I nod once to Ellex. He blinks, confused. “Boss… You want us in first?”
“No,” I say, stepping into the shadows. “You follow after.”
And Ivanish.
Not with tech. Not with tricks.
With instinct. Withbirthright.
The Reaper moves.
I slidebetween shadows like smoke, every step a silent prayer to old gods with teeth. My bone spurs ripple out from under my sleeves—white and jagged, humming with raw energy. The tips drip venom. Not metaphorical. Real.
The first guard turns too late.
I grip the back of his skull and twist.
Bone cracks. His body slumps, silent.
The next one doesn’t even get to scream. My elbow shatters his jaw mid-breath, my glaive impales his spine, lifting him off the ground before I hurl him into a fuel tank. The explosion is a whisper compared to the roar building in me.
Three more sprint toward the alarm.
I leap from a catwalk, land like thunder.
They die in pieces.
Limbs separated from bodies. Arterial sprays painting the walls. Their blood smells sweet—terrified and tainted.
I revel in it.
Ibecomeit.
Inside, the final line of defense opens fire. Plasma rounds tear through air, singing past my ribs. One grazes my side.
I roar.
Not from pain.
From pleasure.
I fling my glaive. It spins, humming—a shriek of sonic force—and cleaves a man from collarbone to groin.
The others freeze.
Big mistake.
I charge.
My voice lifts—not a shout, not a command.
Asong.
Ishani war tongue. Older than planets. Banned in four sectors because of what it does to the mind when spoken with Reaper intent.
They drop their weapons.
Too late.
