The acrid smell of diesel exhaust mixed with the metallic tang of fear-induced sweat inside the cramped armored transport. Static crackled through the communication system, punctuated by the rhythmic hum of electronic equipment and the distant rumble of the city beyond their steel walls.
"He's arrived? Is that him in the picture?" one of Ross's staff officers murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he leaned closer to the flickering drone feed. The blue glow of the monitor cast harsh shadows across his weathered face, highlighting the tension etched in every line. "What's going on? He's not in armor. Is he planning to fight that thing in casual clothes? This is completely unprofessional."
The officer's fingers drummed nervously against the metal console, the soft tapping creating an anxious percussion that seemed to echo everyone's thoughts. Around him, the other personnel shifted in their seats, the leather creaking under their weight as they unconsciously leaned forward, drawn by the surreal scene unfolding on their screens.
Everyone in the armored transport vehicle watched with held breath as John and the Locust Gurongi came face to face. The drone's camera captured every detail with clinical precision—the way John's casual stance contrasted sharply with the creature's predatory crouch, the subtle shift in the air that seemed to make even the concrete beneath their feet vibrate with anticipation.
The monster's transformation was a grotesque symphony of cracking bones and stretching sinew, its chitinous exoskeleton gleaming dully under the streetlights. When it raised its hand and spoke in its guttural language—a sound like gravel being ground between massive stones—several officers unconsciously recoiled from their screens. The alien words confirmed their prior assumptions with chilling clarity: it was intelligent, and it could change its form.
Christ, Ross thought, his jaw clenching as he watched the creature's mandibles click together in what might have been amusement. The thing's actually talking to him.
When the Gurongi charged, its massive form thundering across the cracked asphalt with earth-shaking steps, everyone in the vehicle leaned in as one, their collective breathing creating a fog on the interior windows. Hearts pounded in unison as they waited to see how this supposedly confident superhuman would handle the monster that had eluded their forces for months.
A dazzling light then erupted from the screen, a brilliant golden radiance that seemed to burn through the electronic display itself. The sudden illumination was so intense that several officers threw their hands up to shield their eyes, the afterimage dancing behind their eyelids like captured lightning. When the light finally faded and their vision cleared, the monster had inexplicably stopped its charge mid-stride, frozen as if time itself had paused.
Kamen Rider was now standing there in gleaming armor that seemed to pulse with its own inner fire, apparently... chatting with the creature as casually as neighbors discussing the weather.
Wait, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the distinctive bow thought, his analytical mind cutting through the surreal nature of the scene, that's not the point. His fingers moved automatically to his communication device, muscle memory taking over as his thoughts raced. The point is, he has the ability to communicate with an unknown intelligent life form. Is it just this one, or can he communicate with any alien species?
A staff officer, his hand trembling slightly with excitement and terror, quickly began scribbling notes on a pad that was already half-filled with observations. The scratch of his pen against paper seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet of the transport.
On the screen, the Gurongi's patience apparently reached its limit. The creature's massive head tilted, and even through the drone's limited audio, they could hear the low, threatening rumble that emanated from its chest. The monster charged again, this time with renewed fury, its claws leaving gouges in the concrete as it launched itself forward.
The true strength of Kamen Rider was about to be revealed.
What they witnessed was not a battle. It was an execution.
The moment the two forms collided, reality seemed to bend around the impact point. The Gurongi—this creature that had shrugged off tank shells and laughed at rifle fire—was blasted into the sky with such force that the shockwave rattled windows three blocks away. The armored transport rocked on its suspension, and several officers instinctively gripped their seats as if the violence on screen might somehow reach through and shake them personally.
The monster's trajectory was a perfect arc against the night sky, its massive form silhouetted against the moon for one impossible moment before Kamen Rider appeared above it—somehow, impossibly, faster than the eye could follow. The kick that sent the creature crashing back to earth created a crater in the asphalt, spider-web cracks radiating outward like a broken mirror reflecting the streetlights.
What followed could barely be called a fight. It was systematic dismantlement. Each strike from the armored figure was precise, calculated, devastating. The sound of impact after impact echoed through the drone's audio feed—wet, bone-deep thuds that made seasoned soldiers wince. The Gurongi, this apex predator that had haunted their nightmares, was reduced to a limp, unmoving heap in seconds that felt like hours.
What the hell was that? Ross thought, his weathered hands gripping the edge of the console until his knuckles went white. The General's mind reeled, wondering if the drone feed was being manipulated, if what he was seeing was some kind of elaborate hoax. Did that monster go down a little too quickly?
They hadn't even had time to blink—if they had, they would have missed the entire fight. The combat had unfolded faster than human reaction time could process, a blur of golden light and devastating precision that left their target broken and defeated.
Looking at the monster now pinned under Kamen Rider's armored boot like a discarded toy, Ross and the others grew serious. The casual way the figure stood over his defeated opponent, the complete absence of any visible strain or fatigue, sent a chill down the General's spine that had nothing to do with the transport's air conditioning.
This wasn't just strong; it was on another level entirely. Kamen Rider's power was far beyond their imagination, beyond their comprehension, perhaps beyond their ability to contain. The question that haunted Ross's thoughts was one he didn't want to consider: Was the monster just that weak? Or was this new player just that powerful?
The silence stretched like a taut wire until a staff officer, his voice barely above a whisper, cautiously broke it. "General," he said, consulting the digital readout with shaking fingers, "the total engagement time was approximately eleven seconds."
Eleven seconds. The words hung in the recycled air of the transport like a death sentence. Ross realized with growing dread that he could have held his breath for longer than that. The monster that had eluded his forces for months, the creature that had torn through his soldiers like tissue paper and left a trail of bodies in its wake, was defeated in eleven seconds.
His reflection in the darkened window showed a face that had aged years in those few moments, lines deepening around eyes that had seen too much. The weight of understanding settled on his shoulders like a lead blanket.
The older officers in the room were simply stunned by the display of raw power, their faces pale and slack with shock. But the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the bow and arrow—Barton, Ross remembered—saw something different in the footage. His trained eye picked up details that others missed, reading the subtle language of combat like a scholar studying ancient texts.
"His combat skills and awareness are extremely high," the agent said, his voice calm and analytical despite the tremor in his hands as he rewound the footage frame by frame. "At least comparable to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s elite close-combat specialists. He won that fight with skill, not just raw power."
Blonsky, the senior soldier Ross favored for his tactical acumen and unwavering dedication, nodded grimly. "Sir, he has strong fighting ability," he added, his accent coloring the words with Old World precision. The man's scarred hands clenched into fists as he spoke, a soldier's instinct recognizing a superior combatant when he saw one.
Ross's frown deepened, carving new furrows in his already weathered face. So, he's not just a brute with superhuman strength, the General thought, his military mind already calculating threat assessments and contingency plans. He's a highly trained warrior with superhuman strength.
That realization hit him like a physical blow. It was infinitely more dangerous than simple brute force. It was like facing a super-powered version of the Punisher—a logistical and tactical nightmare that could think, plan, and adapt. Someone who understood not just how to fight, but when and why to fight.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, the meditation techniques learned over decades of military service helping to calm his racing pulse. With the practiced discipline of a career soldier, he immediately gave an order. "Get the vehicles moving. Now."
The transport lurched into motion with a roar of diesel engines and the screech of heavy tires against asphalt. Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow as they raced toward their destination.
They had a plan for every contingency—Ross prided himself on being prepared for anything. But they had never planned for an instant victory. According to their carefully crafted strategy, they were supposed to arrive just as the heroes were winning, fire the final shot, and secure the "asset" for study. The script was simple, the variables accounted for.
But Kamen Rider had fought too fast, moved too quickly through their carefully calculated timeline. They were late, and in military operations, being late was often the difference between success and catastrophe.
Ross was now desperately worried the monster would be killed outright, its corpse providing limited research value compared to a living specimen. More importantly, he realized with growing clarity that his entire approach to this Kamen Rider needed to change. The casual dismissal, the bureaucratic superiority, the assumption that he could be controlled—all of it was wrong.
He couldn't treat him as a contractor anymore. He needed him as an ally. And allies, Ross knew from bitter experience, were far more dangerous than enemies.
John was still standing on the Locust Gurongi's heaving chest, his armored weight pressing down with the inexorability of fate. The creature's breathing was labored, each rise and fall of its chitinous exoskeleton accompanied by a wet, rattling sound that suggested internal damage beyond repair.
He picked up a piece of rubble from the ground—a chunk of concrete no larger than his fist, unremarkable debris from the brief but devastating battle. With a flash of purple light that seemed to tear reality itself, the simple stone transformed into his Titan Sword, the massive blade materializing with a low, harmonic hum that made the air itself vibrate.
The weapon was a thing of terrible beauty, its edge gleaming with otherworldly sharpness in the streetlight. With a single, clean swing that moved faster than the human eye could follow, he severed the Gurongi's legs at the knees. The cut was so precise it seemed almost surgical, the creature's inhuman blood spattering the cracked pavement in dark, geometric patterns.
"Dr. Norman, come get your sample," he said into his headset, his voice carrying easily through the communication device despite the armor's apparent bulk.
"Received," a voice replied immediately, the clinical professionalism of the response contrasting sharply with the violence that had just unfolded.
Just then, the night air filled with the rumble of heavy engines and the squeal of brake systems under stress. Several armored military vehicles appeared around the corner like mechanical predators, their headlights cutting through the darkness in harsh, white beams that turned the battlefield into a stage.
The lead vehicle's door opened with a pneumatic hiss, and General Ross stepped out into the cool night air, followed by his carefully selected team. The soldiers moved with practiced precision, boots crunching on broken glass and debris as they fanned out with their rifles raised, surrounding John in a perfect tactical half-circle.
Ross's experienced eyes immediately took in the scene—the bisected, half-dead monster bleeding its alien blood onto American concrete, the armored figure standing over it with casual confidence, the crater-pocked battlefield that told the story of a fight that lasted mere seconds. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the only outward sign of his internal calculations.
The two sides faced each other in silence, the atmosphere thick with tension that seemed to press against their skin like humidity before a storm. Rifle barrels gleamed dully in the vehicle headlights, and the soft mechanical whir of targeting systems created a low-level hum of potential violence.
Suddenly, the sound of something cutting through the air overhead made every head turn skyward. A dark figure on a strange, wing-shaped glider descended from the star-scattered sky like some mythical creature given form. The craft moved with impossible grace, defying conventional understanding of aerodynamics as it swooped between the buildings.
The soldiers immediately raised their rifles with military precision, the distinctive sound of safeties being disengaged clicking through the night air like mechanical percussion. Red laser dots danced across the approaching figure, creating a constellation of targeting beams in the darkness.
"Don't shoot!" The order came not from Ross, but from John, his voice carrying an authority that seemed to bypass military hierarchy entirely.
Ross looked at the armored figure, studying the subtle tilt of his helmet, the confident stance that suggested complete control of the situation. When John gave a slight nod—barely perceptible but somehow conveying volumes—the General felt the weight of unspoken understanding.
"Put your guns down," Ross commanded, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came from decades of command. The soldiers hesitated for a heartbeat, their training warring with their instincts, before reluctantly lowering their weapons with barely concealed reluctance.
The masked warrior on the glider swooped down in a perfect aerial maneuver, the craft's engine producing a low, thrumming sound that seemed to resonate in their chests. Without breaking stride, John kicked one of the monster's severed legs into the air with casual precision, the bloody appendage spinning end over end through the night sky.
The glider pilot caught it cleanly with one gauntleted hand, the coordination so perfect it seemed choreographed. Without a word, without acknowledgment, the figure banking sharply and disappeared into the maze of city buildings, leaving only the fading echo of his craft's engine and the lingering scent of ozone.
An expert can tell a lot from a single exchange, Ross thought, his military mind analyzing every aspect of what he'd just witnessed. In that one, seamless, perfectly coordinated action, the General finally understood the true scope of what he was dealing with.
It wasn't just about the power—the raw, overwhelming force that could reduce a supernatural killing machine to broken meat in eleven seconds. It wasn't just about the skill—the precision and training that spoke of years of combat experience and tactical knowledge.
It was about the planning, the resources, the network. The infrastructure that could coordinate multiple superhuman operatives, the intelligence gathering that knew exactly when and where to be, the logistical support that made such precision possible.
At that moment, General Thaddeus Ross discovered the most powerful, and most dangerous, thing about this Kamen Rider: he understood politics. He understood the game behind the game, the web of influence and obligation that truly governed the world. This wasn't some idealistic vigilante or rogue government asset—this was someone who operated at a level that made career politicians look like amateur chess players.
Ross and John's eyes met across the debris-strewn battlefield, two pairs of calculating gazes that had seen too much and understood too little. A brief, silent battle of wits was waged between the old fox and the young one, each waiting for the other to speak first and give up the psychological advantage that might determine the entire future of their relationship.
The General felt the weight of decades of military service, of political maneuvering and bureaucratic warfare, pressing against his shoulders. Across from him stood an enigma wrapped in golden armor, someone who had just casually demonstrated the kind of power that could reshape the global balance of power—and the intelligence to use it strategically.
Finally, John released his foot from the Locust Gurongi with deliberate slowness, the creature's body settling into the crater with a final, wet sound. He walked with measured steps to a spot a few feet in front of Ross, each footfall on the broken concrete producing a soft metallic ring that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet.
Ready to negotiate.
"Throw PowerStones For my Support. Person with #1#2#3 Will get a chance for extra chapters preview"
""Hey Guys I also Have my paetron p.atreon.com/Scoldey Jod
Where I will upload advance chapters 25+ chapters."