The horde of Thralls surged forward, a sea of crimson flesh and fungal growth, utterly devoid of fear or hesitation. They knew only one purpose, to spread, to consume, to infect.
Every tendril, every screeching mouth, and every corrupted nerve was driven by the same mindless instinct: to reach the living. Especially the intelligent ones.
The difference in numbers was staggering. There were thousands of them, a writhing tide of twisted humanity, against only four soldiers. The ratio was nearly one to five thousand. And yet, the armored soldiers of the Kingdom of Man stood their ground without fear.
They moved in perfect synchronization, forming a semi-circle battle line with the precision of a machine. Their black-and-red power armor glowed faintly, crimson energy pulsing across their exoskeletal joints, as they raised their weapons in unison.
Then they fired.
The first barrage was apocalyptic. Each rifle emitted a sharp thunderclap, and the air itself seemed to distort from the force. The rounds they unleashed moved so fast they ionized the air, leaving glowing trails of plasma in their wake. When they struck, the results were horrifying.
A single bullet tore through a Thrall's chest, vaporizing flesh and bone in an instant. The resulting shockwave hollowed out a cavity the size of a melon, bursting organs and twisting muscle into shredded pulp. Even the resilient Thralls, whose bodies could survive five-story falls, were annihilated instantly.
And the bullets didn't stop. Forged from some unearthly metal, they neither warped nor shattered. Each one maintained its velocity, punching through multiple targets. By the time a single round finished its path, fifteen or more Thralls were reduced to mangled corpses.
The weapons were monstrous, firing with the speed of an automatic rifle but with the impact force that surpassed a tank shell. The technology spoke of a very advanced civilization.
But weapons alone weren't what made the soldiers terrifying. It was their discipline.
Each soldier moved with purpose, their aim flawless, their formation unbroken. They fired only where their rounds would pierce the most enemies, every motion calculated to perfection. No one crossed another's line of fire. Their efficiency bordered on artistry, the poetry of precision slaughter.
In less than thirty seconds, their magazines were empty. Thousands of Thralls lay dead, their bodies forming grotesque mounds across the ruined streets. But the horde did not falter. The survivors, innumerable and insane, continued their advance, their shrieks echoing through the devastation.
Yet their unity was broken. The relentless hail of fire had carved gaps through their ranks, shattering their cohesion. What had once been a tidal wave of flesh had become scattered streams of madness.
The soldiers did not reload.
In one fluid motion, they holstered their rifles across their backs and drew their melee weapons, great blades, axes, and combat knives forged of the same mysterious alloy. Their armor systems hummed as energy redirected into their limbs, augmenting speed and strength.
And then they advanced.
The clash was brutal and beautiful.
The soldiers were titans, each one towering and powerful, yet their movements were fluid, controlled. Their coordination was perfect, every swing, every parry executed in rhythm. Their blades sang through the air, cutting down Thralls with mechanical grace.
The horde's numbers without cohesion meant nothing. Every creature that entered striking range was torn apart. Heads rolled. Limbs flew. Infected ichor splattered against armor that glowed faintly with protective fields.
When the infected blood struck their plating, it sizzled. Sparks danced as electric currents pulsed across the armor's surface, burning the fungal spores to ash. The suits were designed for this kind of enemy, proof of the ancient war between the Kingdom of Man and the Myceliarchy.
The leader of the soldiers, the one who had shattered his drop pod's gate with his fist, fought at the center of the formation. His presence was overwhelming. He was faster, stronger, and more precise than any of the others. Each motion of his blade was lethal, every strike an execution.
He cut two of them cleanly in half, then turned and crushed another's skull with a single armored punch. The ground cracked under his heel as he stepped forward, and then he stopped.
Something was coming.
A tremor rolled through the battlefield. The earth itself began to quake, sending cracks spidering through the ruined pavement. The leader's helmet lenses flared as he switched to long-range scanning mode.
Then he saw it.
Through the haze of smoke and bodies, a colossal figure approached, a hulking mass of red, pulsating muscle and corded veins. Its skin steamed, its every breath rattling like an engine of flesh. From its back grew a third arm, thick and muscular, twitching with unnatural power.
A Symbiarch.
It was the same kind of creature that had nearly killed Sylar, a living embodiment of the Myceliarchy's perfection, a fusion of the rot that had consumed hundreds of Thralls condensed into one singular monstrosity.
Each step it took made the ground tremble. It was a walking cataclysm.
The soldier's eyes narrowed behind his visor.
For a moment, silence.
"BOOM!"
The air exploded outward as a concussive shockwave erupted from him, hurling nearby Thralls into the air. Without hesitation, he launched himself forward like a human missile, the power of his body inexplicably rising.
The sound barrier shattered.
He crashed through the ranks of the horde, his blade morphing into a combat knife mid-sprint. The Thralls were obliterated in his path, their bodies torn apart by the sheer force of his momentum.
The Symbiarch roared, its three arms rising high above its head as it prepared to strike.
And the soldier raised his combat knife.
"ARHGHHHH!" The next second, the Symbiarch let out a deafening scream as two of its colossal arms were severed in a single, blinding strike, spiraling through the air before crashing into the ground with thunderous impact.
The creature staggered, blood spraying from the stumps, but the agony only seemed to drive it deeper into frenzy. It turned, eyes burning with hatred, ready to strike again.
Before it could move, a gun barrel pressed against its head, and the soldier pulled the trigger. A blinding beam of plasma erupted, engulfing the monster's upper body and vaporizing everything above its shoulders in a flash of blue-white fire.
The Symbiarch's body convulsed once, then collapsed into a smoldering heap.
The remaining soldiers finished off the last of the Thralls with surgical precision, their movements synchronized like a single entity. When the final infected creature dropped, the trio regrouped beside their leader.
They turned their gaze toward the burning ruins and the unknown that awaited beyond. Without a word, they exchanged a single, knowing glance before sprinting forward, their bodies breaking the sound barrier as they vanished in streaks of light, cutting through the darkness.