I descend like a god of wrath.
Armor hugs my skin, forged from Reaper bone and shipsteel. My blade hums in my palm—living metal, forged from my ancestors' breath and blood.
I land in the courtyard in a crouch, crack the stone beneath me.
The first guard charges.
I carve his rifle in half mid-swing, pivot behind him, and drive my elbow into his spine. He crumples without a word.
Another opens fire. The bolts sting, but my armor absorbs most of it. I lunge, blade flashing, slicing through the barrel, then his chest.
Blood steams on marble. Screams echo. The estate burns with chaos.
I whirl, parry, strike—Reaper fighting is dance and death.
A drone screams overhead. I leap, grab it midflight, rip its processor out, and hurl it at a cluster of guards near the eastern hedge. It detonates in a shower of fire and circuitry.
I roar.
“Run!” I bellow through open comms. “Run and die like the vermin you are!”
A missile locks onto me—I sprint straight at it. At the last second, I vault into the air and slice it in half.
It detonates behind me. Flames lick my heels. I land rolling, blood in my mouth and music in my soul.
The battle song thrums in my veins. Ancient, violent, divine.
Frederick’s estatesecurity is sophisticated.
But it was built to repel criminals, saboteurs. Not Reapers. Not me.
I move like a ghost, like rage incarnate, leaving behind nothing but scorched ground and broken bodies.
Sensors fry. Lights flicker. The estate’s internal defense grid reboots, tries to quarantine me.
I punch through walls with sheer momentum, through reinforced doors with blasts of kinetic energy.
I reach the main gate, and a fresh squad of guards blocks my path.
I take a breath.
And then I charge.
The world narrows to blade and breath. My vision tunnels. I see nothing but obstacles between me and what’s mine.
Three go down before the first can scream. The rest fire wildly.
I don’t stop.
I won’t stop.
Until she’s in my arms.
My comm crackles.
An intercepted frequency.
“A Reaper is attacking the manor. All units respond.”
