Takumi moved like a shadow through the Gojo compound, his footfalls silent on the polished wooden floors. The compound sprawled around him, vast and imposing, its corridors lined with ancestral portraits, the high walls layered with powerful wards. Under the pale light of paper lanterns, the place exuded quiet reverence mixed with a controlled, leashed power. Takumi knew these halls well, knew every barrier's placement, every gaze that would never stray his way. He used that knowledge to glide unseen.
The compound had never been a place of warmth for him. He was tolerated here, but he'd learned not to linger, to avoid drawing attention. Takumi was a Gojo, but his place was... complicated. In a clan that kept grudges like heirlooms, he was the rogue, the loose thread in a tightly woven tapestry of tradition and plans.
Any bitterness had long since faded; Takumi had grown accustomed to the quiet hostility, the way they kept him at arm's length. It suited him. Working in the shadows, far from his family's prying eyes, allowed him to follow a path of his own making.
Tonight, however, he had returned in secret—a rare intrusion into a world that had tried to exclude him. Technically, he should have been elsewhere, hunting a curse in the Outer Rim, a task assigned as much to keep him occupied as to make him useful. But he had passed that task to John, his apprentice. Takumi had a different mission, one that required information hidden within the Gojo family's most guarded rooms.
Each step brought back details John had shared: the grotesque lab, the experiments on Nikkes, the sinister mix of sorcery and brain matter, and the Rapture wielding cursed energy. Takumi's breath barely stirred in the still air, yet his heart thudded with a quiet fury. If his family was involved—even tangentially—he needed to know. Though he still struggled to believe it, the Ark was full of shadows, and so, too, was his family.
He rounded a corner, senses on high alert, feeling for any stray presences, any sign of unwanted attention. His instincts guided him to a small, unassuming building tucked into the compound's farthest reaches. Most would overlook it, but Takumi knew better. The family's secrets often lay hidden in plain sight.
Inside, the room was spare and dimly lit, with only a single candle casting its flickering glow over a low table crowded with loose papers and dusty books. Takumi's heart pounded harder as he approached, knowing how close he was yet aware of the Gojo family's penchant for hiding their most important truths among layers of red herrings. He reached out, his fingers brushing over the worn parchment, his gaze carefully scanning each document, every scrap of faded ink.
The first stack of papers appeared mundane—legal notices, budget allocations, and old records of supply orders, detailing nothing more sinister than quantities of rice or ceremonial candles. Frustration began to knot in his chest as he sifted through page after page, but he remained calm, methodical. If there was anything incriminating here, he'd find it. He'd been trained for this, to read between the lines and recognize the smallest tells.
Several hours and several fruitless piles of documents later, he found a leather-bound ledger. Takumi flipped through its pages, scanning notes on old Sorcerer deployments and mission reports. There were logs detailing shipments of support equipment, updates on routine maintenance, and the occasional report on a notable curse —but no mention of experiments, Raptures, or anything remotely suspicious. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to move slower, to search with sharper eyes, noting even the smallest annotations.
Near the bottom of a stack, he spotted a thinner, yellowing folder—perhaps dismissed or overlooked by others for its fragile state. He picked it up carefully, sifting through brittle pages covered in hand-written notes. His pulse quickened, recognizing the names of several Historic Nikke units and battles. At first, the contents seemed innocuous—simply another mission log from the Rapture war, detailing the actions of sorcerers working with Nikkes and the then newly formed central government. But as he flipped further, he began to see it: scattered phrases like "containment research" and "curse manipulation." His heart sank, a cold realization creeping into his chest as he read further.
Somewhere in the middle of the folder, between entries on weapon maintenance and technical readouts, he found it—an old proposal. The page was thin and yellowed, the ink faded but still legible. Takumi's eyes scanned the words, taking in each line with a growing sense of dread. It was a proposal for "Project Genesis," an experimental initiative aimed at harnessing sorcery through artificial constructs.
Takumi's breath hitched. His fingers tightened on the fragile paper, every word confirming what he'd feared: someone within or connected to his family had conceived these monstrous experiments long before John's discovery. Notes detailing preliminary tests, funding sources, and deployment strategies sprawled across the page, each line more disturbing than the last.
At the bottom, a single signature caught his eye. He held the page up to the candlelight, squinting to make out the name. It was partially smudged, worn with time, but there was no mistaking the insignia beside it—a mark reserved for only the most senior members of the Gojo family. The realization settled in his stomach like a stone. His family had sanctioned this, planned it, and then buried it deep in their archives.
As Takumi stared at the brittle page in his hands, a deep disgust rose within him, coiling around his thoughts and tightening his grip on the paper. The words he read were worse than he'd feared: experiments on creating cursed techniques within humans and Nikkes, something his family had apparently explored during the Rapture war. It wasn't simply the unethical nature of the experiments that turned his stomach—it was the memory of all he'd heard, even as a child, about the brutal history of these trials.
He had heard rumors over the years, murmurings that had drifted through the compound's hushed halls. Stories about clans who had crossed unspeakable lines in their pursuit of cursed power, stories about families who had sacrificed everything, even their own children, for the hope of creating perfect sorcerers. Experiments on creating cursed techniques in humans had a notorious history of failure; it was no secret that the process was agonizing and almost always fatal. And yet, time and again, researchers had turned their sights to children, believing that undeveloped brains were more malleable, more likely to adapt to having Cursed techniques etched onto them.
The images that the stories conjured flashed through his mind: young lives sacrificed in sterile, dim laboratories, their minds and bodies broken in the name of progress, discarded as failures if they did not meet the impossible standards set by twisted ideals. To see it here, spelled out in cold, official notes with the Gojo family's insignia stamped at the bottom, made him feel sick. The proposal had never been just theory. It had been carried out.
The world felt still as the weight of the truth hit him. Takumi closed his eyes, feeling a bitter, twisted sense of vindication mixed with nausea. For so long, he had hoped that his family's faults were simply the grudges and traditions that they held so close. But this? This was darker, deeper than he had imagined.
Takumi exhaled slowly, slipping the paper back into the folder and tucking it under his arm.
John blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Mahito?" The name felt foreign on his tongue, carrying an eerie weight that sent a chill down his spine. He hadn't heard of anyone by that name, but from the way the two Nikkes reacted, it was clear this was a name that stirred fear, a name heavy with dark, lingering power.
The two Nikkes continued to shield the ragged group, their expressions hardened by years of survival, layered with exhaustion and wariness. In the dim light, the scars and dents on their bodies seemed to cast shadows, making them look almost spectral. These weren't ordinary survivors; they had been through something far darker than John could imagine.
One of the Nikkes, her stance guarded but her voice steady, spoke up. "If you're not here for us… then why are you here?" Her tone held a challenge, her distrust plain. John saw exhaustion in her eyes, but also a fierce resilience that had kept her alive this long.
"I'm looking for information," he replied, his voice hoarse, his chest aching with every word. "I've been tracking… strange activity. Thought it might lead me here."
The Nikke's expression darkened. "Strange activity is the only kind we know around here." She glanced back at the group she was protecting, her gaze softening slightly as she saw their frightened faces. "Rat has us all trapped here," she said, her voice taut with anger. "People who couldn't pay their debts, orphans, broken Nikkes… anyone he thinks he can turn a profit from. We work for him, or we disappear."
John's jaw tightened. "Disappear?"
The second Nikke, a jagged scar cutting across her cheek, stepped forward, positioning herself protectively in front of the first. Her eyes, wary but unyielding, remained fixed on John. "Mahito," she whispered, almost as if speaking the name too loudly would summon him. A visible shudder went through the group. "We don't know who he is—never seen him. But he's the one Rat fears, the one who comes to take people. Every month, like clockwork. When Rat says 'Mahito wants someone,' they're… they're gone."
"Gone where?" John asked, though he doubted they had an answer.
The first Nikke shook her head slowly, her gaze bleak. "We don't know. They just… disappear. No one ever comes back." She paused, her eyes hardening with a defiance that was almost painful to witness. "Rat may keep us alive, but only so he can keep feeding Mahito."
A heavy silence settled over the room, and John felt a surge of anger rising beneath the surface. These people—these children, these damaged Nikkes—were trapped in a nightmare, pawns in a twisted game Rat played under Mahito's shadow.
Ignoring the sharp twinge in his side, he took a step closer to the two Nikkes, his gaze steady. "I'm not going to stand by and watch this happen. If there's a way out of here, I'll find it. And I'll do what I can to get you all out."
The two Nikkes exchanged a glance, a flicker of something between skepticism and cautious hope passing between them. The one with the scar nodded slightly, her grip tightening as she extended her hand, hesitating only a fraction before introducing herself. "I'm Echo."
The second Nikke offered a faint, weary smile. "And I'm Cinder."
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, that glimmer of hope in their eyes dulled, replaced by the wariness they knew better than to abandon. Echo let out a dry, humorless chuckle, her voice edged with weary resignation. "You say that now, but we've heard promises before. People come in, talk big, say they'll get us out… and we're still here."
Cinder crossed her arms, a barrier between herself and any illusion of rescue. "So what makes you different? Just because you're offering a hand doesn't mean we can reach it. Around here, offers like that usually lead to the back of a transport truck or worse." Her tone was cold, each word laced with bitterness, the memory of past betrayals written in the lines of her face.
John absorbed their skepticism, feeling the weight of each failed promise they'd endured. "I get it," he replied, voice steady. "I wouldn't trust me either if I were in your place. But I'm not Rat, and I'm sure as hell not Mahito. I'm going to do what I can to change things here, even if it's just this once."
Echo's gaze softened a fraction, though the caution didn't leave her eyes. She shook her head slightly, as though dispelling any fleeting hope. "Fine. Do what you want. But don't expect us to start believing this is some miracle. We've been waiting to get out for years." She sighed, her voice low and resigned. "And you're not the first one to make promises."
Cinder remained silent, her arms still crossed tightly as she nodded, an acknowledgment but nothing more. "Just don't get our hopes up. We're done trusting that strangers have any real interest in helping us. People like you don't stay long down here."
Without another word, the two turned away, retreating behind their hardened facades, fortified by years of survival and shattered promises. John watched them go, feeling the weight of their pain and their words settle heavily in his chest. But beneath the exhaustion and the sharp sting of his injuries, a quiet, stubborn resolve began to take root.
John forced himself to straighten, gritting his teeth against the raw ache in his ribs. If he could make it a little farther, maybe he could find an alternative route, some small sliver of escape for them all. Echo, Cinder, and the others—these worn-down survivors deserved a chance, even if they had long stopped believing in one. And Mahito, whoever or whatever he was, would need to be dealt with eventually. But right now, John was in no shape for that fight.
He surveyed the room again, taking in the weary faces of the survivors, each one etched with years of mistrust, fatigue, and the hardened wariness of those who'd lived too long in a world of danger and betrayal. A small child clung to Echo's side, her wide eyes fixated on him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. The sight twisted something deep in his chest. He had to get them out, even if they didn't believe him, even if he had to do it alone.
John reached into his pocket, fishing out a lighter and an incense stick wrapped in a protective talisman—his last signal to Takumi, his final fallback. He held it to the flame, but the lighter sparked and went out almost immediately, the water having soaked into the stick. He struck the lighter again, gritting his teeth in frustration, but the talisman wouldn't catch. His last chance at calling for backup was useless, all because he hadn't planned ahead.
A flicker of dread settled in his stomach as he let the soaked incense drop to the ground, his hand lingering on it for a second longer than he intended. This was supposed to be his link to Takumi—his one chance to summon help if he found himself in over his head. Now, he was on his own, the weight of that reality sinking in as he stood there, barely able to breathe and certainly not able to fight as he normally would. Each breath was a cruel reminder of his fractured ribs, his battered body clinging to the edge of endurance by sheer willpower.
For a moment, his vision blurred, and a cold sweat crept over his skin. He wasn't ready to face Mahito like this. And without the talisman, Takumi wouldn't know to come, leaving him without backup and without hope of relief. He needed a plan, one that didn't rely on brute force. He'd have to be resourceful, think strategically, and find a way to regroup with Exotic or anyone who could offer him a fighting chance.
John steeled himself, pushing past the pain as he turned toward Echo and Cinder, who stood watching him with skeptical eyes. Their suspicion was clear, but he couldn't afford to let their mistrust shake him. "I know it's hard to trust me," he said, his voice steady but laced with the exhaustion he felt. "But if we're going to have any chance of getting you out of here, I need you to give me a little more time. Just… stay here. Don't leave this place until I come back."
Echo crossed her arms, her expression still guarded, though there was a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe—in her eyes. "We'll be here," she muttered, her tone still wary. "Not like we have anywhere else to go." But she gave a small, reluctant nod, a quiet acceptance that she'd hold onto his words, if only because there was nothing left to lose.
John glanced around the room, taking in its squalid state. The cracked walls were stained with grime, and the floor was little more than cold, packed dirt scattered with scraps and shredded rags that served as bedding. A faint, sour stench lingered in the stale air, a reminder of confinement and neglect. Comfort was clearly not a consideration here; this was a holding cell, nothing more—a pen for those deemed unworthy of anything better. The conditions bordered on degrading, yet the survivors clung to what little space they had, their bodies marked by years of survival in these harsh surroundings.
At the back of the room, his eyes landed on a door. Sturdy, thick steel with a heavy lock—it looked out of place amidst the decay, like a fortress gate set in the middle of a shantytown. John approached it, his fingers grazing the cold metal, feeling the weight and resistance beneath his hand. It was built to last.
"Don't waste your time," Echo muttered from behind, her voice carrying a bitter edge. "That thing's solid steel. Not even I could make a dent in it."
He felt her words linger, their disbelief mingling with the quiet desperation clinging to the air. For a moment, he simply studied the lock, feeling the weight of their doubt settle around him. Then, his stance shifted, his feet grounding as he raised his fist. He took a focused breath, the silent promise of action answering her disbelief. With a sharp exhale, he drove his knuckles into the lock, his strike fueled by energy and frustration. The metal crumpled under his blow, the doorframe groaning as the lock twisted and split. With a sharp pull, he wrenched the door open, revealing a shadowed hallway beyond.
He turned back to the group, their expressions frozen in wide-eyed disbelief. Echo's mouth hung slightly open, a flicker of wonder breaking through her wariness. John allowed himself a faint smirk, nodding toward the floor. "Stay here. Wait for me to come back."
As he met their gazes, he saw something else begin to replace their disbelief—a fragile glimmer of hope, cautious and guarded, but unmistakable. For a brief moment, he held their eyes, an unspoken promise resting in the quiet before he turned away.
Rat sat behind a polished steel desk, fingers tapping anxiously on its surface as he surveyed the stacks of reports and schedules scattered before him. His once pristine blonde hair, now tousled and streaked with early signs of gray, betrayed the toll of recent months. His skin, still fair yet now sagging around the eyes, seemed to cling to his features like a shadow, giving him the look of a man haunted by things best left in the dark.
Across from him, one of his lieutenants stood stiffly, hands clasped behind his back as he recited the latest shipment numbers.
"That's two more batches than usual. With all the eyes on us lately, I don't know how much longer we can keep this going without someone in the Outer Rim or the Ark sniffing us out," the lieutenant said, his voice wavering slightly.
Rat's fingers paused mid-tap, a sneer curling on his lips. "As if I'm not painfully aware," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper but brimming with venom. "Every month, it's the same: more, faster, no excuses." He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots, as if trying to force clarity into his thoughts. "But this last year? The demands have only escalated, and it's him," Rat muttered, his voice dropping to a bitter hiss. "Mahito."
The lieutenant's face paled at the name, and his gaze flickered nervously. "You… you really think he's losing patience with us?"
"Oh, he doesn't have patience," Rat shot back, sarcasm laced with something darker. "He's like a nightmare that crawled out of the shadows," Rat continued, his voice dropping slightly, as if Mahito might materialize with the mention of his name, "eager to consume everything and everyone in his path. And we're just his disposable minions, feeding his sick appetite until he decides we're no longer useful."
The lieutenant shifted, clearly uneasy, his eyes darting around the room. Rat's expression hardened. "This game isn't sustainable. The disappearances, the shipments—it's only bringing more attention. Heat I never asked for."
He straightened, jaw tight, folding his arms as if fortifying himself against a truth he didn't want to face. "Which is why I'm working every angle I can. The officials I've got dirt on, the whispers I've planted in the Ark… If I can pin something big enough, I can get inside. Disappear where Mahito can't reach me."
A sliver of uncertainty broke through the lieutenant's composure. "And you really think they'll protect us? Those Ark officials would turn on you in a second if it suited them."
"Maybe," Rat admitted, his fingers resuming their restless tapping. "But it's better than waiting here, hoping Mahito doesn't decide he's done with me." His voice cracked slightly, betraying the fear simmering just beneath his calculated exterior. "If I can get enough leverage, I can buy my way out, vanish, and let someone else deal with Mahito's twisted whims."
The lieutenant nodded, glancing toward the door as though expecting Mahito himself to appear. Rat closed his eyes briefly, inhaling a steadying breath. He was close—so close to freedom, so close to slipping out of Mahito's grasp and the nightmare he had unwittingly become part of.
But for now, he was still trapped in this cage, fingers tapping on the cold steel as he waited, each second dragging him further into a darkness he might never escape.
John moved silently down the dimly lit corridors, the sterile, soulless metal walls echoing the faint, muffled sounds of his footsteps. The facility sprawled before him like a maze, its lack of high security evident in the conventional weapons and minimal resistance he encountered. These were ordinary thugs, unprepared for anything remotely like him.
John moved like a shadow through the dimly lit corridors, his footsteps muffled against the metal floors, the cold air brushing past him as he closed in on the first guard. The man stood casually at the corner, his gaze distracted, unaware of the presence slipping through the shadows behind him. With a fluid, practiced motion, John closed the gap, his hand striking the guard's neck in a quick, precise jab. The man's body went slack, his head lolling forward as John caught him before he could hit the ground. He eased the unconscious guard down silently, his eyes already scanning ahead for the next target.
Further down the corridor, two more guards stood by an open door, exchanging quiet words. Their uniforms were scuffed, their weapons slung loosely over their shoulders—nothing about them suggested they were prepared for an intruder, let alone someone like John. He crouched low, slipping along the wall's edge until he was within arm's reach. With a swift movement, he lunged forward, one hand clasping the first guard's mouth while his other arm wrapped around the man's neck, cutting off his air supply. The guard struggled briefly, his fingers clawing at John's arm, but he weakened quickly, his legs giving out as he slumped to the ground.
The second guard barely had time to register his partner's fall before John spun around, sweeping his leg beneath him and sending the guard crashing to the floor. Before he could cry out, John's hand clamped over his mouth, his other fist delivering a single, precise strike to the temple. The guard's eyes rolled back as he lost consciousness, and John released him, his gaze flicking down the hallway as he ensured the area was still clear.
He moved onward, each step calculated, his focus razor-sharp. The next guard leaned casually against the wall, his attention fixed on a small device in his hand. John allowed himself a brief moment to assess the situation, observing the man's posture and grip on his weapon. Then, in a quick burst of motion, John closed the distance, his hand shooting out to press two fingers against a pressure point near the man's shoulder. The guard's body stiffened in shock, his mouth opening in a silent gasp as John twisted his arm, pulling him off-balance and guiding him gently to the ground.
John crouched beside him, his eyes scanning the guard's belt for any tools or keys that might prove useful. He found a ring of keys clipped to the guard's belt and pocketed it swiftly, moving forward with renewed purpose.
As he reached a bend in the hallway, two guards on patrol rounded the corner. Without hesitation, John flattened himself against the wall, his body blending into the shadows as they passed, their footsteps echoing in unison. He could feel the thud of his own heartbeat, steady and controlled, as he timed his approach. Just as the guards turned their backs, he struck. His arms shot out, seizing both men by the collar and pulling them backward with a force that knocked the wind out of them. They struggled, but John's grip was ironclad. He released one guard just long enough to deliver a swift, upward palm strike beneath his chin, sending him into unconsciousness. He then spun the remaining guard around, driving an elbow into his side before finishing with a clean strike to the back of the neck.
Each takedown was swift and efficient, his movements like clockwork. He moved with a quiet grace honed by years of training, every action calculated to ensure maximum effect with minimal noise. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion—each guard crumpled to the ground, a silent testament to his skill.
Further down, a lone guard stood by a locked door, his posture tense as he glanced back and forth. This one looked more alert, perhaps a cut above the others. John paused, noting the guard's stance, the way his hand rested near his weapon as if expecting trouble. Rather than rushing, John waited, watching his breathing, waiting for the guard's focus to lapse. The moment came, the guard's attention flickering toward a faint noise down the corridor. John slipped forward, using the man's brief distraction to his advantage. He grabbed the guard's wrist, twisting it to disarm him, while his other hand pressed firmly against the guard's shoulder, forcing him to his knees. A quick, controlled strike to the side of the head sent him into unconsciousness, his weapon clattering softly to the floor.
As he moved on, his mind drifted for a brief moment to the ease of it all. These men were obstacles, not challenges, their skills vastly inferior, their awareness dulled by routine and lack of real training. A small part of him felt almost disappointed—he hadn't come here to face petty thugs. But this was their world, not his. His purpose here went beyond defeating a few guards; he was after something darker, something hiding behind this place's bland, unassuming facade.
When he approached the final stretch of the hallway, a trio of guards blocked his path, clustered in quiet conversation. John slipped forward, silent as a shadow, closing the distance with methodical precision. The guard on the left turned first, his eyes widening just as John's fist shot forward, connecting with his throat in a sharp jab. The man fell back, choking on his own gasp, while John pivoted to the second guard, catching him off-balance with a sweep of the leg that sent him sprawling.
Before the third guard could react, John moved in, gripping the man's collar and slamming him back against the wall. The guard's head hit the metal with a dull thud, his eyes rolling back as he slumped down. John let him fall, straightening as he surveyed the pile of unconscious bodies in his wake.
Breathing steadily, he took a moment to listen to his surroundings, confirming that no alarms had been raised. The silence was absolute, only broken by the faint hum of the facility's machinery somewhere in the distance. Satisfied, he pressed on, his steps as quiet and focused as before, every instinct guiding him deeper into the heart of the compound.
Passing another set of cells, he noticed they, like the last few he'd seen, were disturbingly empty. The metallic doors stood ajar, their interiors smeared with dark stains that looked suspiciously like old blood. The faint, metallic tang lingered in the air, and he frowned as he took in the signs of a hurried departure, his unease twisting in his gut. Whatever or whoever had been held here was either long gone or removed under duress.
As he moved deeper into the corridors, he noticed the paths began to converge, all leading him toward a single destination. It felt deliberate, like the funnel of a trap. He paused, pressing himself against the wall, his senses alert. The faint traces of cursed energy hung in the air, tugging at him like a ripple through the fabric of reality. But it was unlike anything he was accustomed to—warped, unnatural, laced with a feeling that was almost human in its despair. It reminded him of the lab he'd encountered before, yet this was different. There was something personal about it, something that sent a shiver down his spine.
He continued, his steps slowing as the hallway narrowed, each cell and side passage left behind. Every sense told him it was all leading to one place. John's eyes narrowed, his breath slowing as he listened closely for any sound ahead. Whatever awaited him at the end of this corridor, it was far beyond any standard security measure Rat could have put in place.
With a steadying breath, John clenched his fists, letting the twisted energy's pull guide him forward as he prepared to confront whatever horror lay at the end of this unnervingly silent path.
John stepped cautiously into the room, each breath a jagged struggle against the dull ache in his punctured lung. His eyes swept over the vast, circular chamber, bathed in an eerie blue glow that gave the metal walls an otherworldly gleam. The air was thick, heavy with cursed energy, pressing in on him from every angle, amplifying the sharp pain in his chest with every breath. At the room's center gaped a massive hole, dark and silent, like the mouth of a waiting beast, its depths obscured in shadow.
He took a step closer, peering into the pit, his heart pounding as he felt an eerie presence lurking just beyond sight. Suddenly, tendrils as thick as his arm shot out from the shadows with a violent snap, tearing through the silence. He barely had time to brace himself, raising his left arm to block the first blow. The impact rattled through him, sending a sharp, agonizing jolt to his injured side. His lung burned, every shallow breath coming up short as he staggered back.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright, only to see the tendrils unfurling further, slithering along the walls and blocking every possible exit. The pit seethed, and from its depths emerged a shape that made his blood run cold. It was a writhing mass of faces, hundreds fused together, each contorted in a silent scream, eyes frozen in eternal terror or twisted into expressions of unending agony.
A wave of horror gripped him, his chest tightening—not just from physical pain but from the sheer, mind-numbing dread of what he was seeing. The cursed energy rolling off the creature felt like a heavy, toxic fog, clinging to him, suffocating him, intensifying the burn in his chest with each pulse. Every face in that monstrous form seemed to shift and move in sync, tracking him, pleading, snarling. He could feel their anguish—the fragmented souls, trapped and fused together into this grotesque, writhing entity of suffering and hate.
He took a step back, his breaths coming faster, shallower, the pain in his lung escalating with each second. The tendrils twitched and flexed, filling the room with a sickening squelch as they edged closer. The creature's faces shifted as one, leering at him, eyes alight with a ravenous hunger.
A chill ran down his spine as he took it all in. This wasn't a mere curse; it was suffering incarnate, a horror woven from despair itself. Every face seemed to hold a life once lived, a soul forever trapped in this monstrous unity.
John's vision tunneled, his mind focusing only on the creature's every move. His breaths were shallow, each one a jagged gasp that barely filled his damaged lung, but he forced himself forward, activating Ruinous Gambit. Cursed energy coursed through him, heightening his agility but sapping his strength and resilience in equal measure. He could feel himself weakening, but he couldn't afford hesitation now.
A thick tendril whipped toward him, slicing the air with the force of a battering ram. He ducked, his body blurring in a roll to the side, just as another limb lashed out. His dodges were razor-thin, each one stealing a little more breath, flaring pain sharp in his chest. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he pressed on, slipping between the creature's relentless attacks with inhuman precision.
John darted forward, swinging his fist into one of the creature's many faces. A muted crack shot through his knuckles as he connected, but the creature barely flinched, only drawing back and contorting with a guttural roar. Suddenly, bone spikes erupted from its body, whistling through the air in a deadly arc. John twisted, leaping back just in time, though one shard grazed his shoulder, slicing his skin in a flash of stinging pain.
His vision wavered as he coughed, each breath coming shallower than the last. He couldn't keep this up—his lung was barely functioning, and his body burned from the constant strain of his cursed technique. Gritting his teeth, he dodged another volley of spikes, his reflexes slowing with every evasive move.
The creature reared back, its grotesque form convulsing with a sickening crack before unleashing a hail of bone projectiles. John reacted instinctively, dodging the first barrage, but there were too many. He threw his arms up to shield his head, feeling the sting of several spikes cutting into his arms and shoulders. Pain screamed through him, his body protesting every movement, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving, refusing to be pinned down.
A massive tendril shot out, faster and more erratic. John ducked, twisting low on one knee, but another limb surged up from below, striking his side. Pain exploded through his ribs as he stumbled, the air forced from his lungs in a shuddering gasp. Stars danced in his vision, but he forced himself back to his feet, swaying but standing.
The creature let out a distorted, inhuman wail, and from deep within its twisted form, new faces emerged—human faces, their mouths open in silent screams. Hundreds of eyes stared out, glassy and blank, each one filled with a haunting echo of despair. A chill crawled up his spine, and for a moment, his resolve wavered, suffocated by the sheer horror of it.
Sensing his hesitation, the creature lunged, unleashing another wave of bone spikes like arrows. John sidestepped the initial strike, each projectile whizzing by mere inches from his skin. He twisted, ducked, and dodged as the creature bore down, but a spike clipped his thigh, sending a burning pain up his leg. He faltered, his movements sluggish and heavy.
Gritting his teeth, he activated Ruinous Gambit once more, pouring his remaining cursed energy into fortifying his body. But every boost drained him further, like his very essence was being chipped away with each strike. His vision narrowed, his strength waning, yet he pressed forward, refusing to relent.
The creature, sensing his weakening state, coiled a tendril and struck with ferocious speed. John barely sidestepped, rolling away just as the tendril smashed into the ground where he'd stood, sending shards of stone and dust into the air. He coughed, his chest aflame, but he couldn't afford to stop.
"Is that all you've got?" he spat, defiance thick in his voice, though his vision blurred, and his knees trembled beneath him.
In response, the creature's faces began to merge and shift, molding together in a writhing mass. Bones sprouted along its body, forming a spiked shell that extended down its limbs. It lunged, each motion now sharper, deadlier. John threw himself to the side, barely avoiding a clawed limb that tore through the air with brutal speed. But it was faster, relentless, its spiked arms driving toward him like spears. One skimmed his shoulder, searing pain radiating down his arm.
He was close to his limit, his mind a haze of pain and exhaustion. Yet he knew he couldn't stop—not if he wanted any chance at survival. Gathering his last reserves of strength, he lunged forward, slipping beneath the creature's next strike and driving his fist into one of the faces embedded in its side.
The face shattered under his blow, only for the fragments to sink back into the creature's flesh, reforming in seconds. The creature shrieked, its voices a discordant wail, and erupted in a storm of bone spikes. John leapt back, his breaths coming labored and ragged, his energy drained.
No matter how many faces he shattered, they reformed, leering back at him as though mocking his every attempt.
This wasn't a fight he could win through sheer force.
John staggered back, wiping blood from his mouth as he tried to buy himself a few precious seconds to think. Every breath burned, his battered lung barely drawing enough air to keep him conscious. His mind raced, grasping at straws for a way to bring down this monstrous creature. His cursed energy was dangerously low, and with the creature regenerating relentlessly, brute force was out of the question.
He went through his options, turning over each idea quickly, ruthlessly.
Could he focus all his remaining energy into one decisive strike? No—one hit wouldn't be enough, and he'd be left completely vulnerable.
Maybe he could bait it into smashing the walls, bringing down the ceiling? He scanned the structure, but the walls looked sturdy, reinforced. Breaking through them might take as much out of him as it would the creature.
Just then, his eyes caught a glimpse of movement—a stray tendril lashed out in frustration, smashing against the wall with enough force to shake loose a cloud of dust from the ancient, crumbling stone. John froze, watching as the fine particles hovered in the air, illuminated by the faint light. His mind clicked onto an old memory, a fight from years past in a cramped warehouse, and an idea sparked in his mind.
Dust explosions.
He squinted, studying the tiny particles in the air, realizing with growing excitement that the room was saturated with debris, the sort that could create a massive explosion with the right conditions. He'd read about it—dust explosions, a phenomenon that could devastate enclosed spaces with a deadly blast, triggered by the right mix of particulates, air, and ignition.
His eyes scanned his surroundings, noting the fine layer of grime on the stone walls, the dust flaking off with the slightest disturbance. This could work. If he could create a thick enough dust cloud and ignite it, he might be able to unleash a blast powerful enough to wound—or even obliterate—the creature.
The question nagged at him: how to ignite it? He shoved the thought aside, focusing on the immediate task. One step at a time.
Breathing as steadily as he could, he moved with purpose, every step a calculated effort to kick up more dust. His body screamed in protest, but he pressed on, dodging the creature's wild attacks, each one sending fresh waves of debris into the air. The room thickened with swirling particles, the dust stinging his throat and eyes, filling his lungs with a bitter, gritty taste.
"Come on," he muttered, stirring the air further with every motion, his breath coming in shallow, painful gasps. He needed more dust, more density—but the creature wasn't giving him any time to think. A tendril whipped toward him, and he dodged by inches, feeling the ground shudder beneath him as it struck. Dust exploded into the air, and he allowed himself a grim smile, feeling the thickening cloud settle around him.
But he still needed to ignite it.
A flicker of doubt crawled into his mind. Could he really pull this off? His hand instinctively went to his side, brushing over his belt, where he found the lighter he'd used to signal Takumi. His grip tightened around it, relief washing over him, though he knew it would only buy him a brief moment.
The creature roared, sensing his next move, its tendrils whipping into a frenzy as they closed in on him. John gritted his teeth, gripping the lighter firmly. He'd only have one chance at this.
With a final deep breath, he flicked the lighter, the small flame sputtering to life in his hand. He held it aloft, squinting through the cloud of dust that swirled thickly around him, and let it ignite.
For a split second, time seemed to hold its breath.
Then, with a thunderous roar, the room erupted in a massive, blinding explosion.
The faint, rhythmic tremors of combat had left everyone in the holding room on edge, but nothing prepared them for the thunderous, muffled boom that suddenly shook the walls. A cascade of dust and debris rained from the ceiling, and the blue emergency lights flickered, casting ghostly shadows across the room. Panic surged as a deep crack snaked its way up the far wall, splitting it wide and releasing a smell of burning mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
Echo's heart hammered as she exchanged a tense glance with Cinder. The vibrations grew stronger, fire licking at the edges of the walls. The heat was growing, pressing in on them.
"We have to get out. Now." Cinder's voice cut through the rising noise, her gaze steely as she ushered the group toward the back of the room, where John had pried open the manhole earlier. She didn't wait for responses, guiding each terrified civilian to the opening with quick, decisive movements.
With a burst of urgency, they directed the civilians into the narrow space one by one. Echo slid down first, her pulse pounding, each breath laced with the grit of ash and dust from above. But when her feet hit the ground below, her breath caught in her throat.
The tunnel floor was strewn with the mangled bodies of misshapen curses, their forms twisted and broken like discarded puppets. In the dim emergency lighting, she could make out dark smears of congealed blood, its metallic scent almost suffocating. Some of the creatures were torn clean in half, others crushed beyond recognition, their limbs bent at impossible angles.
Echo froze, her heart pounding in her chest as she took in the carnage, the sight both grotesque and mesmerizing. "What… what happened here?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath. The brutality of it unsettled her, each step forward bringing a new horror into view. Her mind raced, wondering what—or who—had torn through them with such ferocity.
She barely had time to process the scene before Cinder's voice echoed down the tunnel, sharp and unyielding. "Echo, move! We've got more coming down!"
Echo snapped out of her daze, her survival instincts taking over as she hurried forward. Her footsteps echoed faintly against the walls, the sound swallowed by the dark, narrow tunnel that stretched ominously ahead.
Cinder quickly ushered the group into the dark, narrow tunnel, her voice firm but calm as she encouraged them to keep moving. Behind them, smoke billowed thickly, creeping down into the passage. Glancing back at the manhole entrance, Cinder winced; flames were licking hungrily at the walls above, casting a dangerous orange glow into the corridor. She hesitated only a moment before shoving the metal cover back over the entrance, sealing them off from the advancing fire and smoke. The acrid smell of burning metal lingered in the air, stinging her throat, and a faint heat pulsed through the stone walls.
As the civilians shuffled further into the tunnel, Cinder knelt beside a frightened child, placing a reassuring hand on their shoulder. "We're safe down here," she murmured, her voice steady as she worked to keep her own nerves under control. "Just stay close, and we'll get through this together."
The air felt thick and stale, pressing in on them even without the smoke. Despite the tension simmering around them, Cinder's steady words seemed to calm the group somewhat. She cast a reassuring smile, though a flicker of unease lingered in her eyes, betraying her own worry. The ground vibrated faintly beneath them, and a deep rumble overhead warned that their time was limited.
Ahead, Echo held her position further down the tunnel, her gaze sharp as she scanned the shadows. She tightened her grip on her weapon, her stance protective and ready, every sense heightened. Each creak, each faint scuttling sound in the dark kept her alert. Her pulse quickened as she strained her ears, searching the darkness for any hint of movement that might signal danger.
As another rumble echoed down the passage, Cinder pressed her hand gently on the child's back, urging them forward. She could feel the weight of their lives on her shoulders, the responsibility as real as the dust settling on her skin. This was survival, and if she faltered, they would too.
The scene lay in utter ruin. Smoke curled from the cracked walls, and debris lay scattered across what had been a makeshift battlefield. Amidst the shattered rubble and ash, a single limp hand pushed through, fingers twitching before tightening into a determined fist. With a grunt of effort, John pulled himself from the debris, his body battered and burned, his torso scorched from the blast, his cheek seared with a fresh burn.
Despite the agony coursing through him, a crazed, almost manic grin spread across his face as he whispered, half in awe, "I'm… a fucking genius."
He staggered to his feet, every movement sending jagged spikes of pain through his body. But adrenaline coursed through him, overriding the aches and burns. He let out a rough, exhilarated laugh, glancing back at the chaos he'd unleashed. But as the euphoria waned, a single, horrifying thought crashed into his mind: The group.
His heart leapt into his throat, and his expression shifted from triumph to raw panic as he remembered the people he'd left behind. With a strangled gasp, he forced his battered body into a sprint, weaving through rubble-strewn corridors, dodging crumbled walls and collapsed support beams.
Along the way, he passed the guards he'd subdued earlier, their bodies sprawled in twisted positions. The sight slowed him only briefly, guilt stabbing through the adrenaline. Kneeling by one of the still-breathing guards, he pressed two fingers to the man's pulse, feeling a faint but steady beat. He glanced at the others, finding another guard alive but barely conscious. Gritting his teeth, he propped the man up, dragging him to the cover of a half-collapsed beam before moving on.
When he reached the charred remains of the room where he'd left the group, his stomach twisted. The door and walls had caved in under the pressure of the explosion, leaving a thick layer of rubble, twisted metal, and stone. For a moment, cold hopelessness gripped him. Buried alive, the thought hit him, paralyzing him with the enormity of it. Were they all beneath this wreckage?
He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to assess the scene, his gaze sweeping the debris. He'd seen no bodies—no sign that they'd been crushed. A tiny flicker of hope surfaced. Maybe they'd escaped…
Dropping to his knees, he began clawing through the rubble with his bare hands, ignoring the sting as jagged stone and twisted metal bit into his skin. Each frantic pull sent dust swirling into the air, choking him, but he didn't stop, desperation driving his movements. Every ache in his body, every burn and bruise, was background noise now.
"Come on," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Just… give me something."
His hand brushed against something soft—a scrap of fabric. His breath hitched. It was familiar, a torn piece from one of the children's jackets. He clutched it tightly, relief mingling with renewed urgency. They'd been here. They'd left.
Fueled by the small sign, he pushed forward through the wreckage, his body protesting with every movement but his mind focused, sharpened. The group was out there. He was going to find them.
John's hands scraped against sharp shards of broken stone, ignoring the fresh cuts that opened up along his fingers as he dug deeper into the rubble. His breaths were ragged, each one punctuated by a sharp wince of pain, but he pressed on, his mind singularly focused on finding something—anything—that would confirm the group had survived.
At last, his fingers found the edge of a large slab of stone. Bracing himself, he heaved with every ounce of strength he had left, a stabbing pain tearing through his injured side as he strained to lift it. His vision swam, every muscle in his battered body burning, but he gritted his teeth, forcing the stone to shift just enough for him to shove it aside. Beneath, the faint outline of a manhole cover came into view.
For a heartbeat, he froze, barely daring to hope. His hand trembled as he reached out, prying open the cover. And there, below the opening, was Echo, her wary gaze hardening as she braced herself to meet whatever might emerge from the other side.
Their eyes met, and a wave of relief hit John so hard it nearly brought him to his knees. Without a second thought, he reached down, gripping Echo's shoulders and pulling her up, his arms fueled by adrenaline and sheer gratitude. He lifted her completely from the ground, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce, unyielding embrace.
Echo stiffened, a surprised gasp caught in her throat. The idea of anyone lifting her was already a shock—Nikkes were built strong, with reinforced structures and cores that made them far heavier than they appeared. And yet, here he was, this beaten, half-burned man, holding her as if the very act of finding her had given him strength beyond reason. She wasn't sure what surprised her more: his resolve or the unmistakable warmth of his gratitude.
"Thank god," he muttered, his voice rough but filled with raw relief. "You're safe… all of you."
For a moment, Echo's hands hovered, unsure, but the weight of his embrace—and the gratitude that radiated from him—left her momentarily speechless. She allowed herself to return the hug, her own fingers tightening around his arms, acknowledging his relief with a quiet, unspoken understanding.
As they broke apart, John's shoulders sagged, exhaustion finally catching up to him. But his relief was a balm against the pain. He glanced back down the tunnel where the others waited, a fierce resolve settling over him.
For now, they were safe. And as long as he was breathing, he'd make sure it stayed that way.