Aleksander was mid-sentence, discussing the logistics of the other bunkers, when his voice abruptly cut off. His Dark Fey senses spiked, picking up a subtle, unnatural shift in the ambient noise of the forest above them. The birds had gone completely silent. A heavy, predatory weight had settled over the ravine.
Without a word, Aleksander turned and walked back to the open steel crate of forestry tools.
His eyes landed on a weapon that stood out from the standard hatchets—a highly advanced, hybrid tactical battleaxe that looked more like a futuristic breaching tool. The asymmetrical head featured a wide, angular, dark charcoal-grey main blade on the right, balanced by a sharp, downward-curving tactical spike on the left. A thick, matte white mechanical block clamped the blade and pick securely together, with a small "KR" stamped inside a recessed groove near the rear spike.
Aleksander gripped the slightly curved, ergonomic shaft. The mid and upper sections were encased in segmented, clean white plating resembling sci-fi armor, detailed with visible hex screws and linear panel grooves. An integrated rectangular display panel lay dormant along the spine, with thin, dark wiring exposed through a central channel. It was perfectly balanced, finished entirely in smooth, non-reflective matte white and dark grey metal.
He spun it once, the heavy base anchor loop whistling through the air, and turned back to the group.
"Wells, Monty," Aleksander ordered, his voice cold and flat. "Close the door. Lock it from the inside."
Clarke frowned, stepping forward. "Wait, what's going on—?"
"Do not open this door for anyone," Aleksander interrupted, stepping backward toward the exit. "If it's me, you will hear exactly three knocks. Anything else, you stay silent and you stay hidden."
Before Clarke or Octavia could protest, Aleksander slipped out of the bunker. Monty and Wells, recognizing the absolute authority in his voice, immediately grabbed the heavy latch and hauled the rusted steel door shut. The heavy CLANG of the magnetic lock engaging echoed into the dirt.
Aleksander stood alone in the dim light of the overgrown ravine. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the vibrations of the forest floor map the threats for him.
He didn't have to wait long.
The brush rustled, and ten Grounders melted out of the shadows, silently surrounding the entrance to the ravine. They moved with predatory grace, but they were clearly excited, their eyes locked onto Aleksander like wolves who had cornered a lone stag.
The leader of the hunting party stepped forward. He was an imposing man, his face heavily marked by dark, swirling tribal knotwork tattoos. The ink ran across his cheeks, looped around his prominent brow bones, and stretched back into his hairline, spiraling down his thick neck. He sported a well-groomed, medium-length brown beard and a distinct mustache that tapered downward over his lips. His light blue eyes were entirely devoid of mercy, fixed in a stern, intense, and ruggedly determined glare.
The leader didn't draw his own weapon. He simply flicked his chin, barking a harsh command in Trigedasleng.
Five of his men drew their crude, rusted swords and heavy clubs, stepping forward to take the Alpha Station boy alive.
Aleksander rolled his neck, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet clearing. He shifted his grip on the futuristic battleaxe, his blood running entirely cold.
The first Grounder charged, swinging a heavy wooden club aimed directly at Aleksander's head.
Aleksander didn't brace for the impact. He dropped his weight and executed a lightning-fast dodge, rolling smoothly directly under the Grounder's swing. Using the momentum of the roll, Aleksander sprang up and triggered a brutal upward slash, the dark grey main blade cleaving through the Grounder's chest and closing the gap perfectly. The man hit the dirt before he could even scream.
The second Grounder lunged with a rusted machete. Aleksander stepped into the attack with a fluid, blindingly fast four-hit chain. He parried the machete with a diagonal slash of the axe, followed instantly by a horizontal rip across the Grounder's ribs, reversed his grip for a secondary diagonal cut, and finished the fluid combo by stepping heavily forward and delivering a devastating sweeping cleave that took the Grounder out at the knees.
Seeing their comrades fall in seconds, the third Grounder raised a thick, reinforced wooden shield, charging forward to bash Aleksander against the hillside.
Aleksander planted his boots, gripping the ergonomic shaft of the axe with both hands. He raised the hybrid weapon high above his head and brought it down with immense, punishing force. The heavy vertical strike slammed into the center of the shield, instantly shattering the thick wood and the Grounder's arm beneath it. As the man staggered, completely stunned and defenseless, Aleksander ripped the axe free and drove the rear tactical spike through the Grounder's collarbone, dropping him instantly.
The final two Grounders hesitated, their excitement replaced by sheer terror, but they attacked simultaneously from the left.
Aleksander seamlessly tossed the battleaxe from his right hand into his left. Stepping into their range, he unleashed a vicious off-hand flurry. He became a blur of motion, continuously and ruthlessly hacking at the two men in a rapid, relentless barrage of horizontal and vertical chops. The sheer kinetic force of the rapid strikes overwhelmed their crude parries instantly. Aleksander didn't stop until his physical momentum was spent, leaving both Grounders bleeding out in the moss.
The clearing fell dead silent.
Aleksander stood in the center of the five bodies. His pristine white and dark grey battleaxe was now slick with crimson. He breathed evenly, turning his dark, calculating eyes toward the tattooed leader and the remaining four Grounders, waiting to see if they were foolish enough to try next.
The tattooed leader took a step back, the rugged determination on his face cracking beneath the swirling knotwork ink. The sheer, ruthless efficiency with which the Alpha Station boy had just butchered five of his best warriors defied everything he knew about the sky people.
Panic bleeding into his intense blue eyes, the leader barked a frantic, desperate command in Trigedasleng. He waved his hand sharply, ordering the remaining four Grounders to spread out, surround the boy, and attack all at once.
The warriors hesitated, looking at the bleeding bodies of their comrades in the moss, but obedience won out over terror. They tightened their grips on their heavy clubs and rusted blades, slowly fanning out. They crept forward in a wide circle, intending to box Aleksander in so he couldn't dodge them all.
Aleksander watched them close the net. He let out a slow, bored exhale and lowered the bloodied hybrid battleaxe, resting the base anchor casually against the damp earth.
He decided he had entertained them enough.
Aleksander didn't brace for another physical fight. Instead, he tapped into a much darker, older well of power within his bloodline. He didn't need a blade to break them.
As the four Grounders roared, launching themselves forward simultaneously from all sides, Aleksander stood perfectly still. He locked his dark, predatory gaze onto the tattooed leader and spoke three syllables in a low, resonant whisper that seemed to bypass the air and echo directly inside the skulls of every Grounder in the clearing.
"Ah Sha Lana."
The effect was instantaneous, brutal, and absolute.
The charging warriors didn't even make it within five feet of him. They staggered violently, their rusted weapons dropping uselessly from numb fingers. One by one, they collapsed into the dirt, their hands flying up to claw frantically at their own heads as agonizing, blood-curdling screams ripped from their throats.
A few yards away, the tattooed leader dropped heavily to his knees. He gripped his temples, his light blue eyes rolling back in excruciating torment as the magic ripped through his nervous system.
Aleksander stood in the center of the writhing bodies, watching the brutal display of Pain Infliction take hold.
Invisible forces clamped down on the Grounders, rapidly increasing the pressure inside their skulls, causing the microscopic blood vessels in their brains to swell and burst. The multiple, localized aneurysms didn't kill them outright—Aleksander had meticulously controlled the magic to stun and disable—but the pain was blinding, paralyzing, and completely incapacitating. The fierce, territorial warriors were instantly reduced to groaning, thrashing heaps on the forest floor, entirely helpless against the sheer magnitude of the agony.
Aleksander stepped casually over one of the convulsing bodies, his boots silent on the moss, and stopped directly in front of the kneeling, gasping leader.
He looked down at the broken, terrified man, his expression completely devoid of mercy.
"Now let's see what I can get from your mind," Aleksander commanded coldly, his voice a lethal promise in the quiet forest.
Aleksander didn't step back after delivering his warning. Instead, he crouched down, his dark eyes locking onto the tattooed leader's agonizing, pale blue gaze.
He didn't need to interrogate them. He could just take the answers.
Aleksander reached out and placed a cold, steady hand on the side of the leader's head. He pushed past the physical torment of the aneurysms and violently plunged his consciousness directly into the Grounder's mind.
It was a chaotic flood of images, blood, and survival, but Aleksander ruthlessly sorted through the noise, pulling out the geopolitical layout of the entire Grounders. What he saw instantly changed the entire tactical board.
They weren't just fighting disorganized savages in the woods. They had landed in the middle of a massive, structured empire.
Through the leader's memories, Aleksander saw the sprawling territories of The Twelve Clans, alongside an unknown number of nomadic Grounders wandering the wastelands. The names burned themselves into Aleksander's eidetic memory:
Trikru (The Woods Clan)
Azgeda (The Ice Nation)
Floukru (The Boat People)
Sangedakru (The Desert Clan)
Yujleda (The Broadleaf Clan)
Boudalan (The Rock Line Clan)
Trishanakru (The Glowing Forest Clan)
Podakru (The Lake People)
Ouskejon Kru (The Blue Cliff Clan)
Delfikru (The Delphi Clan)
Ingranrona (The Plains Riders)
Louwoda Kliron (The Shadow Valley Clan)
He saw the absolute authority that bound them together—a young woman with piercing green eyes and war-torn ink, sitting upon a throne of woven branches and bone. Leksa kom Trikru. Commander Lexa. She was the architect of the Coalition, the first person in their brutal history to unite all twelve warring factions under a single, absolute rule.
But as Aleksander dug deeper into the tattooed man's immediate memories, looking for their encampment, he found something pathetic.
This hunting party wasn't acting on the Commander's orders. They weren't even official warriors of Trikru anymore.
They were exiles.
Images flashed of the tattooed leader being stripped of his clan markings, banished for crimes of theft, murder, and breaking the Coalition's strict laws. This group was nothing more than a band of runaway criminals, violent scavengers forced to survive in the dangerous, contested borderlands near Mount Weather because they would be executed if they returned to their own people.
Aleksander abruptly severed the mental connection, snapping back to his own body.
The tattooed leader collapsed forward into the dirt, entirely unconscious, his mind unable to handle the sheer force of Aleksander's intrusion on top of the physical agony.
Aleksander stood up slowly, processing the information. The exiles were brutal, but they were just the mid level of this world. If these castaways were this physically resilient, the actual trained armies of the Coalition would slaughter the hundred in minutes.
Wiping a stray drop of blood from his coat, Aleksander turned his back on the groaning, incapacitated Grounders and walked back to the heavy steel door of the bunker.
He raised his hand and delivered three sharp, distinct knocks against the rusted metal.
Almost immediately, the magnetic lock clacked, and the heavy door hissed open. Clarke, Wells, Monty, and Octavia stood just inside the threshold, their new axes and machetes raised, their eyes wide with tension. They looked past Aleksander, seeing the five dead bodies and the other five thrashing or unconscious in the moss.
"What happened?" Clarke breathed, staring at the carnage.
"Reconnaissance," Aleksander replied smoothly, his tone cold and entirely unbothered as he stepped past them. He looked back at the bodies one last time.
"They a have arrived.Grab the bags. We need to secure the camp before the real army finds us."
Aleksander didn't step fully into the bunker. Instead, his dark eyes swept over the four Grounders still writhing in the moss from the agonizing pressure in their skulls.
"Wait here," Aleksander told the group, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
He turned back to the clearing and drew his karambit. The curved steel glinted in the dim forest light. Moving with the silent, terrifying efficiency of a predator, Aleksander walked to the first incapacitated Grounder. With a single, fluid motion, he sliced the man's throat. He moved to the second, the third, and the fourth, leaving a trail of dark crimson in his wake. He executed them not with malice, but with absolute, cold pragmatism.
Monty, stepping out of the bunker to see what was happening, took one look at the casual slaughter and immediately turned away. He fell to his knees, violently vomiting into the ferns.
Clarke rushed forward, her eyes wide with horror as she looked at the bodies. "Alex, what are you doing?!"
Aleksander ignored her. He walked over to the tattooed leader, Orfus, who was just beginning to regain a sliver of consciousness as the magical agony faded into a dull roar. Aleksander grabbed the massive man by the collar of his rusted armor and dragged him effortlessly across the dirt toward a thick pine tree.
Picking up one of the Grounders' discarded, rusted longswords from the moss, Aleksander slammed Orfus back against the trunk. Without a flinch of hesitation, he drove the rusted blade straight through Orfus's stomach, pinning the leader violently to the tree.
Orfus screamed, a ragged, blood-curdling sound of pure agony that echoed through the ravine.
Aleksander leaned in close, his face inches from the Grounder's tattooed cheek. His voice was a quiet, lethal whisper that cut right through the man's screams.
"I know you can understand me," Aleksander whispered softly. "Tell your friends that if they want war... they can come get it."
Aleksander stepped back, pulling a cloth from his pocket and calmly wiping the blood off his hands and his karambit.
Clarke stared at him, her chest heaving, appalled by the sheer brutality of what she had just witnessed. "Alex..."
"This is a warning," Aleksander answered smoothly, his dark, calculating eyes locking onto hers. "These Grounders are in scout mode right now. But soon, the rest of them will come for us. I am giving us time. Me taking down so many of them with such absolute violence will make them wary. It will make them hesitate. And right now, hesitation is the only thing that gives us time to build our walls."
A few feet away, Wells stood completely silent. He watched Aleksander carefully, the rigid morality of the Ark fighting against the brutal reality of the ground. But looking at the dead scavengers who had been hunting them just moments ago, Wells knew Aleksander was right. The Alpha Station boy was simply doing the ugly, necessary work that would keep them all alive.
Clarke swallowed hard, looking at the pinned, gasping leader, and then back to Aleksander's completely unbothered expression. She hated it, but the tactical logic was undeniable.
She gave a slow, highly reluctant nod.
"Good," Aleksander said, slipping the clean blade back into his coat. He turned back toward the rusted steel door. "Take everything from the bunker. Do not leave anything behind."
Pushing past their shock, Wells, Monty, Octavia, and Clarke hurried inside. They worked in frantic silence, loading the heavy canvas bags with every trauma kit, seed vault, water purifier, and high-carbon steel tool they could carry. Once the shelves were completely stripped, they hauled the massive haul of supplies out of the ravine, leaving the dying leader pinned to the tree as a gruesome, undeniable message to anyone who dared to follow them back to camp.