The guard stepped forward, voice laced with tension. "He's already broken free from the rune."
A metallic whisper echoed through the chamber as the cuffs and chains binding Dan unraveled on their own, slithering to the ground like defeated serpents. He was free again—but before a single word left his lips, a shadow streaked forward.
The Base Leader had appeared—silent, sudden.
And with a casual shove, he sent Dan hurtling backward.
Dan's body shot through the air like a ragdoll caught in a gale, crashing against the jagged stone at the mountain's base. Dust spilled from the rocks in lazy spirals as he staggered to his feet.
It had been a light push.
But unmistakably, a warning.
Get ready.
Dan hadn't seen it coming. He wasn't ready—not for a fight, not like this. His spirit reserves were drained, his breathing shallow, each heartbeat a reminder of the battles he'd already endured. And now, he faced a sacred-level cultivator—an apex warrior whose mere presence bent the air around him.
Still, Dan rose.
The wind shifted, rustling his dark cloak as he stood upright and narrowed his gaze.
The Base Leader loomed with quiet menace. A jagged mohawk of black spikes crowned his scalp, the sides shaved clean and gleaming in the mountain sun. A silver ring hung from his ear, dull yet ominous. His torso was bare, save for a ragged black vest that fluttered with each breath he took, revealing inked symbols winding down his arms—tribal glyphs that pulsed faintly with energy. At his waist, a belt laden with relic-weapons clinked softly with every step.
He descended with feline grace, landing before Dan without stirring the dust.
His eyes—calm, unreadable—locked onto Dan's. "I won't even use half my strength," he said, each word soaked in scorn. "Come at me."
Dan didn't flinch. Instinct overrode fatigue.
Wind-Curved Dance.
Shadow Step Pulse.
Two arts in one. Speed and silence fused. He became a flicker in the wind, dashing forward in a blur of motion.
From his fingers, he unleashed Soul Flare Needles, each needle humming with condensed soulforce, like tiny comets.
He didn't wait.
Already, he surged ahead, gathering momentum, focusing his essence into a single point.
Skyfall Pierce.
His most potent technique. His last card.
Dan lunged, hand extended like a spear, the air around it rippling from compressed force. He aimed straight for the Base Leader's heart.
The needles struck first.
They bounced off.
A high-pitched, crystalline ping echoed as they glanced from the man's skin—like pebbles thrown at steel.
Dan's spearhand struck next—slamming into the chest of his foe with all the fury he could muster.
Boom.
A shockwave pulsed outward, the mountain behind them groaning in reply. Dust rose. Dan staggered back three steps, breath ragged.
The Base Leader moved back one.
Just one.
A fine red line trickled down his chest. Barely a scratch.
And then, a smile. "Is that it?"
Dan's mind screamed. Golden Break! But the art was spent—drained from the last engagement.
No time to think. He charged again, burning what little remained of his inner wellspring.
Iron Fist—his arms hardened, muscle wrapped in dense qi, bones laced with force.
Stone Guard Mantle shimmered to life across his body—an ethereal armor of jade light.
Then Echo Grasp—phantom chains of soul-energy, intended to bind.
But Dan wasn't done.
From beneath his robe, he hurled a torn scrap of cloth—Blaze Veil.
The Base Leader arched a brow.
Then came another. And another.
Each ignited mid-air—phantom flames bursting from within, casting flickers of crimson light across the cliffs.
Dan didn't let the distraction go to waste.
More needles. More fire.
Each Soul Flare Needle passed through the burning cloths, absorbing flame, becoming streaks of molten death that turned the sky into a fiery downpour.
Then, from the ground, Dan launched himself skyward. Wind-Curved Dance propelled him like a stormborne arrow. His aura flared—soulforce condensed into a blinding halo.
One final Skyfall Pierce.
This time, everything—everything—was poured into the strike.
He fell like a meteor.
The impact detonated across the battlefield. Stone erupted. The crater widened with a roar. Fire and dust consumed the air, blotting out the sun.
Silence.
Then the haze parted.
The Base Leader was still standing.
Untouched.
The gash had vanished. Not even blood remained.
Dan's breath caught. He knew what this meant. He used an Ancient Art… a restorative technique beyond mortal reach.
Then something shifted.
Inside him.
His soulforce vanished. His arcane flow—cut off, like a gate slammed shut. He reached within—
Nothing.
And then—
Blur.
The Base Leader moved.
In a blink, his fist struck Dan's chest.
Bone shattered. Breath left him.
Dan flew—only to be caught midair by the wrist, then slammed into the earth like a broken doll.
Pain lanced through his body.
He coughed blood.
But it wasn't over.
A boot crashed into his ribs. He skidded across the rocky field, spinning, tumbling—until he collided with the cliffside, stone breaking apart around him.
Still—
It wasn't over.
The Base Leader raised a hand.
A fireball swelled to life. A sphere of burning death, as large as a carriage, roared into being above his palm. The heat dried the very air, made the cliffside hiss.
Dan raised a hand. Too slow.
The fireball struck.
The world turned white.
Flame consumed everything.
When it cleared, Dan's body lay motionless. His cloak in tatters, skin scorched, lips bleeding.
And still, the Base Leader advanced.
With a flick of his hand, glowing chains erupted from the earth, binding Dan's limp form and lifting it into the air.
His body twisted, fractured, blood dripping in ribbons.
Then came another blow. Fist to chest.
Crack.
Dan flew again—and midair, the Base Leader rose with him. Both fists together—he struck downward, like a blacksmith driving metal into anvil.
Boom.
The ground ruptured. Dust and debris spiraled in all directions. The mountain trembled.
Then—
A raised hand. One more strike coming.
But a voice cut through the storm.
"Enough!"
It echoed like thunder across the range.
The High Warnack had arrived, his presence like a pressure wave. "If you continue, he'll die."
_______________________________________
Dan opened his eyes slowly. Pain rippled through his body like a web of lightning beneath shattered glass. Each breath was a quiet rebellion, every muscle trembling with the memory of violence. He was suspended in a coffin-shaped container, submerged in a green, bioluminescent fluid that pulsed faintly like it had a heartbeat of its own. The viscous solution clung to his skin, knitting sinew and bone together with alien precision—an artificial womb of rebirth.
To his right, two more tanks glowed dimly in the sterile gloom. One held Brent—unmoving, his outline ghostly through the haze.
The other—
Dan's breath caught.
A girl.
Only her head broke the surface, dark hair fanning around her like ink spilled in water. Her features, pale and sharp, were softened by the glow that bled from the tank's interior. She was the first female presence he'd seen in this entire brutalist base of stone and steel.
She wasn't asleep. Her chest rose with shallow breaths. Her eyelids trembled, stirred by something—perhaps a dream, or pain.
He watched her, unsure whether to speak. But curiosity, sharp and insistent, broke through the fog of hesitation.
"How long have you been here?" he asked, his voice hoarse, muffled slightly by the fluid clinging to his throat.
One eye opened slowly, dark and half-lidded. "Four months. Maybe five," she murmured, her tone flat and detached. "Time gets lost down here."
Dan hesitated. "Why are you in the tank? What happened?"
She turned her head, meeting his gaze fully now. Her expression didn't change—but something ancient flickered behind her eyes. A dull fire, long starved of air.
"You're new," she said simply. "That much is obvious."
Silence.
"I'm part of the leader's harem," she added after a pause, her voice like glass on stone. "And let's just say... things got a little rough."
Her words landed with all the subtlety of a blade drawn across skin. Dan froze. He couldn't speak. Couldn't look away.
Something inside him cracked, not with pain—but resolve.
"I'm going to kill that bastard," he said quietly. There was no tremor in his voice—just fire, burning low and steady.
The girl chuckled, but it was dry, brittle. "Every girl says something like that... right before the leash goes on." She glanced at him sideways. "Let's see what a boy can do."
She moved, fluid and unfazed. Rising from the tank, the luminous liquid cascaded off her bare skin, tracing every scar and shadow. She didn't flinch, didn't hide. The green light painted her like a ghost from some forgotten myth.
Dan turned his gaze, but the heat in his face betrayed him.
She walked away silently, like a wraith.
Left alone, Dan sank deeper into thought. His body ached, but the pain was distant now—muted by the tank's strange embrace. He'd survived... barely. But the fight had shown him truths more brutal than broken bones.
The leader—High Warnack—was not merely powerful. He was other.
Dan had unleashed spells meant to collapse stone and cleave metal—and the man had blocked them with a flick of the hand. Worse, his wounds had sealed in moments, no incantation, no focus. Healing that fast wasn't just unnatural—it was sacrilegious.
Something old. Something bound in forbidden rites.
The caretakers told him two days had passed since the fight. His skin had healed, but his bones... not yet. The fluid worked slowly on deep injuries. Too slowly.
Then—an idea.
He whispered the invocation. A low hum pulsed from his chest as he activated the Art of Disguise, shifting his muscle, tendons, even bone. His body twisted—not into another's shape, but into a more permeable form. One that let the regenerative fluid seep in, soak deeper.
He grimaced through the agony. Bit by bit, the pain dulled. Hours later, the worst of the damage had mended. He could move. He could act.
Still, he stayed.
He needed a plan.
His mind wandered. Home. The Central Collection of Arts... the explosion... the incursion. The news would've spread. His grandfather would be worried. His little sister—she'd be scared. He had to let them know. Had to survive.
Night fell—a thin, artificial twilight humming from the station's overhead crystals.
Dan moved.
There were no lockdowns. No suspicion. They thought he was still healing.
He emerged from the tank, skin slick with the last of the fluid, and shifted seamlessly into the form of a low-ranking guard. His steps were measured, unhurried. In this place, fear walked with a straight spine and a soldier's boots.
No one looked twice.
Deeper into the labyrinthine halls, he moved like a shadow. When the moment came, he found a dark corner, closed his eyes, and summoned the High Warnack's visage—his most dangerous illusion yet.
The change burned.
When he stepped out, cloaked in the aura of the tyrant himself, silence followed. Guards stiffened and saluted with trembling fists. None dared speak.
He walked—no, commanded—his way to the hangar, where shuttles like steel birds slept under violet lights.
Boarding one, he sat, fingers poised over the console. The stars were just ahead. So was home. Family. Peace.
But his hands didn't move.
He stared at the reflection in the cockpit glass.
It wasn't fear that gripped him—it was fury. Cold. Focused.
Warnack had torn him apart. Had enslaved others. And would do worse.
Dan's fists clenched.
He stood.
He wouldn't leave. Not yet.
He stepped out of the shuttle, a warrior reborn in silence.
And froze.
Ten paces ahead—the real High Warnack.
The air shifted. Denser. Charged with unseen weight.
Dan dropped the disguise in a heartbeat. His true form shimmered into view.
They stood—mirrored fury in the half-light.
Two predators.
Eyes locked.
The air between them, still... yet heavy with the promise of storm.