Ryou stepped forward.
No signal.
No warning.
Akira felt it before he saw it — the pressure. The air sinking. The street groaned beneath his boots as the greatblade slid free with a scream of iron.
"That's enough," Ryou ordered.
Not loud.
Not angry.
His eyes never left the nightmare.
"Senior Squad Take over."
The nightmare tilted its head.
Not confused.
Interested.
Recon vanished.
The street cracked where he had been.
He reappeared midair, blade already falling — a brutal, downward cleave meant to split shoulder from spine.
The strike landed—
—and slid.
Sparks burst. Fur warped. The blade bit just enough to make the air shriek.
Not enough.
Recon twisted, hit the ground hard, rolled — claws snapped through the space his throat had occupied a moment earlier.
Gunfire exploded.
Jin didn't shoot the nightmare.
He shot around it.
Bullets tore through walls, vehicles, streetlights—each impact forcing the nightmare to adjust, shift, step exactly where Jin wanted it.
Its movements slowed.
Misaki landed a hit.
Not like a fighter.
Like infrastructure collapsing.
Her knuckles slammed into its chest. The impact thundered down the street, hurling the nightmare sideways into a parked bus. Metal folded. Glass burst outward.
The purr shattered into a furious screech.
Flank was already there.
Silent.
Twin blades flashed, carving into joints, seams, places Akira hadn't even known could be targeted. Every strike landed from blind angles. Every movement precise.
Recon surged back in, sweeping low.
The nightmare staggered.
Ryou advanced.
The greatblade came down — not to kill.
To claim space.
The street split open. Asphalt buckled outward as the blade pinned movement through sheer mass.
"Now."
Fumika's wrist-mounted AM launchers screamed as threads burst from the ports, biting into the nightmare's limbs, torso, neck — crossing, tightening, layering into a living cage. The nightmare thrashed. Claws tore at restraints.
More threads followed.
Thicker.
Tighter.
Fumika's arms shook.
Blood ran from her palms.
"Containment holding," she said, voice tight.
"For now."
The nightmare stopped struggling.
Slowly.
Its eyes slid past the veterans.
Locked onto the rookies.
Ren hadn't moved.
Blood stained the street where Ayla had fallen.
The smell hit him late.
Iron. Smoke.
The sound came again —
tearing metal.
Not here.
Somewhere else.
Fire.
Screams.
Bare feet slapping against dirt roads that burned with heat. Houses collapsing. Shadows tearing through wood and bone.
"REN! RUN!"
He tried.
His legs didn't answer.
Something laughed.
"REN!"
Akira's voice snapped him back.
Ren collapsed to his knees, air ripping into his lungs. His hands shook. Wouldn't stop.
Behind them—
The nightmare strained against its bindings.
Not wildly.
Carefully.
Testing.
Learning.
Akira watched the threads creak.
Watched Fumika's hands tremble.
And understood.
This wasn't a victory.
This was the moment before it figured out how to win.
END OF CHAPTER 5