POV: Heyo — After Cygue's Death
I'm still catching my breath when it hits me:
Fortuna.
Aris.
Where are they?
I turn my head—
and I swear on my life, that pink clown is sprinting straight at me.
And wait—
no, no, no…
On the other side?
The giant hammer freak?
Seriously?
Both of them charge, full speed, like beasts who just felt their master die.
A dry laugh bursts out of me.
Not joy.
Not relief.
Just that cracked noise you make when the absurd becomes reality.
They understood.
They felt it.
Cygue is dead.
Their boss.
Their center of gravity.
Their only spine.
And here I am, perfectly placed between them, right in their warpath.
A hand for each.
I raise my arms. I aim right, then left, and mutter:
"Time to dance. Akimbo mode."
Two submachine guns appear instantly in my hands.
The weight is perfect.
The balance impeccable.
Metal cold, familiar, hungry.
I pull both triggers.
The bullets scream.
Topi spins, twists, ricochets off the air like a damn blade in a hurricane.
He's fast—too fast.
Precise enough to cut the wind itself.
But each pirouette costs him a breath.
A second.
A piece of momentum.
Mato isn't fast.
He doesn't need to be.
He advances, unshaken, absorbing bullets with skin thick as old leather.
Some rounds pierce.
Some bounce.
But he keeps going.
A moving wall of muscle and murder.
They want to die.
I can feel it.
I feel it in my legs, in my spine, in the back of my skull.
A strange emotion rises in me—heavy like a war drum, cold like something that's forgotten how to feel fear.
They're ready to give their lives just to land one strike.
And me?
I'm ready too.
The guns click empty.
I drop them.
They hit the ground without sound.
I raise my arms again—
but this time, it's not weapons.
It's shields.
Two grey masses of reinforced, next-gen military rubber.
Flexible.
Absurdly durable.
Shock-absorbent to extreme levels.
I don't know the science.
I don't need it.
They work.
I channel every drop of Word-energy into my arms, legs, spine.
I plant myself.
Unmoving.
Arms spread.
And I wait.
The two impacts land.
A hammer.
A spinning kick.
Two detonations.
No technique—just raw fury, raw grief, raw determination.
Even monsters have people they care about.
But I don't step back.
I don't regret anything.
They trafficked human beings.
Children.
I kill people.
They sold them.
There is a line.
Even in hell.
The blows keep coming.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I hold.
But my arms tremble.
My muscles buzz.
My bones scream.
They don't want to defeat me.
They want to pulverize me.
Crush me into paste inside my own shields.
And then—
A voice.
Shrill. Hysterical.
"Send him flying! The others are coming! I'll take the girl, you take the other one!"
A hammer strikes from below.
A kick from the opposite angle.
They use my own posture—my own shields—against me.
I don't even blink before the world detonates.
A burst of force.
An explosion inside my ribs.
And I'm launched skyward.
The ground collapses beneath me.
Their faces vanish.
Their shouts fade into nothing.
I rise.
Higher and higher.
The main alley shrinks into a thin scar of dust—
and then it happens.
I see it.
Miles.
Miles of slums.
A broken ocean of rust and misery.
Tin roofs bleeding into each other.
Tangled alleys.
Rust-eaten walls.
A labyrinth of exhaustion and forgotten hope.
It's…
Beautifully hideous.
The sky expands around me.
My body hangs between breaths.
A perfect moment—
weightless, suspended, unreal.
At the very peak, just before gravity reclaims me, I whisper:
"Military parachute. Model 3. Anti-impact."
It appears in my hand.
I open it.
Gravity kneels.
My fall becomes slow.
Silent.
Almost gentle.
I float.
Hovering above an endless sea of scrap metal and despair.
The Dead Zone.
From horizon to horizon.
And something inside me tightens.
I'd forgotten how it felt to be this…
small.
How many people live down there?
How many screams go unheard?
How many bodies rot without ever being claimed?
And me?
I lived beside this.
Right beside it.
Never knowing.
Never questioning.
Never even looking.
It's always been here.
A world forgotten.
A living cemetery.
A shiver drags down my spine.
"One day, I'll destroy all this."
Not the people.
Not the children.
But the structure.
The walls.
The misery that swallows them alive.
"I'll give them freedom…"
The thought echoes.
Almost childish.
Almost impossible.
But it's mine.
I float for minutes—five, ten, maybe an eternity.
The wind brushes my face like an apology.
When I spot the main alley again, something hits me:
It's empty.
Not a soul.
Not a shadow.
Not even a stray animal.
They're watching.
Hiding.
Holding their breath.
Waiting for the storm to end.
I land softly.
Silence.
Dense.
Heavy.
Three bodies lie in a row.
Mato.
Topi.
Cygue.
And standing before them—
two survivors.
Aris.
Fortuna.
Their faces are calm.
Too calm.
No victory.
No pride.
Just that quiet heaviness only the living carry.
The mission isn't done.
We all know it.
One task remains.
The cruelest one.
Force Nora to awaken her Word.
Or watch her die.
We look at each other.
No words.
None needed.
We walk.
Side by side.
Toward her.
The fight is over.
Now begins the real torture.