Uryi opened the door, "He's coming, run for your lives!", Uyri said. His voice cracked with desperation, and his eyes darted wildly expecting death to step through the doorway at any moment. Uyri, one of my strongest, is crying in the corner of our base. His shoulders shook, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, eyes wide and glossy. Goddamnit! Zion kicked the door, breaking it down. The impact echoed through the concrete walls. The hinges tore off like butter, clanging across the floor as splinters flew in every direction. Dust billowed in the air, and I could already feel the pressure in the room change.

  I gasped, "Someone, someone, fight! Don't abandon—" My voice caught in my throat as panic surged through my limbs.

  Uryi was already out the backdoor. His boots thudded against the metal floor panels.

  Urgh!

  At least I have him to help us! I glanced to my right, staring at Hal. The Wrecker. A walking weapon of flesh and fury. He made it pretty far in the Burnout Tournament. He was the strongest mercenary then, and he's only grown stronger since. His reputation wasn’t just hype—I’d seen what he did to men twice his size. I planned to use him for an operation to steal a few Grillir slaves, a risky maneuver that needed someone with brutality and brains, but now I need him for this.

  I pointed forward, "Hal, kill Zion!" He bore his fangs, and dropped to all fours. The sound of his knuckles hitting the floor was deep and threatening. He's immediately using his Beast Mode. Veins popped along his arms and neck, skin glistening with sweat. His muscles bulged, and I could feel his primal nature. The air grew heavier, thick with the promise of blood. The only question was, was if it could overpower Zion's.

  Hal extended his right shoulder, clashing into Zion's hip with the force of a battering ram. The collision made a deep, meaty noise. Zion buckled, his torso twisting slightly from the impact as his hand shot down, grasping Hal's hip bone with iron-like fingers. For a moment, they were locked together mid-motion—Hal suspended off the ground. Mid-throw. He held him up, and Hal reinforced his fist, tendons tightening, veins surfacing along his arm like coiled cables.

  In the hold, Hal hooked him in the cheek, a clean, vicious arc of muscle and rage. Zion spit out a very small amount of blood, the crimson fleck catching the dim light as it scattered toward the floor. His expression barely changed. Zion threw him down, but Hal went with the throw, surviving by rolling with the motion instead of resisting it. The ground cracked beneath him with the force of impact, concrete fracturing like a dropped porcelain plate.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Hal spun to the right, body low, and elbowed Zion in the upper thigh with a sharp pivot. He followed up with a quick jab to the nose, a textbook strike—but it did no visible damage. Zion didn’t even blink.

  Hal circled Zion, his feet shifting smoothly along the dusty floor, never fully turning his back. Zion followed him with his eyes, tracking every motion like a predator watching prey test its luck. Behind Zion, Hal stood up, regaining his senses and footing fully. He bent his forearm inward and grasped it with his other hand, grounding himself with a breathless calm.

  He's using it! He reinforced his right forearm, and tightened his fist. The skin along his arm thickened, muscle layering with unnatural density. He did not say a word—this was all business to him.

  Zion was not amused, "This dog thinks he's a wolf." His voice dripped with disdain, eyes locked onto Hal like he was watching a child pretend to be a warrior.

  Hal unleashed his technique, a brutal straight aimed at Zion’s core. Wind adjourning his forearm, the strike tore through the air like a cannon shot. Zion tanked it in his chest, the blow landing with a thunderous thump that echoed through the wreckage of the base. Only a cough escaped his lips, sharp and short, while his clothes tore from the force, fabric fluttering down in strips around his feet.

  Hal returned to his Beast Mode, dropping to all fours again, limbs wide and tense. But this time, his footing betrayed him—he slipped on a smear of blood and dust, nearly crashing to the floor, but caught himself with a hard pivot. He was already turning, already moving.

  He's dashing out the door! His form blurred through the exit, leaving only churned-up debris in his wake.

  I stomped my foot, frustration boiling over, and Zion turned to me again, those eyes blank. I paid Hal, and he does this? I could feel the fury rising in my throat. He could've at least bought me time! Or that's what he was doing? I didn't realize it? Do I have a chance now?

  I stared at the cacophony of chaos—our shattered base, bodies crumpled in impossible shapes, blood slicked across walls and pooling on the floor. Everything reeked of death and panic.

  Zion stood in front of me, fingers straight at his side like blades waiting to move. His stance was unshakable.

  I asked, "Why?! Why do this?! Go after the Blademasters or—"

  I swiped downward, slicing his head from his body. The blade of my hand met flesh with no resistance. Blood spurt out in a wide arc, warm and fast. Some got on my cheek.

  I wiped my cheek with my palm, "They're next."