brow, running down the hollow of his throat. The forge painted him in harsh gold, shadowing his sunken cheeks and the bruised crescents beneath his eyes. His hands trembled, skin scorched with heat and strain, fingertips blackened with soot and blood.
Not fear. Not anymore.
Just the weight of what was coming.
Of what he had to become to stop it.
He hovered over the final bolt. The rune flared faintly beneath his shadow. One breath. Two.
And then—
"Let's end this," Neon whispered. His voice was rough stone, but steady. A vow spoken in fire and smoke.
Behind him, Calder lifted his head. And for the first time that night, he didn't scoff or curse. He just nodded, slow and solemn, like a soldier sealing a tomb.
"Aye, lad," he said, voice soft but iron-wrought. "Let's send it tae the pit it crawled from."
---
A low roar tore through the smoky air—a hovercraft descending from the storm-choked heavens, its engines howling like thunder and slicing through the tension like a blade. The metallic beast touched down with bone-jarring weight, settling in a shockwave of dust and rain-slick debris. Along its hull, iridescent blue sigils flickered like veins of trapped lightning, writhing against the dark as if alive.
Then—impact.
A hissing chunk of landing gear slammed into the workshop's reinforced door with a brutal CRACK—wood splintering, iron hinges screeching as they tore loose. The barrier twisted inward, half-hung and groaning, revealing a flickering silhouette within the smoke.
From the shattered threshold, a small Netherling slithered forth—its skin gleaming like wet obsidian, black limbs slick with oil and ash. Eyes like burning coals locked onto Neon, glowing with hunger and ancient malice.
He moved before he thought.
The dagger flew from his hand like a living thing—the rune on its jagged edge flaring cold and blue. It struck with a wet thud, burying itself in the creature's chest. In an instant, the Netherling imploded into a cloud of scorched mist and violet sparks. Flames licked the debris, unnatural and angry.
Neon stepped forward, wrenching the dagger free from the floorboards where it had landed, its cold hum vibrating through his bones.
"Let's go," he said, voice low and steady despite the fire in his lungs.
They stood framed in the ruined doorway—three silhouettes cut in jagged relief against a city drowning in red light.
Neon. Calder. And S.A.B.R.E.
Each bore the mark of war—each armed with custom-forged weapons born in desperation.
Neon slung the repeating crossbow across his shoulder, but kept the beast's dagger in hand—its glowing rune pulsing like a heartbeat, alive with the memory of blood.
Calder, worn and blackened by smoke, slung his own mechanical crossbow across his back, bolts rattling in a bandolier strapped across his chest. His beard was matted with soot, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing arms scarred from a lifetime of shaping impossible metal.
Beside them, S.A.B.R.E. crouched low—its eight limbs whispering over the stone, onboard crossbow clicking into a loaded state. One eye flickered blue, the other blood-red from damage sustained earlier.
Calder spat into the dust, eyeing the flames licking up through the cracked cobblestones.
"Thirty bolts each," Neon muttered grimly, loading one with deliberate care. "No mana. No second chances."
Calder grunted. "Aye. Just like the old days. Guts, grit, an' stupid bloody luck."
The wind howled through the breach, hot and bitter, carrying with it the scent of char and mana-spoiled air.
Neon dropped to a knee, slotting a bolt into the chamber. His fingers trembled, not with fear, but fatigue wrapped in urgency. The bolt slid home with a metallic snap, the cold wood biting into his palm.
Click.
He rose slowly, feeling the weight of the moment press into his spine. Around them, the firelight played across the ruins, casting them in a glow that danced like memory.
Then, from beneath his collar, Neon flicked the hidden switch.
Pshhht—kzzk.
The metal mask unfolded over his face, gears whispering as they slid into place. The curved steel settled with a final click, twin lenses glowing a dull orange as they locked over his eyes. Breath fogged faintly behind the visor.
He exhaled once. Slow. Certain.
"No mistakes," he said through the mask. "We end this clean."
Calder gave a short nod. "Lad," he rasped, his voice hoarse with soot and storm, "you always were bloody mad. But I'll be damned if I let ye walk into this shite alone."
S.A.B.R.E. gave a series of sharp clicks—affirmation, readiness. The trio stepped into the blasted street.
Hell awaited.
Neon's lenses flared—orange lines mapping out residual mana trails. They twisted through the cracked pavement like ghosts, revealing heat signatures beyond the veil of smoke. Ash fell like sick snow, mixing with grime and the smear of blood already staining the stones.
Buildings stood half-devoured by fire. Flames clawed at shattered towers. The sky was a canvas of bruised crimson and violet, torn open like a wound.
They moved in silence—every step measured, every breath drawn shallow and ready.
Then—
A shriek pierced the night. Low. Bone-deep. Not from above… but below.
The ground shifted beneath them.
Cracks spiderwebbed through the street. From the fissure ahead, long, black limbs erupted—spiderlike, unnatural, twitching with inhuman precision. And then the head emerged—gleaming bone warped by tumors of ash and chitin, stitched shadow writhing where flesh should be. Its jaw hung slack, serrated and dripping with black ichor, eyes burning with blind instinct.
Calder staggered a step, jaw slack.
"That's… that's nae scout."
His voice dropped, thick with dread.
"That's a Reaper. That's a bloody Reaper! A real bastard o' the dark."
S.A.B.R.E. let out a sharp, static screech.
And Neon?
He didn't flinch. Didn't speak. He raised his crossbow, eyes locked on the abyss swallowing the street.
The bolt chamber snapped into place.
Click.
He spoke through the modulator embedded in his mask, voice fractured like a dying radio signal—low, broken, and full of steel:
"Let… them… come."