DC: Rise of the Kryptonian Tyrant

by Junkdog786

A Kryptonian war criminal rises from a tragic past. Once a selfless man who gave everything for love and family, he was shattered by betrayal. Reborn ruthless and cunning, he casts aside his former self. Ambitious and cold, he builds a force to reshape the universe, leaving behind only the ashes of the man he used to be.

6. Chapter 31-40

Chapter 31

Bardi let out a deep, guttural snort, gritting his teeth as the whites of his eyes turned bloodshot, the pupils narrowing dangerously. The deep scar across his face twisted and writhed, giving his already fearsome visage the appearance of a furious giant rising from molten lava.

The electric current coursing through his hand left his body paralyzed, and for a fleeting moment, it dragged his thoughts back to the first time he arrived on Earth. His spaceship had exploded, crashing him to the planet's surface, where he was captured and imprisoned. He had been little more than a living specimen to them, his brain drained for knowledge and experimentation.

If he hadn't manipulated Jenny—willingly allowing himself to be paralyzed and even risking death just to seize a chance to bask in sunlight—he might still be trapped, treated as nothing more than a shell, drained and discarded.

The current racing through him now, however, was unlike the anesthesia used against him back then. It didn't numb him into submission. Instead, it ignited a primal fury deep within him, a rage that bubbled and churned from his very core.

His glare was ferocious, his bare eyes flashing with raw aggression. His powerful frame surged with tension, muscles swelling as blood pumped fiercely through his veins. The blue electric arcs snaked across his body but were swiftly overpowered by the unstoppable force of his raging blood. His body, teeming with vitality, resisted the paralysis, granting him full control of his movements once again.

This electric current, lethal enough to reduce an ordinary human to a lifeless husk, was rendered impotent in the face of Bardi's terrifying resilience.

At that moment, countless bullets screeched through the air, their red-hot trajectories streaking toward him like a relentless barrage of fiery needles. It was a hailstorm of death, a blistering salvo meant to shred him into an unrecognizable mass.

With a single step, a shockwave of white energy erupted from his body, creating an air barrier that distorted the space around him. Gripping the metal mesh of the barrier in front of him, he charged forward with an explosive burst of power. Each step rumbled like the stride of a colossal beast, the sheer force of his movements leaving massive spider-web cracks in the ground beneath him.

The relentless gunfire roared like a deafening drumbeat. Smoke bombs filled the air, but a single pulse of violent energy from Bardi's body dispersed the thick fog. Emerging from the haze like a primordial beast, his presence radiated pure menace, his aura alone seemingly capable of shattering bones.

Bullets tore through the air toward him, but his body barreled through the forest of projectiles, his thick arms raised to shield the most vital parts of his body. The bullets tore into his flesh, but they only penetrated an inch or two into his fibrous muscles before being stopped by his unyielding strength. His flesh seemed to devour the projectiles, his dense musculature rendering them powerless.

No bullet, no matter how many, could halt his ferocious momentum.

With a sudden, thunderous crack, Bardi appeared directly in front of a soldier. The man didn't even have time to process the massive figure looming before him before Bardi's fist collided with his head. The impact was catastrophic. The soldier's gas mask shattered, his skull exploding in a gruesome burst of bone and brain matter. The lifeless body was flung over ten meters away, spasming uncontrollably as it collapsed into death.

The metal mesh that had been clinging to Bardi moments earlier was now draped over the mangled corpse, partially covering its shattered torso, leaving only the bloodied remnants of a head exposed.

The relentless gunfire abruptly ceased.

Slade lying on the ground and the soldiers around him froze in stunned silence.

The acrid scent of gunpowder hung thick in the air, spreading rapidly from the barrels of their weapons. Yet no one dared to move.

Bardi shook his right arm. The motion sent bullets lodged in his skin like tiny plugs clattering to the ground one by one. The crisp sound of the falling bullets echoed in the unnerving stillness, startling everyone who heard it.

The wounds on his arm, where the bullets had penetrated, exposed white fibers beneath the mangled flesh. Despite the damage, only a few drops of blood dripped to the ground, painting a chilling image of his resilience.

Before their very eyes, the bullet holes began to close. The flesh squirmed and regrew, granulation tissue sprouting to repair the damage. The sight was grotesque, the itching sensation from the regeneration irritating enough to make Bardi want to claw at his own skin.

His arm, moments ago riddled with injuries, was visibly healing, leaving behind no trace of the destruction that had just occurred.

"Good."

A sneer tugged at the corner of Bardi's mouth. He hadn't realized that while his body wasn't as indestructible as Superman's, bullets still couldn't do him any real harm.

When the bullets had struck his arm, he could feel the searing heat and kinetic energy from their rotation as they pierced his skin. Yet, his cellular structure was different, each cell carried a force field of sorts. When combined into blood, and further transformed into his dense, powerful muscles, the bullets were consumed by the fibers themselves, drained of their momentum and rendered harmless.

For years, he had assumed that his body was weaker than that of the average Kryptonian due to some genetic flaw, which made him cautious, unwilling to risk direct gunfire for fear of injury. But now...

He glanced at his arm, unscathed and already healed from the barrage of bullets.

He was indeed weaker than a standard Kryptonian.

But even so, Earth's weapons couldn't harm him.

And that realization—it thrilled him.

The tension in the air thickened. The acrid scent of gunpowder was suffocating, mixing with the stale smoke lingering from the firefight. The soldiers and even Slade, who lay nearby, couldn't believe what they had just witnessed.

"The bullets didn't hurt me nearly as much as I thought they would."

Bardi chuckled, his voice low and guttural. "It seems I've underestimated myself all this time."

His laughter grew, the grin on his face widening into something unsettling and unhinged. The soldiers watching him shivered, their fear deepening as Bardi suddenly discarded the M16 automatic rifle, M8 pistol, and the accompanying magazines in his hands. The weapons clattered to the ground with an air of finality.

He finally understood. Carrying these guns was nothing more than a burden.

This wasn't about human weapons anymore.

The atmosphere shifted, becoming colder, more stifling. The soldiers surrounding him felt a chill run down their spines. They were drenched in cold sweat as fear gripped them tighter than their trembling fingers could hold their weapons.

He was unarmed now.

Yet the sheer terror he inspired was greater than when he had been carrying firearms.

"What... what are you?" one soldier stammered, his voice cracking.

"What kind of monster is this?" another whispered hoarsely.

"An alien... an alien monster!" someone shouted, their voice quivering with disbelief.

The words rippled through the group, heightening their panic.

They couldn't believe their eyes. No creature on Earth not even the largest, most fearsome predators in history could shrug off bullets. A hailstorm of firepower like the one they unleashed would have turned a Tyrannosaurus rex into a pile of bloody chunks.

Yet Bardi...

He simply shook his arm, letting the bullets embedded in his flesh fall away, and his wounds healed almost instantly.

This wasn't a world where superheroes and supervillains had begun to emerge yet. This was still an era where bullets were the ultimate answer to power and destruction. And here was a man—a being—who could block bullets as casually as someone brushing away dust.

His ability to resist the firepower of modern weaponry was beyond imagination. In this world, he was already an unstoppable weapon, an existence that couldn't be eliminated by conventional means. Even missiles might not be enough.

The soldiers' guns trembled in their hands. What use were they now, when even their most destructive bullets couldn't penetrate his skin? What kind of monster was this?

"Is this... still a fight?"

Slade, still lying on the ground, stared at Bardi in disbelief. His mind reeled as he tried to process what he had just witnessed. Human weapons, hot lead designed to end lives had proven utterly ineffective.

The bullets had done little more than draw a few drops of Bardi's blood. Those same drops now stained the ground, mocking the very idea of resistance.

Slade's instincts screamed at him to run. Every nerve in his body was on edge, his heart pounding furiously as adrenaline flooded his system. Fear seized him completely, the kind of primal terror that made his pulse race and his body tremble uncontrollably.

"I'll grant you true fear."

Bardi's voice was low but carried an ominous weight, like the rumble of thunder before a storm.

With a single step, the ground cracked and caved beneath him, forming a web of fissures. In an instant, Bardi closed the distance between himself and a soldier who had fallen to the ground in terror. The man didn't even have time to react.

Bardi's right hand shot out, his fingers closing around the soldier's neck like an iron vice. Lifting the man effortlessly off the ground, he held him high, his grip tightening with terrifying strength.

"Devil!"

The word escaped someone's lips in a terrified whisper.

The other soldiers could only watch in horror as the scene unfolded.

The light from their flashlights shone from behind the soldier dangling helplessly in Bardi's grip, casting a long shadow over Bardi's face. His features were shrouded in darkness, but the cruel smile on his lips gleamed, revealing perfectly white teeth.

In one hand, Bardi held the soldier aloft like a ragdoll. His expression twisted with cold malice as he squeezed.

Chapter 32

The faint chill of air-conditioning mixed with the thick stench of gunpowder smoke filled the room, suffocating everyone present. The oppressive atmosphere weighed down on the soldiers, gripping them with dread.

Under the harsh glow of incandescent lights, the soldiers—momentarily frozen in shock lifted their heads to gaze at Bardi. He loomed over them like a giant, holding the limp body of a soldier in one hand, his expression a twisted mask of tyranny and malice.

Bardi stood there, illuminated by the stark light, his figure monstrous, his grin cruel. In that moment, the scene seemed frozen in time, capturing the image of a demon king risen from the depths, his malevolence etched in terrifying clarity.

And then the silence broke.

"Ahh!"

The soldier in Bardi's grip let out a piercing scream, his face contorted in pure terror. His voice echoed through the suffocating air, shattering the eerie stillness.

Chaos erupted.

The soldiers snapped out of their stupor, and the air was filled with the deafening roar of countless gunshots. Thousands of bullets blazed toward Bardi, streaking like meteors in the confined space.

But Bardi didn't flinch.

Instead of using the soldier in his grip as a shield, he boldly spread his arms wide and thrust his chest forward, welcoming the bullets with open defiance.

The bullets peppered his body like relentless needles, sharp but fleeting. Each impact sent a slight sting through his nerves, a sensation that only heightened his awareness and grounded him in the moment.

He laughed. His mouth stretched into an unnerving smile, his cold eyes glinting with a maniacal light. The storm of bullets wasn't an obstacle—it was a thrill.

Bardi stepped forward once more, advancing through the torrent of gunfire as though it were a mere drizzle. Each step cracked the ground beneath him, the floor fracturing into larger and deeper webs with each impact.

A bullet struck the center of his palm, lodging itself with a sharp prick, but he barely reacted. The pain was insignificant, a faint irritation at best.

In fact, it ignited something dormant within him—a bloodlust, a madness he hadn't felt in a long time. His heart pounded with exhilaration, his blood boiling with the long-forgotten thrill of battle.

With an explosive step, Bardi reached the nearest soldier. Dust swirled into the air from the force of his movement, and the ground beneath him shattered into a deep crater.

He raised his palm, still smoldering from the heat of the bullets and pressed it against the soldier's forehead.

The soldier barely had time to let out a strangled scream.

The residual heat from the bullets seared his skin, and his eyes bulged with terror.

Then, in an instant, he was gone.

Bardi didn't simply kill him, he annihilated him. The man's head crumpled under the force of Bardi's attack, leaving nothing but death in its wake.

The soldiers around them stared in horror, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. The sight was grotesque enough to freeze them in place.

For the soldiers, it was a nightmare made real, a monster they couldn't fight, couldn't kill, and couldn't escape. The chill that ran through their hearts was unlike anything they'd ever felt before.

Slade bit his tongue, the metallic tang of blood snapping him out of his stupor and sending a chill down his spine. Through the blur of his fear and adrenaline, he caught a haunting image—Bardi, grinning wickedly, his cold, frantic eyes watching as he casually caught bullets with his fingers.

Bardi's raw strength was staggering, fifteen tons of power, not as a peak, but as his base, his norm. When unleashed fully through his precise control and skill, that force could exceed one hundred tons.

For the first time, Bardi was indulging in the sheer destructive potential of his power. Amid the sea of bullets, he reveled in the experience. Even as the flesh of his fingers was worn away, exposing stark white bone beneath the relentless friction, he remained exhilarated.

The bullets slammed into his fingers with supersonic speed, their rotational kinetic energy grinding against his skin. The flesh was peeled away bit by bit, yet Bardi pressed on, until the bullets finally stopped, wedged at his fingertips, lodged against the exposed bone.

And then, as if to defy the violence of it all, his fingers began to regenerate. Flesh and muscle reformed, itching as they healed in mere moments, leaving his hand pristine once more.

Slade, his body trembling uncontrollably with terror, saw all of this as if in slow motion. His heightened state of fear and the flood of adrenaline coursing through him sharpened his senses, forcing him to take in every horrifying detail of the scene.

The relentless gunfire roared on, but it was a hopeless, futile act.

Slade's carefully laid trap, using the soldiers to bait Bardi into trouble with soundwaves, high-voltage currents, and poisonous gas was nothing more than an inconvenience.

The battlefield was a nightmarish tableau of carnage. The air reeked of gunpowder and blood. Soldiers' terrified screams echoed intermittently, only to be cut short by the sound of their bodies being obliterated. Corpses littered the ground, some flung violently against the walls, reduced to unrecognizable smears of flesh and bone. Heads were blown apart, spines snapped like twigs under Bardi's brutal onslaught.

It was a massacre, a macabre one-man show where Bardi was both the star and the director.

In his world, there was no one else, no other voices, no colors but his own.

This time, Bardi didn't rely on guns or calculations. He didn't need to plot trajectories, adjust for airflow, or predict his enemies' actions. He didn't even use his superhuman senses to dodge bullets.

He simply let himself loose. No strategies. No overthinking. Just pure, unrestrained physicality.

He exhaled softly.

"Ahhh..."

The release felt incredible.

So this was what it felt like to fight without thinking.

No wonder Superman, despite having the most advanced brain on Earth, so often resorted to brute force in his battles against alien threats. It wasn't just effective—it was exhilarating.

When the chaos finally subsided, the battlefield was silent.

No cries. No gunfire.

Except for Slade, every soldier was dead.

The room was drenched in blood. Corpses were piled high, painting the scene in visceral horror. The floor beneath Bardi's feet was slick with crimson, and his boots were soaked in blood.

He exhaled again, the maniacal glint in his eyes fading. His face returned to its usual calm indifference, his expression unreadable. The madness that had consumed him moments before was gone, replaced by a chilling detachment.

Bardi looked down at the carnage without the faintest hint of emotion. He didn't care about the lives he had just taken or the blood pooling around him. To him, their deaths were insignificant.

He stood above it all—untouchable, untamed.

Perhaps, in his moments of apathy, he didn't even care about himself.

Suddenly, a sharp metallic sound pierced the silence.

Shhhinnng!

The unmistakable ring of a blade being drawn echoed across the bloodied room.

"You're not getting out of here alive, Bardi," Slade growled, his voice cold and firm. "This base will be your grave."

Slade's eyes were narrowed, trembling with fury yet alight with a feral determination. He knew the only way to confront this alien monster was to steel himself completely, to pour every ounce of his being into a single, decisive act.

His spine straightened, and his hand gripped the hilt of a samurai sword at his side. The blade gleamed under the harsh light, its edge tempered to lethal perfection.

This wasn't an ordinary weapon. This was a blade Slade trusted, one that gave him a sliver of hope—a faint confidence that, if aimed properly, it might just pierce Bardi's body.

But before Slade could strike, he raised his left hand, holding a Desert Eagle.

The gun roared to life, unleashing bullets that screamed toward Bardi.

Slade didn't expect the bullets to harm him. He had seen what they could and couldn't do.

He was only buying himself an opening.

Bardi, as if humoring Slade, raised his right hand to meet the gunfire. His palm faced the Desert Eagle's barrel, welcoming the impact.

Bullet after bullet slammed into his hand, seven in total, each one piercing deeper than the last. Some reached the bone, embedding themselves within his palm.

The sting from the gunfire coursed through Bardi's nerves, spreading a faint, fleeting pain. His regenerative abilities immediately went to work, pushing the bullets out as granulated tissue began to close the wounds.

He stood there, unfazed, his expression calm and indifferent. His cold eyes never left Slade, who was now charging straight at him.

In a swift motion, Slade discarded the Desert Eagle, gripping the samurai sword with both hands.

He roared, channeling every ounce of strength and courage left in his body. From the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingers, power coursed through him, his blood roaring in his veins. His spine straightened like a coiled spring about to snap, and his muscles bulged with effort.

With a single, focused movement, he swung the blade upward, pouring all his energy into one decisive strike.

The sword sliced upward, gleaming like a streak of moonlight reflected on still water. The arc was flawless, a clean, deadly trajectory aimed directly at Bardi's neck.

For a brief moment, Bardi's pupils shifted, catching the flash of the blade.

And then he did something extraordinary.

Bardi tilted his head slightly, his grin widening.

And as the blade came down, he caught it—with his teeth.

The clash of steel and teeth resounded in a shrill, echoing hum.

Slade's eyes bulged in disbelief. His face reddened with effort and rage, veins bulging from his neck and arms as he pressed against the blade with all his might.

But Bardi didn't flinch. His teeth gripped the blade firmly, his cold, indifferent gaze locked onto Slade.

Chapter 33

The scene was almost surreal.

Slade's face flushed red, veins bulging and snaking up his neck like coiled ropes. His hands trembled with exertion, the bones in his fingers turning white as he gripped the sword with everything he had. Yet, despite his full strength, he couldn't move the blade an inch further.

Bardi, on the other hand, stood perfectly still, biting down on the blade as though it were no more than a stick of candy. His cold, detached gaze bore into Slade, completely unfazed by the man's desperate struggle.

Since entering this underground research base, Slade had proven himself a constant source of trouble. From the traps and ambushes to the relentless attacks, Slade had pushed Bardi to the edge, nearly preventing him from reaching the sunlight he craved.

Bardi's subconscious instincts had kept him alive—guiding him to let himself be paralyzed, to fake submission, to escape the white room. Every step had been calculated, every move prepared in advance.

Slade, for all his skill, was no match for Bardi. Against any other human opponent, Slade would never have lost. But against Bardi, his fatal flaw became glaringly obvious, he wasn't acting on his own. He was just a pawn of General Vic, a soldier forced to carry out someone else's orders.

Suddenly, Slade's grip faltered. The strength that had reddened his face and strained his veins began to fade.

In his free hand, a hidden combat knife slipped into view. Without hesitation, Slade drove the blade straight toward Bardi's chest.

Bardi barely reacted. His cold eyes flicked toward the incoming attack, and with a casual motion, he swatted the knife aside.

The blade, a weapon crafted with precision to pierce through armor and strike without warning, was deflected as if it were nothing. The impact sent the knife clattering to the ground, leaving Slade stunned.

Bardi's hand didn't stop at the knife. It continued downward, catching Slade's wrist. With a sharp twist, a sickening crack echoed through the air as the bones in Slade's wrist snapped.

Slade let out a gasp of pain, his arm hanging limp at his side.

Bardi didn't stop. Without any hesitation, he pressed his palm into Slade's chest and shoved.

Thud!

The force of the blow collapsed Slade's sternum, shattering his ribs and crushing his internal organs. Blood erupted from his mouth in a crimson spray as he was launched backward like a ragdoll.

He flew through the air, trailing blood as if caught in the path of a freight train. His body slammed into the steel wall with a resounding crash, the impact leaving a dent in the metal. Slowly, he slid down to the floor, crumpling into a heap.

Slade's face twisted in agony, his bloodshot eyes glaring at Bardi through the pain. His breath was shallow, each exhale accompanied by a wet, rattling sound as blood seeped into his lungs. Yet he remained alive, staring defiantly despite his broken body.

"Hm?"

Bardi tilted his head slightly, surprised. Spitting out the samurai sword he had been biting, he turned his gaze back to Slade with mild curiosity.

"Still alive?" he muttered, his tone laced with faint amusement.

Slade's resilience was unexpected. Bardi had used nearly seventy percent of his strength in that strike, far more than what most humans could endure. With his current power, even half that effort would have killed anyone else outright. Yet Slade had managed to survive.

Impressive.

Bardi's cold expression softened into something almost contemplative. On the human level, Slade's physical condition was exceptional. To have trained his body to this extent was nothing short of extraordinary, a testament to his dedication and willpower.

Of course, Bardi thought, there were others who would eventually rise to match and even surpass Slade. A certain man dressed as a bat came to mind, someone who would one day push human limits to their absolute peak.

"If it weren't for the circumstances, I would've liked to make you my subordinate. You're undoubtedly an impressive man," Bardi said, his tone carrying a rare hint of regret.

Slade truly was exceptional. A subordinate like him could have been invaluable, someone capable of helping Bardi conquer this world and deal with countless future obstacles.

But, unfortunately, this was where it ended. Such a person would have to die here and now, at his hands.

Slade gritted his teeth, enduring the agony of his shattered sternum and the intense pain radiating from his ruined internal organs. Blood filled his mouth, making every word a struggle.

"What... exactly is on the negative fourth floor that you think will help you escape?" Slade rasped, his voice hoarse, every breath an unbearable torment.

Bardi's eyes narrowed slightly. He couldn't help but admire Slade's resilience, even in the face of death. The man had figured out that Bardi wasn't simply here to attack the research facility, but that something specific on the negative fourth floor was essential to him.

Still, Bardi wasn't about to divulge the truth to a dead man.

"No, Slade," Bardi said coldly. "I just want to kill you."

He reached for the camouflage saber strapped to his waist. "And now, it's time for you to move on."

Slade glared at him through bloodshot eyes, his expression grim and unyielding. His instincts screamed at him, and he tilted his head at the last second.

A green flash streaked through the air.

Even though Slade reacted in time, the camouflage saber still found its mark. The blade pierced his right eye with a sickening sound, causing him to let out a guttural roar of pain.

There were no nerve endings in the eye to feel physical pain, but the shock and psychological anguish were excruciating. The sudden movement worsened the damage to his chest, aggravating his internal injuries and amplifying his suffering.

Bardi paused, momentarily stunned. He hadn't expected Slade's will to survive to be this strong—strong enough to instinctively avoid a fatal hit.

"If you weren't someone's lapdog, bound by their rules, I might have even been cautious around you," Bardi said calmly, his voice carrying a faint note of genuine respect.

He stepped forward, towering over Slade, and seized his arm with an iron grip. Dragging him effortlessly, Bardi began walking toward the access doors to the negative fourth floor.

Slade's body was broken beyond repair. His dislocated ribs had pierced deep into his organs, yet his resolve kept him silent. He gritted his teeth, refusing to show any weakness.

As Bardi pulled him along like a ragdoll, Slade managed to cough out a few words, blood spilling from his lips.

"You won't escape... You'll die here. You'll be dissected, used... every part of you studied..."

The words trailed off into a violent cough. Blood loss had left him pale and disoriented, the pain pounding through his head in unrelenting waves.

Bardi let out a small hum, not out of disagreement, but as if to acknowledge Slade's determination.

Once they reached the two secured doors on the negative fourth floor, Bardi forced Slade's bloodied hand onto the biometric scanner. The doors unlocked with a soft beep.

With the final obstacle cleared, Bardi turned to Slade, who was now of no use. He hoisted the soldier's battered body high into the air and hurled him at the wall with casual ease.

Thud!

Slade's body slammed against the cold steel, a spray of blood marking the point of impact. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, his head lolling forward. His military uniform, soaked and stained with blood, clung to him like a shroud.

That was it. Slade's journey as a soldier had reached its end.

Bardi stood still for a moment, listening intently. His superhuman hearing detected the faint, dying rhythm of Slade's heart.

Thump… thump… thump… thump...

And then, silence.

Slade's heart had stopped.

Bardi's face remained expressionless. Without sparing another glance, he walked away.

The negative fourth floor wasn't large, neither was the entire underground research institute. With his heightened senses, Bardi could hear every heartbeat on every level, making it easy to track down his target.

As he moved through the corridors, he encountered several researchers in white coats. None of them posed any threat, and Bardi couldn't even be bothered to deal with them directly. He raised his gun, firing casually as he walked.

The gunshots echoed in the enclosed space, marking his trail as he left a line of corpses in his wake.

Finally, Bardi reached the office door he was looking for. He pushed it open and stepped inside. Then, with deliberate care, he closed it behind him to keep the stench of blood and gunpowder from seeping in too strongly.

The office was dimly lit, and Bardi could hear the faint, rapid breaths of the man cowering inside. Dean Bori, the head of the research facility, was hiding under his desk, trembling like a leaf.

The old man was hunched over, his hands clasped tightly together as he made frantic crosses over his chest. He mumbled under his breath, praying desperately for deliverance, for some divine intervention to save him from the nightmare that had entered his office.

Bardi's footsteps echoed as he approached the desk. He pulled out the chair, placed his gun on the surface, and tapped his fingers lightly against the wood.

"Come out, Dean Bori."

Chapter 34

Bori trembled as though his legs might give out. He couldn't keep himself hidden under the desk any longer.

"It's… it's you, Bardi." His voice wavered as he forced a thin, unconvincing smile onto his gaunt face. He emerged slowly from under the desk, his frail body shaking. An M4 carbine dangled from a strap across his chest, but the sight of Bardi's indifferent gaze made the weapon feel unbearably heavy, almost scalding against his chest.

With trembling hands, Bori quickly unbuckled the strap and placed the rifle on the desk, fumbling for words. "This is… it's for… for…" His voice trailed off as his courage failed him. He couldn't bring himself to admit the truth—that he had kept the rifle close out of fear of Bardi.

But they both knew the truth.

Bardi's blank expression didn't waver as he watched Bori. The old man had clearly seen what happened on the floors above. From the first floor to this one, over 500 people lay dead. The sheer scale of the massacre had shattered any illusion of resistance.

Bori was just a researcher, a scientist. He couldn't hope to stand against a force like Bardi, a living embodiment of death.

Bardi had a keen sense for reading people, and Bori was no exception. The man was vain, greedy, cowardly, and ruthlessly self-serving. Years ago, he had started using Jenny to exploit her unparalleled intellect, harvesting her research to build his own reputation and claim the accolades that came with it.

Bardi knew this all too well. Jenny had told him everything.

The scientific breakthroughs Bori had become famous for weren't his own. They belonged to Jenny. And yet, she had never objected. Bardi knew Jenny well, she didn't care about fame or recognition. For her, scientific discovery was its own reward. Bori had provided her with the ideal environment to focus entirely on her work, free of distractions and responsibilities, and she had been content to let him take credit.

It was the perfect arrangement for Bori, who played the role of a benefactor while quietly basking in the glory of Jenny's genius. Without her, Bori would never have achieved the success he enjoyed.

"Dean Bori," Bardi said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable weight. "You're Jenny's teacher. I won't kill you."

Bori froze, his blood running cold. For a moment, he stared at Bardi in stunned silence, unable to comprehend what he had just heard.

Of all the people in the facility, Bardi had spared no one except for the maimed and Jenny. Floors littered with corpses testified to his merciless efficiency. Yet now, he was declaring that Bori—of all people—would be spared.

It was unthinkable.

The old man's wide, tearful eyes searched Bardi's face for any sign of deceit. Slowly, the weight of relief began to sink in, and his lips quivered as he spoke.

"You… you mean it? Truly?"

For a man as calculating as Bori, who always managed to present himself as composed and confident, his voice now wavered like a child's. This reprieve was a greater joy than any award or accolade he had ever received. Fame was meaningless if you weren't alive to enjoy it.

Bardi gave a slight nod. "You're her teacher. To her, you're like a father figure. So you'll live. From now on, take care of her for me. If she wants to study, let her study. If she seeks revenge, let her find me. Let her live how she wants to live."

Bori froze for a moment, stunned. He hadn't expected that his life was spared because of Jenny's connection to Bardi.

Then, a wave of realization swept over him, and he felt a jolt of unease.

It suddenly dawned on him why Jenny had been shot by Bardi but not killed, why she had only curled up, crying. It was all a calculated move to sever their connection, to shield Jenny from suspicion. Even the thirty-one crippled soldiers, it wasn't random brutality. Bardi had deliberately left them alive as part of Jenny's salvation.

And now, his own life had been spared solely because of Jenny's importance to him.

Bori's heart raced. Relief mingled with a nervous gratitude as he considered the situation. He felt lucky that Bardi had a genuine attachment to Jenny, and perhaps equally fortunate that he had never been too harsh on Bardi during their earlier interactions.

But even as he tried to reassure himself, doubt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. What if Bardi was lying? What if Slade had been right, that Bardi's only goal was to reach the negative fourth floor and retrieve something critical? And once Bardi had it, would Bori's life still hold any value?

Bori wanted to believe Bardi's words, but a deep unease remained.

Then, Bardi's calm voice broke the silence.

"At the same time, I'm here to take back something of mine, Bori. You should know what I'm talking about."

Bori's heart sank.

"The... 'key'?" he stammered hesitantly, his voice barely audible.

Bardi gave a slight nod. "That 'key' is vital. Even if I die in this underground base, I must ensure I go down with it. Please Bori, return it to me."

Bardi's tone was steady but firm, leaving no room for refusal.

The key Bardi referred to was more than just an object. It contained the artificial intelligence he had been developing on Krypton, a critical tool that would enable him to not only conquer Earth but also refine his own genetic structure. It was essential for his long-term plans: dealing with the House of El, facing the inevitable confrontation with Superman, Clark Kent, and extracting the genetic code of life to improve himself.

Without that AI, Bardi's ambitions would be all but impossible to achieve.

He had thought far ahead, decades into the future. In 20 or 30 years, Earth would enter an era where heroes and gods roamed freely, and villains would struggle to survive under their collective might. Bardi knew he was destined to stand as an enemy to the entire world, pitted against its greatest champions.

The stakes were clear. No matter the cost, the key had to be reclaimed.

Bori hesitated, his face a mask of indecision. He knew his life depended on the key, but it was precisely because of his survival instinct that he hesitated. That key was valuable, not only to Bardi but to anyone who wanted leverage over him.

Looking at Bardi's impassive face, Bori felt a chill seep into his bones. If he refused to hand over the key, would he die here?

The cold, indifferent look in Bardi's eyes was enough to make him shudder. He couldn't afford to guess wrong. He didn't want to die.

"I'll... I'll go get it for you," Bori finally said, his voice trembling.

Bardi's expression softened slightly, and a faint smile touched his lips. He stood up slowly, pushing the chair back with his knees.

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor startled Bori.

His body stiffened, and for a moment, his mind raced with panic. Was Bardi about to attack him? No—he quickly realized Bardi only intended to follow him.

Even so, Bori's nerves were on edge, and his voice faltered as he tried to speak. "Just... just wait here. I'll bring it to you."

He forced the words out, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst.

For a moment, Bardi simply stared at him. Then he nodded, his slight smile still in place. "Okay," he said, pulling the chair back toward himself and sitting down once again.

Bori exhaled shakily, relief flooding through him. His hands were trembling, and he shoved them into his pockets to hide the motion. His fists unclenched, but when he opened the office door, he noticed that his palms were drenched in sweat.

Chapter 35

Bori closed the office door behind him and exhaled shakily, a suppressed and frightened breath escaping his throat.

He was terrified of death.

Human beings were fragile, and once they died, everything ended. Right now, he was still alive, still had everything—fame, wealth, admiration. People spoke his name with reverence, associating him with the Nobel Prize in Biology, with groundbreaking contributions to science. The looks of awe and adoration people gave him fed his ego, made him feel invincible.

And even though most of that success was built on Jenny's work, it was his name that was celebrated. That was enough.

The closing of the office door felt like closing himself off from danger, sealing death on the other side.

Of course, he knew this was just an illusion.

Bori's thin face remained taut, his jaw clenched tightly, his pupils trembling as he wrestled with his thoughts. Fear clawed at his mind.

As he began to walk, the acrid stench of blood filled his nose. His eyes caught sight of Wendy lying dead on the floor nearby, her forehead pierced by a bullet. The terrified expression frozen on her face made his stomach churn.

She was the one closest to the office when Bardi had come in.

Even though Bori had hidden under the desk, he had still heard her desperate screams.

"No... you can't kill me! I'm a friend of Jenny's! Jenny invited me to her wedding... no—!"

"The moment I saw the look on your face, your fate was sealed," Bardi had replied coldly.

Bori had heard it all from under the desk, frozen in terror.

Wendy's crime had been treating Bardi not as a sentient being but as a subject, a biological specimen to study, like a frog laid out on a dissection table. Bardi, who cataloged every expression of those around him, had recognized her condescension and marked her for death.

As he stared at her lifeless body now, Bori felt his pores tighten in fear. The image of Bardi's cold, indifferent face as he executed Wendy flashed through his mind.

The blood from Wendy's wound had pooled on the floor, and as his leather shoes stepped into it, Bori felt an icy chill run up his spine.

He had performed dissections before and never flinched at the sight of a corpse. But now, as he passed familiar colleagues, each lying lifeless in a growing sea of red—his sense of detachment crumbled.

The red and white matter spilling from bullet wounds, the eyes frozen wide with terror, he couldn't help but imagine himself lying among them. The thought suffocated him, sending panic racing through his chest.

He continued walking, but everywhere he looked, there were more bodies. The once sterile, white halls of the underground research facility now felt cold and empty, like a morgue.

His footsteps echoed loudly in the silence, the sound of his shoes against the floor sharp and rhythmic in the desolate space. The air felt oppressive, almost suffocating, like walking through a haunted corridor in a horror film.

The eerie atmosphere tightened around him, driving his already frayed nerves to their breaking point. His steps quickened instinctively, sweat dripping from his face as his fear mounted.

Finally, after navigating two forks in the corridor, Bori reached the white room.

He didn't enter the room but instead went to a hidden compartment behind a metal pipe as thick as his arm. With trembling hands, he inserted his fingers behind the pipe, clawing desperately at the hidden panel. His fingers grew raw and red, but he didn't stop.

At last, he retrieved the key.

It was a small object, nondescript, but it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in his hand. He gripped it tightly, his red-stained fingers trembling as fresh waves of sweat poured down his face.

His breathing grew shallow as doubt clawed its way into his mind.

Would Bardi truly let him live if he handed over the key? Could he believe anything the man had said?

The fear of death surged through him once more, and his lips quivered as his mind raced with indecision.

Subconsciously, his feet began moving on their own.

As he retraced his steps, his body acted before his mind could settle. When he reached a fork in the corridor, his fear overtook him completely, and he made a panicked decision.

Instead of returning to the office, he turned toward the stairs.

He didn't know if escaping was even possible.

But anything seemed better than walking back to face Bardi.

His only thought was to run—run as far as he could, to escape the suffocating grip of death that Bardi had brought into the facility.

...

Inside the office, Bardi sat in silence, his eyes closed.

Suddenly, he opened them, his expression as calm as ever.

He had been listening with his superhuman hearing and could hear everything. He knew that Bori had gone to the white room, retrieved the key, and was now heading toward the stairs instead of coming back.

With a quiet sigh, Bardi rose from his chair, picking up the pistol from the desk. He calmly loaded it, preparing to leave.

But then he stopped.

A faint smirk crossed his lips.

He set the pistol back down, turned, and sank back into the chair.

...

Meanwhile, Bori's panic-driven instincts carried him further from the office. He wasn't thinking rationally anymore; fear had completely consumed him.

When he saw Slade's broken body slumped against a wall, his steps faltered.

The sight of Slade's brutal death jolted him back to reality. He stopped in his tracks, his breath hitching as cold sweat dripped down his back.

Bori realized, with a chill of dread, that he wasn't far from the office.

The research facility wasn't particularly large, and the stairs leading to the surface weren't far away. But as he looked at Slade's mangled corpse, the blood pooling beneath it, he felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him.

Then, as if to snap himself out of his panicked thoughts, he slapped himself hard across the face.

Clap!

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" he hissed through gritted teeth, furious at his own foolishness.

He slapped himself again, harder this time, his face stinging from the impact. His fear-addled mind began to clear as his thoughts finally started to align.

An old man like him—what chance did he have of outrunning Bardi? What was he thinking? If Bardi realized he wasn't coming back and decided to follow him, there would be no escape. That would be the end of him.

Two more sharp slaps later, Dean Bori's mind felt sharper, more flexible. He realized the only option he had was to return to Bardi and beg for mercy.

If Bardi had spared Jenny, there was a chance he wouldn't kill him either. Jenny was left alive for a reason, and Bardi had even entrusted her to him. Maybe Bardi's words weren't just lies, maybe there really was a way for him to survive this.

He thought back to the conversation. Bardi had explicitly told him, "I won't kill you."

It began to sink in that his survival wasn't entirely out of the question. Running, on the other hand, was almost certainly a death sentence. If he fled with the key, Bardi wouldn't hesitate to hunt him down, and his death would be swift and absolute.

Bori's thoughts raced. Perhaps there was another way to improve his chances, a bargaining chip. He could offer Bardi information about the gene serum. That knowledge might be valuable enough to spare his life.

Reassured by the possibility, he straightened his back and cast one last glance at Slade's corpse. His trembling steps steadied as he turned back toward the office.

This time, he walked with purpose.

Bori reasoned with himself as he moved. He wasn't like Slade. Slade had actively tried to stop Bardi, setting traps and standing in his way. But he, Dean Bori, had done none of that.

In fact, he began to think of himself as instrumental to Bardi's success. After all, hadn't he played a role in ensuring Bardi could bask in the sun? Hadn't he indirectly brought Bardi and Jenny together?

Jenny had survived, deliberately spared by Bardi. As someone who was like a father figure to her, wasn't he just as important? Bardi had trusted him to take care of Jenny. How could someone so vital to Bardi's life be killed?

Bori's thoughts spiraled further. He began to see himself as a "noble figure" in Bardi's life. Whether it was Bardi's freedom, Jenny's survival, or their connection, his influence was undeniable.

Bardi's words replayed in his mind. "I won't kill you."

Yes, it had to be true. There was no reason to doubt it now.

A faint smirk appeared on Bori's face as he reassured himself, his confidence growing.

Then, just as he opened the office door, a gunshot echoed.

Boom...

Chapter 36

Dean Bori was dead.

He had gripped the key tightly in his hand as if it were a life-saving talisman, opening the office door with a trembling resolve.

Bardi rose from his chair, turned to see the key in Bori's hand, and instinctively slid his right hand across the pistol lying on the desk.

Bang.

Bardi moved with precision, his M9 pistol angled slightly as if cutting through mist. Blood and bits of brain spattered onto the gun, clinging to the cold steel, yet not a single drop sullied his figure.

With his left hand, Bardi clutched the secret key tightly against his chest. Even in death, Bori's hand stubbornly gripped the key, forcing Bardi to lift his entire arm just to retrieve it.

The old man's body crumpled to the ground in stunned silence, and the key was finally wrenched free from his grasp. Even as he fell, Bori's expression remained frozen in disbelief, as though he couldn't comprehend why Bardi had acted so decisively—so ruthlessly.

For Bardi, however, the answer was simple. The key was far too important.

Contained within it was an artificial intelligence that surpassed the technological advancements of Earth by centuries. Losing it would mean delaying his goals by decades, possibly forever.

Moreover, the key held critical data on Kryptonian genetic technology. If Bori had managed to fully extract its contents, it would have accelerated Earth's technological development by at least a hundred years in just five. With that kind of knowledge, humanity could have taken its first true steps into the stars, leaving the constraints of the solar system far behind.

Bardi ran his fingers across the surface of the secret key, feeling the faint warmth left by Bori's hand. Only then did he truly relax. His cold, calculating eyes softened briefly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Without hesitation, he tossed the bloodied M9 onto Bori's lifeless body, the sound echoing in the now-silent room. He turned, opened the office door, and stepped out.

Navigating through several dimly lit hallways, Bardi arrived at an evolution-measurement lab. Originally, this facility had been used for complex calculations related to laser frequencies, physical particle response variables, and missile guidance errors.

In simpler terms, Bardi needed the outdated military computers from the 1980s.

He examined the ancient machines with a frown. These relics didn't even have a Windows operating system. Some unknown genius had once cobbled together a custom operating system to run them, enabling military use, but they were a far cry from the technology he was used to.

With a grimace, Bardi opened the computer's casing and began dismantling the hardware. He connected two wires from the CPU directly to the key's port contacts.

"The processing speed is only 80 million calculations per second?"

Bardi's expression darkened. It wasn't just bad, it was laughable. This wasn't merely outdated tech; it was prehistoric.

For comparison, by 2010, even a standard civilian CPU could process between 250 million to 350 million calculations per second. And while current military systems boasted slightly better specs, they were still leagues behind what the civilian market would offer in the years to come.

Bardi thought back to June 18, 2012. On that day, the International Supercomputer Organization had announced the "Sequoia," an American supercomputer capable of 16.3 quadrillion calculations per second. Its peak performance exceeded 20.1 billion calculations per second, representing humanity's cutting-edge technology.

In contrast, the clunky machine before him was utterly pitiful. Were it not for the advanced AI integrated into the key, Bardi would have been forced to storm the heavily armed elite forces stationed aboveground just to secure better equipment.

After some adjustments, the machine finally sputtered to life. Despite its shortcomings, it could just barely interface with the key via its control and status buses.

Bardi exhaled in relief. For a moment, he had genuinely feared that the machine's inadequacy might prevent the activation of his AI entirely.

Beep…

A mechanical chirp broke the silence, and Bardi's tense features softened slightly.

On the computer's curved, gray-black screen, a black program box flickered to life. Excitement surged through him, and for a brief second, he wanted to punch the air in celebration.

Even the thrill of cutting down enemies paled in comparison to the euphoria he felt at this moment.

Bardi's hands trembled slightly as he pulled up a chair and sat down. His fingers danced across the keyboard, entering lines of code he had meticulously prepared beforehand.

When the sequence was complete, he hit the Enter key, and the ancient computer roared to life.

The host buzzed and groaned, its hardware straining under the load. The whine of overclocking filled the room as the machine pushed itself far beyond its limits, the mechanical parts shaking with the effort.

Bardi's heart raced. For all his confidence in the AI, the unpredictable nature of this outdated technology left him uneasy. Even when facing Zod in battle, he hadn't felt this tense.

He couldn't shake the irrational fear that the machine might start sparking, smoke curling from its vents before bursting into flames.

Then, the screen flickered again. A cascade of black text filled the program box as the system automatically loaded a series of protocols. The outdated operating system disintegrated under the AI's control, replaced by a completely new framework.

Ten seconds later, the screen refreshed entirely, and the frantic hum of the machine began to subside.

The overclocked components, which had groaned and shuddered as if on the verge of collapse, finally fell silent.

"Success!"

Bardi couldn't hide his joy. Thankfully, the computer hadn't exploded under the stress of overclocking, and the tension in his chest finally eased.

Beep. "Stage-one artificial intelligence awakened. Please enter your password."

"Password..."

Bardi's expression shifted as he delved into his memories, the password evoking a flood of emotions.

This artificial intelligence was a collaboration between Haer and himself, Haer providing the advanced technology, and Bardi contributing his creative ingenuity.

He vividly remembered the moment they set the password. Even someone as brilliant as Haer, with his extraordinary intellect, had spent three days and nights calculating endless permutations and combinations. Haer had even devised an algorithm to test ten quadrillion possibilities, yet in the end, he was forced to admit defeat.

Bardi's smirk faded as his eyes refocused, his features sharpening with determination. With a calm, resolute voice, he uttered the password:

"Zod has a mole on his butt."

"Password correct."

Could any other human being have come up with such a ridiculous passphrase?

It was no wonder Haer had failed. If he'd ever figured it out, no matter how rational he usually was, he might have punched Bardi out of sheer frustration.

With the correct password confirmed, the screen prompted for a new command.

"Enter your next login password."

Bardi paused to think, his mind churning. After a moment, he entered a sequence no one on Earth would ever guess, ensuring complete security for the next login.

"Password confirmed. Artificial intelligence fully liberated."

Suddenly, a sophisticated, elegant figure appeared on the screen. She was the embodiment of grace and refinement, a woman of noble demeanor with a poised smile.

"Hello, my master. Hera is at your service," she greeted warmly.

Her image radiated class and dignity, though the mechanical edge in her voice somewhat diminished the effect.

"Hello, Hera. Long time no see," Bardi replied with a faint smirk. He snapped his fingers, his mood visibly uplifted. "Take control of this underground base. Hack into all electronic network facilities above and below ground."

"As you command, master," Hera said with a courteous nod. She paused briefly, her image flickering for three seconds before continuing, "Control complete."

Three seconds.

That was all it took for Hera to seize control of every electronic network system within the underground base and aboveground. Had the computer's speed been faster than its meager 80 million calculations per second, the process would have been instantaneous.

Faced with today's primitive technology, Hera's artificial intelligence was practically unstoppable.

Bardi's eyes gleamed coldly, a sharp contrast to his earlier satisfaction. He was about to issue his next command when Hera spoke first.

"Master, there is an external communication access request. The signal originates from coordinates 3891' north latitude, 7701' west longitude—Washington, D.C."

Bardi raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Patch the call through."

A voice, low and grim, resonated from the speakers.

"It's me, General Vic."

Chapter 37

The monitoring system for the underground research institute was connected to the ground base, a vulnerability that allowed Bardi to use Hera to take control of their electronic networks, weapon systems, and other facilities.

Yet, just as he had ordered Hera to hack and dominate the military base and underground research systems, General Vic had sent a message requesting a call.

Coincidence? Or was his timing deliberate?

Or worse, had Bardi overlooked something critical, leading General Vic to discover what was happening?

Bardi carefully analyzed the situation. After he had killed Slade, he'd made sure to destroy most of the monitoring equipment on the fourth sublevel. Nothing from that area could have been transmitted to the ground base.

And in this era of crude technology, there was no way they could detect the existence of Hera's advanced artificial intelligence so quickly.

"Slade? Bori?"

General Vic's voice came again, sharp and demanding.

Bardi smirked faintly. He dismissed the possibility of being discovered, it had to be a coincidence.

"They're already dead," Bardi replied coldly. At the same time, he instructed Hera to pull up all the monitoring feeds from the underground research institute.

The screens showed that soldiers aboveground were advancing methodically, step by step, and had already reached the second underground level. Their equipment was heavily reinforced, their firepower far greater than before. It was clear they were well aware of the carnage Bardi had caused and were prepared for a fight.

Bardi then accessed another feed, this time focused on Jenny. During his battle with Slade, elite soldiers had managed to enter the lower levels and evacuate survivors. Among them, 31 soldiers and Jenny had been rescued and transferred to the medical facilities on the ground level.

Seeing this, Bardi narrowed his eyes.

"Barmulodi!"

General Vic's voice suddenly snapped through the speakers.

"Hmm."

Bardi responded indifferently, his tone devoid of emotion. General Vic had no leverage against him now. At best, all the general could do was send more soldiers to their deaths.

Bardi was ready for that eventuality. He had already planned to release the base's toxic gas to wipe out any advancing forces.

And it wouldn't matter if they wore gas masks. The second-tier gas, dichloroethyl sulfide—better known as mustard gas—was designed to penetrate through skin.

The base was equipped with three levels of poisonous gas: the third-tier gas, hydrogen cyanide, required inhalation to cause poisoning; the second-tier, mustard gas, worked via skin contact; and the first-tier, VX nerve gas, was so deadly that even Bardi wasn't sure if he could survive its effects. He avoided that option altogether.

"Barmulodi, I know you're not a fool. You can endure this situation, which means you're capable of rational thought. Let's cooperate."

General Vic's voice was measured, though it carried a restrained fury. Slade, his trusted subordinate, was dead. Dean Bori was dead. At least 300 personnel in the underground research institute had been slaughtered. Even as a general, this was a nightmare for him to manage. And if the true purpose of the research conducted here were exposed, it would spell disaster for him personally.

But what had happened was done. It was irreversible. What mattered now was minimizing the fallout and salvaging whatever he could.

"Talk," Bardi replied in a tone of icy disinterest, his attention already divided.

He pulled up a detailed topographic map of the area, studying it carefully. Planning his exit was a priority.

The military base was situated in Nevada, not far from the Utah border. His gaze swept across the map, tracing an escape route to the east. Past Colorado, his focus landed on Kansas.

The House of El. Kal-El, have you already arrived on Earth?

Bardi's eyes glinted with a cold, calculating light.

"I can give you anything you want," General Vic's deep voice came through, heavy with restrained desperation. "Become a researcher under my command, help me study genetic engineering, strengthen my forces, and I promise you'll gain more than you can imagine."

His tone was firm, offering no illusion of sentimentality. To him, Slade and Bori were just pawns, disposable tools to achieve his goals. If they were gone, they could simply be replaced by someone of greater value. And Bardi, with his knowledge and abilities, far surpassed them in importance.

If he could truly secure Bardi's cooperation, it would be worth more than the combined efforts of a hundred Boris.

"Alright," Bardi replied flatly, his tone almost dismissive. "Come here now, and let's talk."

The agreement came so quickly and with so little sincerity that General Vic immediately grew suspicious. He could almost see it in his mind, walking into the same room as Bardi would likely mean his instant death, no chance of negotiation.

General Vic fell silent for a moment, his chest tight with anger. Finally, his voice erupted in a cold, sharp shout:

"Barmulodi!"

"You think you can just run away?"

"What I hold in my hands, Barmulodi, stays in my hands. Over your head are 15,000 well-equipped soldiers, large-caliber heavy machine guns that make automatic rifles look like toys, and BGM-109B Tomahawk missiles powerful enough to obliterate you to dust."

"Your so-called power is nothing in the face of what I have."

General Vic's words were venomous, his frustration boiling over at what he perceived as Bardi's arrogance.

But Bardi merely sneered. "General Vic, you should be grateful you're not at this military base. Otherwise, you'd already be dead like the rest of them."

That single sentence lit a fuse within General Vic. His anger finally erupted in a beastly roar.

"Barmulodi! You either choose to live, or you choose to die!"

The laboratory's destruction, the death of Slade, and the carnage caused by Bardi had all driven General Vic to the edge. If he couldn't harness Bardi's potential for his own benefit, then he'd settle for his corpse.

"General Vic," Bardi said coldly, "you'll thank your luck someday that you're not here right now."

General Vic's frustration was audible in the sharp breath he released through his nose. Without another word, he terminated the call.

--

At the military base aboveground, the command center bustled with activity under the leadership of Brigadier General Cagle.

Though Cagle outranked Slade on paper, he was well aware that, in General Vic's eyes, he didn't measure up. Slade's capability had always eclipsed Cagle's. The fact that Slade had access to the underground research institute, while Cagle had never set foot there was proof enough of this disparity.

The slight had left Cagle simmering with resentment. Slade's excellence in every field, from combat and command to firearms training, only deepened the sting of his own inadequacies.

Even in operations concerning the underground research institute, Slade often dictated orders to the ground forces, treating Cagle like a mere puppet. It was humiliating, infuriating even.

So when news came that Slade had been overpowered in the underground facility, allowing an alien to wreak havoc, Brigadier General Cagle felt a small, fleeting sense of satisfaction.

You're not so invincible after all, Slade.

But as the death toll mounted, his satisfaction was quickly replaced by dread. The losses were catastrophic, too great for anyone to bear responsibility. And as much as he loathed Slade, Cagle couldn't deny the fallout from the massacre would affect him too.

"Damn you, Slade," Cagle muttered under his breath. Three or four hundred lives had been lost. That kind of failure couldn't be swept under the rug, and someone had to shoulder the blame. That was why he had contacted General Vic earlier, making sure to emphasize Slade's failure.

"Brigadier General Cagle, call from General Vic," a soldier reported.

Cagle's expression froze. He reached for the phone, bracing himself.

The voice on the other end was cold and filled with suppressed fury.

"Cagle," General Vic began, his words like ice. "Kill the alien. Use any means necessary, heavy machine guns, missiles, I don't care. Blast him into pieces. I don't want to hear about any more failures. Slade has already failed... and he's dead."

Cagle's pupils constricted. Slade... dead. Just like that.

"Yes, General," Cagle finally managed to reply, his voice stiff. He hung up, still processing the news. Slade was gone, and now it fell on him to deal with the aftermath.

--

In the underground research institute, Bardi's expression turned colder as he listened through Hera to General Vic's orders to the ground base.

The corners of his mouth curled into a sneer. Without hesitation, he issued his commands to Hera.

"Release the second and third levels of dichloroethyl sulfide gas."

"Hera, list all facilities within the ground military base."

"Take control of their entire signal network."

"Open the missile silo."

"Load all missile types—BGM-109G Tomahawk land-launched cruise missiles, MIM-104 Patriot surface-to-air missiles, short-range missiles, medium-range missiles, surface-to-surface missiles, and surface-to-air missiles. Lock all targets onto the ground military base."

"Calculate the blast radius and ensure everything is wiped out except for the medical building and the helipad."

Chapter 38

The aboveground structure of the underground research institute appeared as a white laboratory building rising modestly into the skyline. The building itself was only three stories tall, with large, high-strength composite glass panels sloping across its facade. Though the structure had clearly been refurbished with modern materials, traces of wear and weathering gave it an oddly juxtaposed appearance of old meeting new.

The laboratory building seemed ordinary on the surface, almost like a storage space for the underground institute's materials and equipment. But its connection to the underground facility elevated its importance, making its security protocols the most stringent across the entire military base.

Today, however, the usual strict atmosphere had been replaced with something much more ominous. The sun scorched the ground, heat rising in waves that distorted the air around the white building. A palpable tension, a sense of looming conflict, blanketed the area like a suffocating fog.

The 7th Brigade surrounded the laboratory with Vulcan heavy machine guns mounted on vehicles, reinforced by GAU-8/A Avenger rotary cannons. There were twenty vehicles in total, each capable of firing 5,000 rounds per minute, with armor-piercing ammunition powerful enough to annihilate T-72 and M48 tanks. The black, ominous barrels of the rotary cannons gleamed in the harsh sunlight, manned by soldiers with stern, unyielding expressions.

Thirteen BGM-71 TOW anti-tank missile launchers stood ready on raised platforms. Capable of shredding tanks apart with a single strike, these missiles were aimed to treat the lone target as if he were a war machine himself.

Hundreds of soldiers armed with shoulder-mounted FGM-148 Javelin missiles patrolled the perimeter, their movements methodical. The Javelins, devastatingly effective and capable of launching at a moment's notice, were yet another layer of overkill aimed at ensuring the target's destruction.

Inside the white building itself, large amounts of C4 explosives had been strategically placed around the only known entrance to the underground research institute. This was a final failsafe to ensure no one could escape unscathed.

In the surrounding area, soldiers with automatic rifles and grenades formed the front line of defense, while the medium-range artillery teams manned the Vulcan heavy guns. Further back, six M1A1 Abrams main battle tanks sat positioned, their massive barrels aimed directly at the white building.

Even further away, on the surrounding rooftops, more than twenty elite snipers lay prone, their Barrett M82A1 Light Fifty sniper rifles trained on the building. The Barrett, king of 12.7mm sniper rifles, was a devastating weapon. Against ordinary human flesh, one shot would obliterate limbs and leave little chance for survival.

In total, over 2,000 elite soldiers had been deployed to encircle the laboratory building, supported by another 10,000 troops on standby, ready to reinforce the battlefield at any moment.

The oppressive air reeked of impending war.

It was hard to fathom that such a monstrous concentration of firepower, weaponry, and manpower had been assembled to eliminate a single individual. And yet, the sheer scale of the military response spoke to the fear and respect they held for their target.

This was no longer a battle fought in the tight corridors of the underground research institute. This was war on an overwhelming, industrial scale, meant to crush and obliterate.

General Vic's warnings had not been idle. Should Bardi attempt to escape, he would face an unrelenting onslaught of steel and fire.

--

Ground Military Base Command Room

"The 7th Brigade's Vulcan heavy machine gun emplacements are ready," reported a soldier.

"Vehicle-mounted BGM-71 TOW missile launchers have been deployed," another added.

"The M1A1 Abrams tanks are in position."

"Sniper teams are in place."

Then came the report from the underground assault team:

"The first, second, and third floors of the underground research institute have been flooded with poison gas. Based on monitoring data and the appearance of skin lesions on exposed soldiers, it's confirmed to be an advanced volatile form of dichloroethyl sulfide—mustard gas. It's highly effective and deadly."

The stream of updates was unending as soldiers diligently reported on every deployment and incident.

Brigadier General Cagle processed the information quickly. His response was swift and decisive:

"Order the assault team to retreat. Deploy manual transverse barriers to block access. Have the heavy weapons teams gear up with gas suits and gas masks. Advance cautiously and don't rush."

A soldier promptly relayed more data: "Inventory records indicate 100 gas suits available for secondary poison gas protection. The heavy weapons unit will be ready to enter the underground research institute in three minutes."

Cagle remained silent for a moment, his sharp eyes glinting with thought.

Brigadier General Cagle was not as physically imposing as Slade, standing a half-head shorter and with a thinner build. Yet he hadn't achieved his rank by sheer luck. Although Slade had always overshadowed him in many areas—combat prowess, command skills, charisma—Cagle's sharp mind and cunning had earned him his position.

Still, the weight of the situation bore down on him.

Could a team of 100 soldiers armed with heavy machine guns truly defeat this alien in such a confined environment?

No.

Slade had led nearly 300 elite personnel into the underground research institute, and they had all perished, including Slade himself.

Despite his disdain for Slade, Cagle couldn't deny his excellence. Slade's death was a grim reminder of just how dangerous the target was.

"Damn it, Slade," Cagle muttered under his breath.

But for all his resentment, Slade's death forced Cagle to reflect.

"If I ever die at someone's hands, it won't be because of carelessness or bad luck, it'll be because they're stronger than me."

Now, with Slade gone, a fire burned in Cagle's heart.

"Slade," he murmured, his voice laced with determination. "I'll finish what you couldn't."

He turned to his team, his orders cold and precise.

"Cancel the heavy weapons team's entry into the underground research institute. Seal all vents leading out of the facility. If they can't be sealed, block them. Every two minutes, send a soldier equipped with a gas suit to throw incendiary bombs into the institute."

Cagle's strategy was clear, this fight wouldn't be conducted in the narrow, trap-filled halls of the underground research institute. He wouldn't repeat Slade's mistake.

Victory would come from the overwhelming firepower, manpower, and resources at his disposal aboveground.

The underground research institute had only one known exit. As long as that remained under their control, Bardi had nowhere to run.

Just as Brigadier General Cagle was finishing his orders, a sudden shout rang out from a nearby soldier:

"Brigadier General Cagle! The missile silos, they're opening automatically!"

"What did you say?"

Cagle's blood ran cold as dread settled in his chest.

Chapter 39

A soldier stared at the screen, his voice trembling with disbelief as he exclaimed, "Brigadier General Cagle, the missile silo has been activated automatically!"

"What did you say?"

Brigadier General Cagle felt a chill run down his spine. The flames of ambition that had burned so brightly just moments ago, the determination to surpass Slade and prove himself were extinguished in an instant. His hands felt cold and clammy, his entire body rigid with fear.

There were seventeen missiles stored in the silo, five of which were always primed for launch. These included missiles with yields of 30, 70, 300, 6,000, and 10,000 tons. Together, they had the power to completely destroy the military base and its 10,000 personnel in a devastating instant.

To put it into perspective, the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima during World War II had an explosive yield equivalent to approximately 13,000 tons of TNT. The five missiles now primed to launch carried a combined destructive force exceeding 16,000 tons of TNT—more than enough to reduce the base to ash.

"The surveillance feed from the underground research institute has been cut off!"

"The missile silo's control system isn't responding!"

"None of the missile systems are responding—BGM-109G Tomahawk cruise missiles, MIM-104 Patriot surface-to-air missiles, short-range missiles, medium-range missiles, surface-to-surface missiles, and surface-to-air missiles—all unresponsive!"

"Some vehicle-mounted, network-controlled missiles are also offline!"

Brigadier General Cagle's pupils dilated in horror. In this moment, all his intelligence and strategic thinking were useless. A cold sweat ran down his back as his body froze in fear.

The realization hit him like a hammer: they had lost control. All network-controlled missiles, from the silos to the vehicles, had been taken over. If any of these weapons were to detonate, the base would be leveled into a flat, smoldering wasteland.

"Brigadier General Cagle, someone has hacked into our systems from the inside!" another soldier shouted.

The room erupted into chaos. Soldiers pounded frantically at their keyboards, desperately trying to regain control, but their efforts were futile.

"Can you take back control?" Cagle shouted, his voice sharp with panic.

"There's no way!" a soldier from the cyber team yelled back, his voice breaking with frustration and disbelief. "Whoever's doing this is operating on a level beyond anything we've ever seen. There's not a single trace to track, we're completely locked out!"

It wasn't just a matter of superior technology; it felt as if they were up against something supernatural. The hacker's skill was so overwhelming that it defied comprehension.

Cagle's hands clenched into fists, his palms slick with sweat. He could feel despair creeping in, a crushing sense of powerlessness.

Suddenly, a thought struck him like a dagger to the heart. Was this the same despair Slade had faced before his death? The same crushing hopelessness in the face of an overwhelming force?

He couldn't let himself dwell on it. His voice rose, hoarse but commanding: "Cut off the power! Shut down the entire grid! Stop the missile silo from launching!"

Cagle's bloodshot eyes widened, his expression a mix of desperation and rage. "Shut everything down now!" he roared, as if yelling would give him some semblance of control over the situation.

The soldiers scrambled to comply. Soon, the hum of machinery in the command room died away, and the lights dimmed before going completely dark. Silence fell over the room, broken only by the frantic breathing of the soldiers.

In the darkness, there was a brief moment of fragile relief. Without electricity, the missile systems couldn't operate. For a moment, it felt like they had regained some measure of control.

But the fear lingered. Every soldier in the room knew the destructive power of those missiles—16,000 tons of explosive force was no theoretical threat. They had seen the devastation wrought by nuclear weapons in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. None of them could banish the fear of what might happen if even one missile launched.

Despite the power outage, Brigadier General Cagle remained tense, his heart pounding in his chest. His breaths came in shallow gasps as he struggled to control his rising panic.

Does this method even work?

No...

Suddenly, the lights flickered back on.

The computers around the room began to hum back to life, their mechanical sounds reverberating ominously in the tense silence. On the screens, programs began to load automatically.

Cagle's heart sank. His worst fear had come true.

Every critical system in the base, including the missile silo, was equipped with backup power supplies. These systems were designed to pull power from alternate sources in the event of an outage, whether from the underground research institute, the missile silo, or other connected facilities.

And now, someone had exploited that very design to restore power.

The light did nothing to comfort the soldiers. Instead, it illuminated their pale, terrified faces. Their gazes darted to one another, searching for answers, for reassurance, but finding only shared despair.

Brigadier General Cagle's face turned ashen. His body trembled involuntarily, a chill running through him as he realized the gravity of their situation.

Then it happened.

A deep rumble rose from beneath their feet. The ground vibrated subtly, sending small clouds of dust drifting upward. Particles of dust began to jump and tremble as the rumble grew louder.

Everyone could feel it, the ground was trembling unnaturally, as if some monstrous beast was about to break free from beneath the surface.

"What's going on?"

"An earthquake?"

"Wait… no, it's…"

"A missile! A missile has launched!"

Some soldiers stammered nervously, unable to form coherent thoughts.

--

Missile Silo

With a deafening roar, a 30-ton payload missile erupted from the silo, its tail spewing scorching flames that shook the air and sent shockwaves through the ground. The missile's ascent was powerful and unstoppable, its fiery trail blazing toward the heavens.

Outside, the soldiers surrounding the laboratory building on the ground all turned to watch in confusion as the missile soared upward.

The rumbling noise rattled their ears, making their thoughts chaotic and their expressions dazed.

Why would a missile be launched?

Is there an incoming enemy army? Is there a threat large enough to justify firing a missile from the silo?

Brigadier General Cagle staggered out of the command room, his legs weak and unsteady. His pale face glistened with cold sweat that dripped down his forehead in steady streams.

The general's eyes widened in horror as he looked up and saw the Patriot IV ballistic missile—a ten-meter-long monster with a 30-ton payload—rising with a roar of flames.

The intense heat radiating from the missile's tail seemed to scorch his skin even from this distance, and his drenched face felt as though it might melt under the sun.

Behind him, a group of soldiers rushed out of the command room. Staying inside was futile, Bardi had severed all communications and electronic controls. There was nothing they could do but watch helplessly.

"That's… a Patriot IV ballistic missile," one soldier muttered, identifying the weapon with a tone of dread.

"It's just a ballistic missile," another soldier murmured, as if clinging to some small shred of hope.

A wave of faint relief washed over the group, including Brigadier General Cagle. At least it wasn't exploding over their heads.

Ballistic missiles, as they all knew, followed a predetermined trajectory. Once launched, the missile would fly in a single, preprogrammed direction, determined by its initial launch parameters.

Wherever it's going, it's not here, they thought.

Their momentary relief was tempered by grim silence as they considered where the missile might detonate. Regardless of its target, the destruction it would cause was unimaginable, and they were powerless to stop it.

A religious soldier crossed himself and whispered a soft prayer, "Amen," for the lives about to be lost.

The oppressive silence of the group was heavy with resignation and grief. Some soldiers had tears in their eyes, mourning lives that would soon be snuffed out by this horrific weapon.

--

But the somber atmosphere was shattered.

"What's happening with the missile?"

The exclamation came from a soldier who was staring at the sky, his voice rising in disbelief.

The others followed his gaze and froze.

In the clear blue sky, the ballistic missile suddenly began to turn. A sharp, impossibly wide arc carved through the heavens as the missile altered its trajectory, leaving a massive white trail against the sky.

It wasn't just turning, it was reversing direction.

The soldiers stared, their jaws slack, their minds blank with shock.

The missile was coming back.

"How is this possible?" one soldier shouted, his voice cracking.

"Ballistic missiles don't have this kind of flight pattern!"

"There's no way it could turn!"

"This isn't just improbable—it's impossible!"

The panic among the soldiers was palpable. Their relief turned to terror as the missile, which they had assumed was heading elsewhere, now hurtled back toward them.

They had just been mourning for others—now, they realized their own lives were in jeopardy.

It's better for someone else to die than us, they had thought.

But now, the missile was heading straight for them.

Brigadier General Cagle stood frozen in place, his uniform soaked with sweat. His voice cracked as he whispered, "It's over…"

--

All around the base, soldiers tilted their heads back to watch in abject horror as the Patriot IV ballistic missile came hurtling down from the sky. Its target was clear now.

The missile descended rapidly, piercing the air with deadly precision.

It slammed into the seven-story soldiers' dormitory, punching through the roof and embedding itself deep into the structure.

The building groaned as the missile's impact reverberated through its walls. Dust and debris rained down, and the entire base seemed to hold its breath.

For a moment, there was silence—a stillness so profound it felt as if the world itself had paused.

Chapter 40

If the Patriot IV ballistic missile had emotions, it would likely be feeling quite proud of itself, it had certainly become the center of attention.

Amid the 17,000 soldiers staring up in stunned terror, mouths agape and eyes wide with disbelief, the missile made its dramatic descent, slamming directly into the seventh floor of the soldiers' dormitory.

For a moment, time itself seemed to slow. Every heart was caught in a vise of tension, their collective dread suspended in silence. The sky, the ground, and even the air itself seemed to hold its breath, amplifying the weight of what was happening.

Then, the explosion came.

The seven-story dormitory split apart in an instant. The cement walls disintegrated into fine dust, a process far too rapid for the human eye to fully comprehend.

The first thing the soldiers saw was the dormitory collapsing into a thick, rolling cloud of dust. Then came the searing fireball, an irregular mass of intense heat and energy that erupted from the missile's payload. It surged upward, consuming the dust cloud as it rose, and radiating waves of destruction outward.

Large chunks of debris—stones, steel beams, and soil—were hurled in every direction by the force of the blast. The shockwave expanded outward like an unstoppable tide, driving the dust and heat across the area.

The deafening roar of the explosion tore through the air, assaulting the ears of every soldier. The ground trembled violently beneath their feet, as though the earth itself might flip over.

The soldiers watched the scene unfold in stunned silence, the light from the explosion so intense that many were forced to squint or shield their eyes with trembling hands.

Although the dormitory was located some distance from the main military base, the sheer magnitude of the explosion left an indelible mark on everyone who witnessed it. Those who had been fortunate enough to survive unscathed stared, speechless, as the towering fireball dissipated into thick black smoke that billowed skyward.

When the dust began to settle, nothing remained of the dormitory. The seven-story building had been obliterated, leaving behind a massive, charred crater. Several nearby buildings had also been affected—foundations cracked, walls tilted, and some structures reduced to rubble by the violent terrain shifts caused by the blast.

"What just happened?"

"An enemy attack?"

"Are the Soviets starting a war with us?"

"No… that was our own missile! It came from our base!"

Panic rippled through the ranks. The soldiers exchanged bewildered, terrified glances. They had all seen it, the missile that had turned back and struck their own dormitory. It didn't make sense. A ballistic missile shouldn't have been able to make such an impossible maneuver.

Yet here they were, standing amidst the aftermath of a catastrophe caused by their own weapon.

The explosion had obliterated their sleeping quarters, leaving many of them homeless. The sight of the thick black smoke rising from the crater was surreal.

As disbelief turned to desperation, officers of various ranks—majors, lieutenant colonels, and colonels began investigating what had gone wrong. Their frantic search for answers inevitably led them to Brigadier General Cagle.

Cagle's face was ashen, his expression dark with humiliation and rage.

"It's the base's network," he finally admitted, his voice hoarse. "It's been hacked."

The officers froze, their faces pale as the weight of those words sank in.

A hacked network.

The implications were staggering. How could the facilities of a military base, one of the most secure in the world be so easily compromised?

The officers and soldiers alike couldn't stop their thoughts from spiraling into worst-case scenarios. Their minds turned, unbidden, to the other missiles still in the silo. One of them, with a 10,000-ton payload, could unleash devastation far worse than what they had just witnessed. Images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki flashed through their minds, the horrors of those tragedies made all too real by the circumstances they now faced.

Almost in unison, many of them turned their eyes toward the missile silo, dread settling heavily in their chests.

The missile that had just detonated had carried the smallest payload. Larger, more destructive missiles were still armed and ready to launch.

As if on cue, their worst fears began to manifest.

Boom… rumble…

The ground beneath their feet trembled again. Dust danced into the air, shaking loose from every surface.

The 70-ton Annihilator III missile roared to life, its red-and-white tail flames cutting through the sky as it soared upward.

The soldiers on the ground were still reeling from the chaos caused by the earlier 30-ton missile, and now the sight of this larger, deadlier missile launching sent a fresh wave of panic surging through the ranks. Many stood frozen, their mouths hanging open, their weapons slack in their hands. A collective, disbelieving crack seemed to echo in their minds, shattering whatever composure they had left.

And then, under the terrified gaze of thousands, the missile left a thick, white trail in the sky—before it began to turn.

It was happening again.

Brigadier General Cagle felt his heart shatter. His voice erupted in a hoarse, desperate scream:

"Run!! Everyone leave the base! Evacuate now!"

The veins in his neck bulged as he roared, his face flushing red with the effort, as if he were forcing the blood from his body with every word. His throat burned like fire, but he didn't care.

This alien wasn't just attacking them. He was going to destroy the entire base—17,000 lives extinguished in a single, merciless strike.

Cagle's fury boiled over, his teeth grinding so hard that blood seeped from his gums. "Beast," he growled through clenched teeth, his voice raw with anger. His eyes burned red with a mix of rage and despair.

Seventeen thousand soldiers, his soldiers, were about to die—sacrificed without purpose, without meaning.

The futility of it all made his blood boil.

Cagle's voice rose again, strained and broken, but still carrying an unmistakable urgency. His shouts cut through the chaos, forcing every soldier to hear him:

"Get out! Run! Leave the base!"

For a moment, his orders broke through the collective terror, igniting a frenzy of movement.

--

The panic erupted like a bomb. Soldiers shouted in confusion, disbelief, and rage.

"What the hell is going on, sir?!"

"Run! Run for your lives!"

"Are you insane?! What are you doing?! Why are we targeting ourselves?!"

"Damn it! Move!"

Curses flew, loud and vulgar, as soldiers scrambled to escape. The gathered forces, so carefully assembled with advanced weaponry, tanks, and missiles were now scattering like panicked animals.

This wasn't a battle anymore. It was a slaughter waiting to happen.

Above them, the Annihilator III missile hung like the Sword of Damocles, its fiery trail a grim promise of annihilation.

Those who reacted quickly seized whatever vehicles they could find—jeeps, missile transporters, anything with wheels. Soldiers piled into them without hesitation, desperate to put distance between themselves and the base. Drivers floored the gas, caring nothing for those left behind.

The slower ones were forced to flee on foot, glancing over their shoulders with terror-filled eyes as the missile arced through the sky, beginning its deadly descent toward the base.

But the nightmare was far from over.

--

As soldiers scattered in panic, a deafening roar filled the air.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Missiles began to launch—dozens of them.

This time, they weren't coming from the silos but from the vehicle-mounted launchers on the base. Surface-to-surface and surface-to-air missiles fired wildly, their tail flames streaking through the air like vengeful comets.

And they weren't targeting an enemy.

They were aimed directly at the fleeing soldiers.

Explosions tore through the base.

Missiles slammed into crowds of panicked troops, detonating with devastating force. Bodies were hurled through the air like ragdolls. Screams of agony and terror filled the chaos as soldiers were torn apart by the blasts. Limbs and shrapnel flew in every direction, painting the ground in blood.

Vehicles exploded in violent bursts of fire and metal, jeeps flipping into the air like toys. Missile transporters erupted in flames, adding to the carnage.

The military base, once an orderly stronghold, had become a hellish wasteland in an instant. Black smoke billowed into the air, mixing with the cries of the wounded and dying.

Within seconds, nearly a thousand soldiers lay dead or severely injured. Hundreds more were struggling to flee, their faces twisted in terror as the air itself seemed to turn against them.

It was a massacre.

--

Amid the chaos, a soldier grabbed Brigadier General Cagle by the arm, trying to drag him away from the destruction.

"Sir, we have to go!" the soldier pleaded, his voice filled with desperation.

But Cagle shoved him aside with a snarl, his rage boiling over. "No!" he bellowed, his voice raw and unhinged. "I'm going to kill him!"

His eyes burned with fury as he turned toward the source of their suffering.

--

Above the devastation, the Annihilator III missile continued its descent.

Its target was clear now: the white laboratory building.

As the missile struck, the explosion shook the earth with unimaginable force.

The blast was blinding, a towering fireball consuming everything in its radius. The shockwave rolled outward, leveling what little remained of the area.

The sky seemed to darken as smoke and ash rose, obscuring the sun.