When Ankit and his clones reached the kitchen with the family, they found Gyu calmly feeding Rudra.
The porridge was warm, rich with essence‑touched grains and mashed fruit, and the little boy attacked it with such enthusiasm that the spoon could barely keep up. While Gyu focused on the baby, Ankit and the others settled around the table, trading stories about training, puppets, fields, and pills.
On the side, Solar Clone and Sacral Clone moved in perfect rhythm, preparing the family's meal—chopping, frying, stirring, turning the kitchen into a comfortable, fragrant battlefield. Once everyone had eaten their fill, they leaned back in their chairs, letting the rare peace sink into their bones.
That peace shattered a heartbeat later.
At the same instant, Ankit, Solar Clone, and Sacral Clone all stiffened, their senses catching the same distant fluctuation. Ankit opened his eyes and, with a slight gesture, signalled Solar Clone to investigate.
Kamal frowned. "What happened?"
"Nothing urgent," Ankit replied lightly. "You rest. I'll handle it."
Trusting his son, Kamal closed his eyes again.
***
High above the fortress, Solar Clone rode the wind and quickly found the source of the disturbance.
A small squad of pale‑skinned men in black combat gear were sprinting deeper into the mountain range, each one heavily loaded with explosives. Without those bombs, their presence would have vanished into the background noise; with them, they blazed like warning beacons.
Suspicion flared. Ankit's order was simple: find out what they wanted.
Solar Clone dropped out of the sky, shadows closing around his face as he formed a mask from condensed darkness. One step carried him directly into the path of the intruders.
They froze.
For a moment, the men just stared at the black‑masked figure that had appeared out of nowhere. Then their leader recovered and barked, "Hey, who are you? Get lost before we beat you down!"
Solar Clone ignored the bluster. His voice was calm, almost bored.
"Why are you carrying that many bombs? Who sent you?"
The leader's expression twisted; to him, the question meant only one thing—they had been discovered.
"Shoot! Take him out, now!" he roared.
Guns came up as one. Muzzles flashed.
Solar Clone did not move.
He simply raised his hand and pressed down. A ring of compressed wind exploded outward, catching the bullets mid‑flight and slamming them back along their original paths.
Men screamed as their own rounds punched into legs, stomachs, and chests. Several dropped instantly; others collapsed, clutching bleeding wounds.
The leader, hit in the gut, staggered but forced himself upright, face white with pain and rage.
"So you really developed tech that can deflect bullets that easily," he spat. "Our leaders were right. If we don't erase you now, your country will become a thorn in our side."
He yanked a grenade from his pack and hurled it at Solar Clone.
He didn't even try to run. With the blood pouring from his wound, he knew he would die soon anyway. Better to end it here—with one blast that killed his squad and, hopefully, this black‑masked monster—than to be captured and tortured for secrets.
Solar Clone watched the grenade arc toward him, then casually caught it out of the air. Before it could detonate, a tight, translucent shield snapped into place around his hand.
The explosion bloomed.
Flame and shrapnel howled inside the tiny barrier, but when the light faded, his hand was unmarked. He had absorbed the force as easily as breath.
The squad did not see any of this. Eyes squeezed shut, they waited for death.
Time passed. No shockwave came. No pain.
One by one, they realised they were still alive. Relief flickered, they thought that the grenade had failed—then vanished as the same thought struck them all: What about the masked man?
They opened their eyes.
Solar Clone stood exactly where he had been, calm and untouched, the faint outline of his fading shield still visible around his fingers. But nobody seen it.
The leader fumbled for another grenade, desperate to at least deny their captors any prisoners.
This time Solar Clone did not allow it.
With a thought, he seized the bag at the leader's side. The entire pack tore free and floated into the air, drifting gently toward Solar Clone's hand.
The men stared, horror carving deep lines into their faces. Floating objects were nothing compared to bullet deflection—but together, they painted a picture they could no longer explain away as "advanced gadgets."
Their fear came not from a trick of technology, but from the future they saw waiting for them: interrogation, cells, and the collapse of whatever mission they had sworn to protect.
Solar Clone sighed, disappointment clear in his tone.
"What has happened to this earth?" he asked softly. "Why are you all so eager to kill first and talk never? I only asked a question, and you answered with bullets and grenades. I truly don't understand."
He stepped forward and caught the leader by the collar, lifting him effortlessly with one hand. Warm Essence slid through the man's damaged flesh; the bleeding slowed, pain dulling as torn vessels sealed enough to keep him alive.
Solar Clone could have healed everything with a thought. He didn't. Partial treatment was enough—he needed answers, not a grateful patient.
The leader felt his wound stabilise and blinked in surprise. Yet he did not panic. In his world, battlefield medicine that stopped bleeding wasn't impossible, especially after the emergence of Magic Energy; his own country was still developing similar tech.
Then the air itself grew heavy.
Solar Clone's will pressed down like a mountain, pinning the wounded man in place. His voice lost all warmth.
"Now," he said, each word carrying the weight of an order, "who are you? Why did you come here? What is your purpose?"