The sun had died hours ago, leaving behind a city draped in shadows and artificial illumination that seemed to leach the color from everything it touched. In the slums, where even the municipal government's meager efforts at lighting had given up, the streetlights cast a dim, sickly yellow glow that made the urban decay look like a scene from some post-apocalyptic nightmare. The air itself felt thick and oppressive, carrying the mingled scents of garbage, stagnant water, and human desperation that had soaked into the very concrete of the forgotten neighborhood.
An Asian man moved through this landscape of abandonment with the quick, furtive steps of someone who understood that survival depended on remaining invisible. His jacket was tattered and stained, hanging loose on his lean frame like the shed skin of something that had outgrown its previous form. His hair was a chaotic tangle of black curls that caught what little light filtered through the maze of fire escapes and laundry lines strung between tenement buildings. But it was his eyes that marked him as something other than another displaced vagrant—they darted constantly, gleaming with a wary, predatory intelligence that spoke of dangers far beyond anything the human residents of this area could imagine.
Are these damned Lindo hunting me again? The thought coursed through his mind with the bitter taste of mounting paranoia. He could feel their presence like insects crawling across his skin—more and more of them lately, their crude surveillance equipment and clumsy tracking methods becoming increasingly difficult to avoid. What are they planning? Am I to be killed by these weaklings?
The contempt in his thoughts carried the weight of species superiority, the disdain of a apex predator forced to hide from prey animals that had somehow learned to organize and fight back. Their weapons are so crude, so dishonorable. Can this even be called a fight?
He turned into an alley that ran between two decaying apartment buildings, the narrow space barely wide enough for two people to pass without touching. The walls rose up on either side like canyon faces, covered in layers of graffiti that told the history of the neighborhood's slow decline in spray paint and marker ink. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet with each step, the sound echoing off the close walls with a crystalline music that seemed amplified in the confined space.
Suddenly, his predatory instincts screamed a warning, and he froze mid-step. At the far end of the alley, where it opened onto another street, a figure had emerged from the deeper shadows with the fluid grace of someone who belonged to the darkness. The newcomer appeared to be an ordinary human dressed in casual clothes—jeans, a simple jacket, nothing that suggested military or law enforcement affiliation. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, and he stood at an angle with his head slightly lowered, but his position effectively blocked any escape route through the alley's mouth.
The monster felt the familiar prickle of unease that had kept him alive through countless encounters with human hunting parties, but after a moment of careful observation, his tension began to ease. This Lindo—the term his people used for the inferior human species—carried no obvious weapons. There were no telltale bulges of concealed firearms, no tactical gear, no radio equipment. He appeared to be nothing more than another ordinary man who had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.
A hint of contempt flashed through the creature's alien mind, the same dismissive superiority that had led so many of his kind to underestimate their human prey. Just as he was about to resume his forward movement, confident that dealing with this lone obstacle would be a matter of seconds, the Lindo slowly turned to face him directly.
The human raised his head with deliberate, measured movement, and their eyes met across the narrow space of the alley. What the monster saw in that calm, steady gaze sent a chill racing down his spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air. There was no fear there, no surprise, no confusion—only a deep, patient understanding that spoke to knowledge that went far beyond what any ordinary human should possess.
In that crystalline moment of recognition, the monster understood with absolute certainty that his carefully maintained human disguise had been completely and utterly penetrated. He had been found.
But the realization brought with it not despair, but a surge of predatory excitement that made his alien blood sing with anticipation. It's just one Lindo, he scoffed internally, his confidence reasserting itself like armor against doubt. Pathetic.
Knowing that his cover was blown and that subterfuge had become pointless, the creature abandoned all pretense of humanity with the casual ease of someone removing an uncomfortable mask. His flesh began to squirm and writhe with movements that violated every law of human anatomy, the careful illusion of mortality dissolving like wax in a furnace. Skin rippled and reformed, bones cracked and extended, muscle mass expanded with sickening wet sounds that echoed off the alley walls.
The transformation revealed his true form in all its alien glory—a humanoid monster standing nearly eight feet tall, covered in tough, leather-like skin the color of dried blood. Two long, curved horns swept back from his skull like the weapons of some prehistoric beast, while perfectly defined muscles rippled beneath his hide with each movement. The primitive, violent aura that surrounded him seemed to fill the narrow alley with an almost tangible sense of menace, the very air growing thick with the promise of impending violence.
The Lindo standing at the alley's mouth, however, remained completely motionless throughout the horrific transformation. He continued to watch with that same unnervingly calm gaze, as if witnessing the revelation of a monster's true form was no more remarkable than observing someone change clothes. The complete lack of reaction—no fear, no shock, no instinctive retreat—was more unsettling to the creature than screaming terror would have been.
Interesting. Despite himself, the monster felt a flicker of genuine admiration for the human's courage. In all his encounters with the Lindo species, he had never met one who could face the truth of what he was with such complete composure. It was the kind of bravery that deserved acknowledgment, even from a superior being.
He raised his right hand with ceremonial precision, extending one razor-sharp claw to point directly at the motionless figure. When he spoke, his voice was a low, guttural sound that seemed to emerge from some deep cavern in his chest, the words forming in the ancient tongue of his people—a language that predated human civilization by millennia.
[Lindo no senshi yo, sono yuuki... tataeru. Oboete oke. Kisama wo korosu no wa, Zu-Baduu-Ba!]
The alien syllables rolled through the alley like thunder, carrying with them the weight of ritual and tradition that went back to the very foundations of his warrior culture. Yet somehow, impossibly, John found that he understood every word with perfect clarity, as if the meaning had been burned directly into his consciousness rather than passing through his ears.
"Warrior of Lindo, your courage is admirable. Remember this. The one who kills you is Zu-Baduu-Ba!"
The formal introduction hit John's memory like a key turning in a long-locked door, and suddenly everything clicked into place with devastating clarity. Lindo. The name echoed through his mind, followed by a cascade of recognition that sent shock racing through his system like electrical current. The creature across from me... it's a monster from Kuuga's world. A Gurongi!
The realization was both illuminating and deeply troubling. It had been so long since he had actively thought about the various monster species from the shows that had shaped his understanding of this strange reality, and over time they had all started to blend together in his memory like colors running together in rain-soaked paint. No wonder he hadn't immediately recognized the creature—the Gurongi had been filtered through his recollection of multiple similar series, their distinctive characteristics lost in the general category of "humanoid monster threats."
But now that he knew what he was facing, the tactical picture became much clearer. The Gurongi were not mindless beasts driven by simple hunger or territorial instinct. They were an ancient warrior race with their own complex culture, their own code of honor, and most importantly, their own apocalyptic agenda for the human race. If one of them had somehow found its way into this reality, the implications went far beyond a single monster terrorizing a city neighborhood.
The Locust Gurongi—for John could now identify the specific type based on its physical characteristics and behavior patterns—finished his traditional warrior's greeting with the satisfied air of someone completing a sacred ritual. He flexed his clawed fingers with obvious relish, a cruel smirk twisting his alien features into an expression of predatory anticipation. As a sign of respect for what he clearly considered a worthy opponent, he would use his full strength to punch this Lindo warrior into complete obliteration.
The creature's muscles coiled like steel cables as he bent his waist and knees, assuming the stance of a sprinter preparing for the most important race of his life. The concrete ground beneath his feet groaned under the pressure, hair-line cracks beginning to spread outward from the points where his claws dug into the pavement. With a sound like a gunshot, the surface shattered completely, chunks of broken concrete flying in all directions as he launched himself forward with explosive force.
He moved like a living projectile, so fast that he became nothing more than a blurry afterimage streaking across the narrow confines of the alley. The air itself seemed to scream as it was displaced by his passage, creating a miniature sonic boom that rattled windows in the surrounding buildings and set off car alarms blocks away.
But John, watching the rushing death approach him with increasing velocity, remained perfectly calm. His face showed no trace of fear or concern, only the focused concentration of someone who had been preparing for this moment without even knowing it. With movements that appeared almost casual despite their life-or-death significance, he slowly raised his right hand.
The silver-white Knight Watch materialized in his palm like a piece of solid moonlight, its familiar weight and warmth providing an anchor of certainty in a moment of supreme chaos. His thumb found the activation button with the practiced ease of someone who had performed this action countless times, each repetition building muscle memory that now served him in his moment of greatest need.
"Transform!"
The single word cut through the alley like a blade, carrying with it power that seemed to bend reality itself around its edges. The effect on the charging Gurongi was immediate and devastating. Despite the incredible momentum that should have carried him forward regardless of any obstacle, he managed to dig his feet into the ground with desperate force, his claws tearing up chunks of asphalt as he skidded to a violent, abrupt halt.
Transform? The word echoed through the creature's mind like a death knell, carrying implications that froze his alien blood in his veins. That... that sound, that language... No, it cannot be!
His heart pounded against his ribs like a caged animal as he stared in mounting horror at the dazzling light that had begun to engulf the human figure. This was not the crude illumination of human technology—this was something else entirely, something that spoke to powers and forces that his species had encountered before, in times and places that had become legend.
An ethereal, electronic chime echoed through the confined space of the alley, its harmonics seeming to resonate not just in the air but in the very fabric of reality itself. The sound carried with it the weight of destiny, the inexorable force of fate made audible.
"TRANSFORM! KAMEN RIDER... KUUGA! MIGHTY FORM!"
The transformation sequence unfolded with a beauty that transcended mere spectacle, ribbons of white and gold light scattering like fallen stars as they danced around the central figure. When the radiance finally began to fade, it revealed an armored warrior that seemed to have stepped out of legend itself—red armor that gleamed like polished ruby, golden horns that curved back from a helmet designed for both protection and intimidation, and compound eyes that glowed with the inner fire of someone who had accepted the burden of protecting others regardless of the personal cost.
The sight struck the Locust Gurongi like a physical blow, but rather than the fear or despair that might have been expected, what erupted from his throat was a roar that contained nothing but pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
"KUUGA!" The name burst from him like a dam breaking, carrying with it all the pent-up emotion of a warrior who had finally found the opponent he had been searching for across lifetimes. The passion for battle, the thrill of facing a truly worthy adversary, ignited within him like wildfire consuming dry grass.
He spread his arms wide in a gesture of pure joy, then bounced twice on the spot with the excitement of a child receiving the greatest possible gift. The movement was almost comical in its enthusiasm, but there was nothing amusing about the deadly serious intent behind it.
[Long time no see, my old nemesis, Kuuga!] The words carried the weight of history, of conflicts that spanned generations and realities.
Although John could understand the Gurongi language with perfect clarity—another gift of whatever force had granted him these powers—he found that he couldn't speak it himself. The alien syllables refused to form properly in his human throat, leaving him to rely on more conventional communication methods.
"How did you get to this world? Is Daguba here?" The questions came out sharp and direct, cutting straight to the heart of his concerns. If the Ultimate Darkness—the most powerful of all Gurongi—had somehow found his way to this reality, then the threat level had just escalated beyond anything he was currently prepared to handle.
The Locust Gurongi tilted his head with obvious surprise, his alien features shifting into an expression of genuine puzzlement. With his species' innate ability to rapidly learn and adapt to new languages—a survival trait that had served them well in their conquest of multiple worlds—he seemed to understand John's English perfectly. But the fact that this new Kuuga knew of Daguba, knew enough to ask about the Ultimate Darkness by name, clearly caught him off guard.
The truth was that he didn't even know how he himself had been resurrected, let alone the fate of his king. The last thing he remembered was dying in battle against a previous Kuuga, his consciousness fading as his body was consumed by the righteous flames of his enemy's ultimate attack. How he had come to be walking the streets of this strange world, in this alien time, was as much a mystery to him as it apparently was to his current opponent.
[Defeat me, and I will tell you what I know,] he said finally, crossing his massive arms across his chest in a gesture that managed to be both respectful and defiant. [But I will not give you time to grow stronger this time, Kuuga.]
The statement carried the weight of bitter experience. In his previous life, he had made the mistake of allowing his Kuuga opponent time to master new abilities, to develop the power to create weapons that had ultimately proven his downfall. He would not repeat that tactical error, no matter how much he might respect his adversary's courage and skill.
John nodded once, his compound eyes flashing with understanding and acceptance. The gesture was small but carried with it the weight of a warrior's acknowledgment—he understood the terms being offered, and he accepted them without reservation.
"Okay."
The simple word seemed to energize the Gurongi even further, if such a thing were possible. His cruel smirk widened into something approaching genuine pleasure, the expression of someone who had just received confirmation that the coming battle would be everything he had hoped for.
[That's it. You are far more interesting than the last one. Prepare to die.]
He stood with his hands at his sides, massive fists clenched tight as he began to draw upon the power he had absorbed from the human military's weapons. The golden lightning that he had stolen from their crude technology began to arc across his body in crackling displays of barely contained energy, each bolt carrying enough electrical current to power a city block.
The energy coursed through his system like liquid fire, and his tough, brown skin began to take on a metallic luster that spoke to the fundamental changes occurring in his cellular structure. This was evolution in real time, adaptation pushed to its absolute limits as he incorporated alien technology into his own biological matrix.
"Sizzle—CRACKLE!"
The sound of electricity filled the alley like the voice of an angry god, sparks cascading from his form to leave scorch marks on the surrounding walls. But even as the power flowed through him, he could feel the strain it was placing on his system. This energy was not meant for biological creatures—it was raw, unfiltered force that fought against every cell in his body as he struggled to contain and direct it.
[Behold, my new power, Kuu—Urrgh!]
Before he could complete his boastful declaration, his body suddenly hunched over as if he had been punched in the stomach by an invisible fist. Blood began to drip from the corner of his mouth, dark drops that seemed to absorb the sickly light of the streetlamps. The old wounds on his body—injuries that had been slowly healing since his resurrection—tore open again under the stress of containing so much foreign energy, oozing dark ichor that steamed when it hit the cold concrete.
The stolen power was fighting him every step of the way, threatening to tear him apart from the inside as his biological systems struggled to process forces they were never designed to handle. But rather than retreat or seek to minimize the damage, the Locust Gurongi forced himself to stand upright, his breathing heavy but his resolve unshaken.
This was the way of the warrior—to die in battle against a worthy foe was the greatest honor his people could achieve. And to kill this new Kuuga using power stolen from the Lindo themselves... the poetic justice of it made his alien blood boil with anticipation.
[Let me use this power, a power created by your own kind, to kill you, Kuuga. Do not die too quickly.]
John listened to the creature's monologue with the patience of someone who understood that some rituals had to be observed, some protocols had to be followed. But beneath his calm exterior, his mind was racing through tactical calculations and threat assessments. He was not particularly interested in the Gurongi's boasting or philosophizing—he only cared about one thing.
Daguba.
If the Ultimate Darkness was somewhere in this world, then every moment spent in prolonged combat was a moment that brought humanity closer to extinction. He had waited patiently through the creature's posturing and formal declarations, but only because he needed the information that Zu-Baduu-Ba claimed to possess.
"Hurry up, Zu-Baduu-Ba." John's voice remained calm and level, but there was a cold edge to it now that spoke to depths of determination that even the Gurongi might not fully appreciate.
The Locust Gurongi's response was a grin that revealed rows of razor-sharp teeth, the expression of a predator who had finally been given permission to hunt. The savage joy on his face was almost beautiful in its pure, uncomplicated honesty—here was a being who lived entirely for the thrill of combat, who found in battle the same transcendent meaning that others might seek in art or religion.
[As you wish, Kuuga.]
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