The abandoned overpass loomed overhead, cracked and sun-bleached. Kongu stood beneath it, Enforcer jacket half-zipped, his breath forming faint clouds in the cool morning air. He checked the time once more.
"It's time we meet again…"
His voice rumbled low.
Over the past week, he had used every resource the Enforcers allowed him—internal reports, patrol contacts, secure messages—to pull them together. It wasn't easy. They were scattered across factions and districts. Different lives. Different paths.
But one by one, they arrived.
Varga emerged first, silent and sharp-eyed.
Duma jogged in next, restless energy vibrating off him.
Gaja approached with heavy, deliberate steps.
Waraabe came last, grinning, hands in his pockets.
Four.
They took their places in the wide concrete clearing.
Kongu looked past them, waiting for two more silhouettes.
He saw none.
Minutes passed before Varga spoke, arms crossed.
"Falko's not coming."
Waraabe snorted.
"Don't blame him. To be honest, I only came for my own benefit."
Kongu exhaled.
"And Zame?"
Silence.
The Cheetah looked away, kicking a pebble across the ground.
"After the beating you two gave each other? I'd be shocked if he showed up."
Kongu's jaw tightened—not out of guilt, but recognition.
He nodded once.
"Fine. Then we talk without them."
The four others straightened subtly, sensing something important coming.
Kongu's voice deepened.
"In two months, the Blood Moon rises."
"And for the first time… all seven of us qualify for the Apex Tournament."
A quiet shock rippled through the group.
Even without the full circle present, the truth remained:
Every one of them—including Falko and Zame—had reached Rank Alpha.
Kongu crossed his arms.
"We grew up together.
Bled together.
Fought each other."
"But now… we're no longer kids. We're Alphas."
A shadow crossed his expression.
"And in two months… we'll stand on opposite sides of the arena."
The wind blew dust across the cracked pavement.
The circle wasn't whole.
Old wounds hadn't healed.
Rivalries had only grown sharper.
Kongu looked at each of them, the tension thickening.
Then he spoke calmly:
"So I'm asking you something simple."
They leaned in slightly.
"Don't enter the Tournament."
Silence slammed into the clearing.
Waraabe's grin faltered.Duma blinked.Gaja's brows furrowed.Even Varga's eyes widened a fraction.
Kongu continued, voice steady—not arrogant, but absolute:
"I will win. And I'd rather not have your blood on my hands."
A breeze swept through the ruins, carrying the weight of his words.
It wasn't a threat.
It wasn't bravado.
It was a fact—spoken by someone who had already seen the end.
For a moment, a deep, heavy silence pressed against the ribs.
Then—
"PFFFF—HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Waraabe exploded into laughter, the sound echoing under the overpass. He doubled over, hands on his knees, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
"You called me for THIS?" he wheezed.
"You still think you're the strongest? Oh man… Kongu, you kill me."
His laughter faded into a wide, predatory grin.
Kongu didn't react. He stood like a wall.
Duma stepped forward next, rolling his shoulders.
"Listen, big guy…" he said, tapping his foot with restless excitement.
"I don't care about that Ascension Wish crap. But the wealth? The fame? The status?"
His eyes gleamed.
"Yeah. I want that. And I'm not letting you walk away with it."
Kongu's jaw tightened—the closest he came to annoyance.
Then Varga spoke, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unwavering.
"I'm not going for fame."
His voice was calm—ice to Duma's fire.
"I want the Ascension Wish. I can't back down, Kongu."
No bragging.
No laughter.
Just brutal conviction.
Kongu narrowed his eyes as Varga held his stare.
Finally, Gaja—quiet, steady Gaja—stepped forward. He cracked his neck, dust shifting beneath his feet.
"I don't care who wins," he rumbled.
"But someone has to protect you idiots."
He nodded at them.
"If the strongest hybrids in the world are walking into that arena, then I'm going too."
The others looked at him—grounded by his words.
And Kongu?
Kongu exhaled—slow and long—like a storm restrained by will alone.
"So that's how it is."
Another silence fell—thick, heavy, one heartbeat from hostility.
Then Waraabe clicked his tongue and shrugged.
"Besides…" he said, lips curling,
"You know Zame will be there. Not for the fame or the Ascension Wish… but for the blood."
The others exchanged looks—none disagreeing.
Then Varga spoke, voice sharp and controlled:
"And Falko…"
He paused, jaw tightening.
"…he won't miss the chance to fight me."
A faint scar on his side—still not fully healed—caught the light.
"He wants me dead. He'll go just for that."
Waraabe whistled low.
"Two psychos, a wolf with a death wish, a lightning cat, a walking fortress, a comedian, and a gorilla with a hero complex…"
He spread his arms.
"…sounds like a fun final seven to me."
No one laughed.
The tension shifted—darker, sharper, real.
"Whether they come for the tournament or for blood…"
Kongu spoke, expression hardened,
"…they'll still be there."
No one argued.
They all knew the truth.
The Blood Moon didn't call for peace.
It called for chaos.
And the seven of them—broken, divided, and lethal—were already walking toward it.
Because they all knew:
The Blood Moon was coming.
And nothing—not friendship, not memories, not warnings—would stop them.
Seven Alphas.
One arena.
One Ascension Wish.
War was inevitable.
Kongu stepped back, the shadow of the overpass cutting across his face.
"The next time we see each other," he said quietly, "it will be as enemies."
No one spoke.
Then, without agreement or ceremony, they drifted apart.
Varga turned first, hands in his pockets.
Duma followed, bouncing lightly on his feet, sparks rippling around him as he vanished into the streets.
Waraabe stretched, yawned, and wandered off with a crooked grin.
Gaja walked last, steps slow, shoulders heavy—as if he already felt the coming storm.
Kongu remained beneath the overpass for a long moment, watching the spaces they left behind.
Then he turned his back as well.
The group that once grew up together became seven pieces breaking away from the center—each heading toward the same battlefield along different paths.
——
— While the Blood Moon Approached
Varga trained with other Rank A Drifters, their sparring sessions brutal and efficient. Claws clashed at dawn, dust swirling under disciplined footwork. He never spoke much—but every morning, he walked away as the last man standing.
Duma pushed his speed to its limits. Lightning tore across open fields as he sprinted until his legs burned, until the air itself vibrated around him. Each day he grew faster.
Gaja focused on raw strength. He lifted broken pillars like weights, carried abandoned vehicles across ruined lots, and practiced defensive stances until the earth cracked beneath him. His training was simple, steady, and unshakeable—like him.
Zame vanished into the undercity. Rumors spread of a hybrid leaving a trail of chaos: criminals dragged from hideouts, Enforcers found beaten senseless, bodies tossed into alleys. Some said he was preparing. Others said he was hunting. No one dared find out.
Falko flew across distant districts, hunting wanted criminals for bounty as always. Every swoop was precise, every ambush silent. He caught killers, traffickers, rogue hybrids—not for justice alone, but to cleanse the streets of filth.
Waraabe trained in his own chaotic rhythm—street fights, rooftop chases, unpredictable movements, laughter echoing through empty alleys. His style wasn't discipline. It was madness honed into instinct.
Kongu trained alone.
Empty fields. Cracked pavement. Fists pounding the air until the wind itself recoiled.
He wasn't chasing speed or strength or chaos.
He was preparing for war—and for the burden he believed only he could carry.
Seven Alphas.
Seven paths.
Two months of quiet war before the real one.
——
TWO MONTHS LATER…
© 2025 Moku. All rights reserved. INSTINCTBOUND is an original work by Moku. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution is prohibited.