The blow connected.
It wasn't the clean, skull-crushing impact Spike had intended.
Miles, in his desperate backward lunge, had managed to turn a fatal blow into a merely catastrophic one.
Spike's hand, hard as a block of concrete, slammed into his shoulder and collarbone instead of his temple.
The sound was horrifying.
It was a wet, grinding crunch, like a bundle of thick sticks being snapped over a knee.
A universe of pure, white-hot agony erupted in Miles's body.
It was a pain so immense, so absolute, that it completely shattered the [Silent Will] protocol.
The cage broke.
Fear, terror, and blinding torment came roaring back in a tidal wave.
He screamed, a raw, ragged sound torn from the very depths of his soul.
The force of the blow sent him flying across the room.
He tumbled through the air like a ragdoll and crashed into a metal filing cabinet with a deafening bang.
The cabinet dented inward, and he slid to the floor in a broken heap, his left arm twisted at an unnatural angle, completely useless.
The room spun, the edges of his vision blurring into a gray, hazy tunnel.
[CRITICAL WARNING: CATASTROPHIC STRUCTURAL DAMAGE DETECTED.]
[HOST'S LEFT CLAVICLE, SCAPULA, AND HUMERUS… SHATTERED.]
[PAIN RECEPTORS EXCEEDING MAXIMUM THRESHOLDS. SYSTEM STABILITY COMPROMISED.]
Thanks for the update, he thought, his mind swimming in a sea of agony.
Spike stood over him, breathing heavily, the red aura around him slowly fading.
He shook his hand, wincing slightly.
"Stupid kid," he muttered, more to himself than to Miles. "You even hurt to hit."
He looked down at the broken, bleeding teenager crumpled on the floor.
A slow, satisfied grin spread across his face.
He had won.
"See?" Spike said, his voice full of smug superiority. "I told you. Speed isn't everything."
He started walking slowly toward Miles, savoring the moment.
"In this world, power is what matters. The strength to take what you want. To crush anyone who gets in your way."
He loomed over Miles, his shadow falling across his broken body.
"You've got some interesting tricks, kid. I'll give you that. After I kill you, I think I'll take a look and see what kind of system you're running. Maybe I can find a use for it."
He raised his foot, preparing to bring his heavy, steel-toed boot down on Miles's head.
This was it.
This was the end.
Beaten.
Broken.
Alone in a dusty warehouse.
As the boot began to descend, something inside Miles snapped.
It wasn't a bone.
It was something deeper.
Something ancient.
The agony in his shoulder flared, and with it came a memory.
Not a gentle whisper from his mother this time.
It was a flash of fire and screaming.
The smell of ozone and burning metal.
His father's face, fierce and defiant.
"We made you to defy death itself!"
His mother's eyes, filled with a love so powerful it was a weapon in itself.
"The child who would defy death."
Project Revenant.
The words echoed in the screaming chaos of his mind.
They were talking about him.
He was Project Revenant.
He wasn't just a boy with a system.
He was the system.
He was their vengeance.
He was their rage.
And in that moment, his own rage, the rage of a broken boy, merged with the legacy of his murdered parents.
It became something new.
Something terrible.
Something cold.
[CRITICAL DAMAGE AND EXTREME EMOTIONAL RESONANCE DETECTED.]
[HOST INTENT TO EXECUTE PRIMARY DIRECTIVE… CONFIRMED.]
[COMBAT PROTOCOL EVOLVING…]
[UNLOCKING FORGED SKILL: PHANTOM EDGE LVL 1]
Spike's boot was halfway to its target when he suddenly froze.
The air in the room had changed.
It had grown cold.
Heavy.
A deep, profound darkness seemed to be gathering in the corner where Miles lay.
It wasn't just the absence of light.
It was a living, breathing shadow, pulling itself toward the broken boy.
Spike took an involuntary step back, his instincts screaming at him that something was wrong.
Miles's hand, his good hand, clenched into a fist.
The shadows swirled around it, coalescing, tightening, hardening.
A faint, black mist bled from his knuckles, shimmering like a heat haze.
Slowly, a shape began to form in his grip.
It was a blade.
It was about three feet long, slender, and impossibly black, a slice of pure night that seemed to absorb the light around it. It had no discernible edge, yet it looked sharper than anything Spike had ever seen. A faint, shimmering black energy, like smoke, drifted from its surface.
This was the Phantom Edge.
The physical manifestation of his parents' will and his own pain.
Miles pushed himself up with his one good arm.
He ignored the shattered bones, the screaming nerves, the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
All of that was distant now.
All that mattered was the weight of the cold, dark blade in his hand.
It felt… perfect.
Like it had always been a part of him.
He stood up, swaying slightly, his ruined left arm hanging limp at his side.
He lifted his head and looked at Spike.
His eyes were no longer the eyes of a frightened teenager.
They were old and cold and full of a chilling, absolute purpose.
Spike stared at the impossible blade, then at the boy holding it.
The smug confidence was gone, replaced by a confusion that was rapidly turning into raw, primal fear.
"What… what is that?" he stammered.
The two unconscious thugs were beginning to stir, groaning as they returned to the world of pain.
One of them managed to push himself up onto his hands and knees.
He looked up and saw Miles, standing there with the blade of pure darkness.
The thug's eyes went wide.
He opened his mouth to scream.
He never got the chance.
Miles moved.
[ACTIVATING: PHANTOM DRIFT.]
He didn't run. He didn't charge.
He simply ceased to be where he was and appeared directly in front of the thug.
The black blade swung in a silent, fluid arc.
There was no sound of impact. No clang of steel on bone.
The blade passed through the man's neck as if it weren't there.
A thin, black line appeared on the man's throat.
His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the floor, silent and still.
The other thug, who had just managed to get to his feet, let out a terrified shriek.
He turned to run.
Miles was already there, a phantom of vengeance appearing behind him.
The blade flashed again.
Another silent, perfect cut.
The second thug crumpled to the ground, his shriek cut short.
It was over in less than two seconds.
Miles stood in the center of the room, the smoky, black energy of the soul-blade swirling gently around his hand.
He turned his cold gaze back to the last man standing.
Spike.
The gang leader was frozen in place, his face pale, his jaw slack with terror.
He had seen it. The speed. The lethality. The impossible weapon.
This wasn't a speed-type.
This wasn't a kid with a few tricks.
This was a monster.
This was a reaper.
His Tier-1 Strength Enhancement System felt like a child's toy in the face of this… this thing.
Panic finally broke through his paralysis.
He let out a guttural yell and threw a punch at Miles, a desperate, haymaker swing fueled by terror and rage.
Miles didn't even bother to dodge.
He simply raised the Phantom Edge.
Spike's fist, which had shattered a wall just moments before, stopped dead as it met the flat of the black blade.
All the force, all the power, just… vanished.
The blade absorbed it completely.
Spike stared at his fist, then at Miles's cold, impassive face.
He tried to pull his hand back, but it was too late.
Miles twisted the blade.
With a flick of his wrist, the edge of the soul-blade sliced through Spike's forearm.
Spike screamed, a high-pitched, agonizing shriek as he stumbled backward, clutching his now-useless, bleeding arm.
Miles stepped forward.
Spike scrambled backward, his tough-guy facade completely shattered.
He tripped over the body of one of his fallen men and fell to the floor.
He tried to crawl away, pushing himself backward with his legs like a terrified crab.
"Stay away from me!" he sobbed, tears and snot running down his face. "Please! Stay away!"
Miles kept coming, his steps slow, deliberate, and silent.
He was the predator.
Spike was the prey.
He reached the cornered, terrified man.
He raised the Phantom Edge.
With a single, swift movement, he drove the tip of the black blade into the plaster wall, just an inch from Spike's throat.
The soul-blade pinned him by his jacket collar, trapping him.
Spike froze, his back pressed hard against the cold wall, the terrifying, dark energy of the blade humming right next to his skin.
Miles leaned in close, his face just inches from the gang leader's.
His voice was no longer the voice of a boy.
It was a low, cold whisper that sounded like stones grinding together.
A voice that promised nothing but pain.
"Now," Miles said, his cold eyes boring into Spike's terrified ones.
"We're going to talk."