The air was sharp with tension. In the ruined streets of Osaka, silence had become more terrifying than noise.
Liam stood in the alley behind his apartment building, breath calm, gaze focused. In his hands were two newly-forged weapons — **steel rods, 42 inches each**, the ends **sharpened to vicious points**, honed with hours of patient grinding using salvaged tools from a nearby hardware store. Their dark gleam reflected the soft blue glow of ARC energy coursing faintly beneath his skin.
They were heavy — **dense, forged rebar** — but in his hands, they moved like extensions of his arms. Swords for stabbing, **arnis sticks for striking**. The weight was just right, giving each blow weight and momentum. More importantly, the steel could withstand the stress of his enhanced strength.
He spun them experimentally, the metal whistling through the air. The movements of **arnis** — the stick-fighting martial art he'd once practiced with casual interest — returned with eerie fluidity. But now, each swing carried power enough to crack bone, shatter walls, or split flesh.
Today, he wasn't training.
Today, he would **hunt**.
---
With his backpack secured and his rods strapped across his back, Liam began scavenging the local area. Storefronts were abandoned, looted, or half-destroyed. Mutated pets still wandered occasionally, most too frenzied to reason, others hiding and mutating further in dark corners.
He found canned goods, batteries, duct tape, medical kits — anything that could be carried and might matter later. Every few steps, his eyes scanned alleys, rooftops, shadows.
He wanted to be attacked.
**He needed it.**
The ARC energy inside him was pulsing more violently now — like a living thing. It responded to adrenaline, to challenge, to **killing**. He had discovered something in his previous battles — something terrifying and seductive:
The more he killed, the **more the ARC fused** with his cells.
And today, he wanted to push it further.
---
It didn't take long.
A **mutated crow** dove at him from a rooftop — wingspan nearly two meters wide, feathers like knives. Liam twisted, sidestepped, and **rammed the rod through its chest mid-air**, pinning it to the wall with a wet crunch.
The ARC surged.
His vision sharpened. Muscles hummed.
It **wanted more**.
Next came a **cat**, or what was once a cat. Bloated to the size of a pitbull, with oily black fur and elongated claws. It hissed like steam and lunged, but Liam was faster. A spinning strike to the skull caved it in. Blood splattered the pavement.
He didn't stop.
He **hunted**, roaming further and further. Feral dogs, giant rodents, a snake with crystalline fangs — all fell beneath his rods. Each fight honed his control, pushed the ARC further into his body. Each kill sent a **thrill** up his spine.
The energy responded differently now. It began to **concentrate** in his chest — a slow swirl, coalescing like a storm forming inside him.
He could feel it.
Something inside was about to **awaken**.
---
But the more he fought… the **less he felt human**.
His breathing grew ragged, his pupils dilated unnaturally. The weapons in his hands blurred as he moved with inhuman speed and precision. He began **laughing** in combat — not from joy, but from something darker.
The thrill of blood.
The ecstasy of dominance.
He stopped talking to himself. Stopped thinking. Stopped caring.
It wasn't about survival anymore.
It was about the **hunt**.
The **violence**.
The **kill**.
---
By the time sunset painted the ruins in crimson hues, Liam stood atop a pile of corpses behind a collapsed subway station. His shirt was torn, his face smeared with blood — most of it not his.
His rods were coated in black-red ichor, dented and nicked. His breathing was uneven, not from exhaustion — from **withdrawal**. The rush was fading, and with it came a yawning emptiness.
Then a sound. A whimper.
He turned — eyes glowing faintly — and saw a surviving **dog**, mutated but young, smaller than the others. It was hiding beneath a bench, limping, terrified.
He raised his weapon, almost **without thought**.
But he hesitated.
The ARC pulsed violently in his veins, **urging him** forward. Demanding completion. His arm trembled.
**"Kill it."**
His own voice — or maybe something else. It whispered from the back of his mind.
But he stopped. Dropped the rods. Took a step back.
His eyes widened.
His breathing slowed.
The pressure eased.
The dog whimpered and ran off.
Liam stood in the blood-soaked alley, trembling. For the first time since the cracks appeared, **he was afraid of himself**.
He had been **so close** to losing control. Not to fear or desperation — but to **savagery**. The ARC was **not neutral**. It **fed on death**, on primal violence. It wanted a host who would abandon reason.
And he had nearly given in.
---
He returned to his apartment under the weight of his kills.
Night had fallen. The city was eerily quiet. Distant fires glowed on the horizon. The streets smelled like smoke, oil, and blood. He passed corpses — not just animals, now — and didn't stop to check who they were.
Back home, he locked the door and leaned against it, sliding to the floor.
He felt the energy inside him still — boiling, restrained, **barely** under control.
And yet, in the center of his chest, the swirl of energy had changed. It had solidified into a **core** — not physical, but spiritual. He could feel it with perfect clarity.
He had awakened **something new**.
But the cost had been… dangerous.
"I have to find a balance," he whispered to himself. "Or I'll become a monster."
His weapons rested beside him.
And outside, the city pulsed with new threats — and new prey.
---