The chaos didn't slow down
It only changed shape.
Michael ran with the sound of death at his back—clicking, screaming, the wet impact of bodies meeting sand. The desert felt alive now, hostile, shifting beneath his feet as if it were complicit in the hunt.
He forced his breathing into rhythm.
In. Out. Faster.
The fear focred him to instinctively take note a rust old sword that had been strapped on his waist
He paused taking full notice to the sword as he gripped it .
It felt strange natural he notice almost as if he had held it for a very long time,but the chaos spared no more time to reminisce on it
The rusted sword dragged low , its weight biting into his arm, threatening to throw him off balance. He adjusted unconsciously, shortening his stride, angling his body so the blade wouldn't catch the ground.
He didn't question how he knew to do that.
Questioning wasted time.
A shadow crossed his path.
Michael swerved instinctively, narrowly avoiding a bladed limb that struck where his chest had been a heartbeat earlier. The creature hissed—clicked—pivoted.
He didn't engage.
He ran.
That was when he saw her.
She stood several dozen paces away, isolated amid the chaos, surrounded by three of the insect creatures. Where others fled blindly, she moved with precision.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Her body flowed between strikes, feet barely touching the sand as she turned and twisted, weapon flashing briefly in the pale light. Each movement carried purpose—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
It almost looked like a dance.
Michael froze.
Not from fear. Not from awe. From the impossible clarity of recognition: she could fight. She knew how to fight. She wasn't like the others who flailed and screamed and fell. Every step, every swing, every pivot was controlled, deliberate.
Her weapon flashed—a dark streak against the pale light. A creature lunged. She sidestepped, spinning with her body angled perfectly, striking its joint with surgical precision. It collapsed, clicking incoherently, a broken husk. Another came. She moved around it like water, striking with ruthless efficiency.
Michael's chest tightened. His pulse spiked.
He wanted to stop, to stare, to be hypnotized by the grace, the dominance. For a moment, the world narrowed to her movements—the sway of her hair, the flick of her blade, the ease with which she dispatched death.
Then something snapped inside him.
This wasn't awe. This wasn't admiration.
This was death. And he didn't belong in it, not by choice.
He tore his gaze away.
Run.
Michael's limbs obeyed without hesitation. He pivoted abruptly, scanning the terrain with rapid, precise movements. The desert stretched infinitely, broken by jagged stone ridges and crystalline fractures. Every shadow might hide a creature. Every sound might signal the end of his life.
He didn't stop to think about the woman. He didn't think about the many cries for help,He didn't care.
She could fight. He could survive.
Survival came first. Always.
A shrill click sounded behind him. Too close. His stomach twisted violently. He lunged forward over jagged sand, scraping his palms but ignoring the sting. The creature that had pursued him pivoted, its segmented limbs slicing through the air, claws narrowly missing his shoulder.
Michael forced his legs to pump faster. Adrenaline burned like fire in his veins, dulling the pain from scratches and bruises. He ducked, rolled, spun, each motion automatic, born of some deep, pre-conscious understanding of movement.
Another shadow darted to the left. A Seeker screamed as a bladed limb tore through them mid-step. Michael's teeth clenched. He didn't pause. He couldn't. Watching death again and again tried to gnaw at his mind, but he shut it down ruthlessly.
This world did not forgive hesitation.
He reached a small ridge of stone jutting from the sand and vaulted over it, tumbling onto the other side. Behind him, the clicking grew frenzied. More creatures were coming. Faster. Sharper. Coordinated.
Michael crouched for a fraction of a heartbeat, scanning quickly.
And then he saw her again.
The same woman. Still isolated. Still moving with lethal grace. She struck and parried, spun and dodged, each action like part of a preordained pattern. One of the creatures lunged at her. She slipped past it, her weapon slicing clean through a limb. Another tried to flank her; she twisted mid-step, blade catching it across the side, sending it collapsing.
For a heartbeat, Michael allowed himself to notice again. Not admiration, not awe—calculation.
She could keep herself alive. That meant she could also serve as a distraction, a moving shield if necessary. Useful.
Then the cold instinct returned, snapping him back.
"Not like this, at least not now" he thought to himself.
The creatures were multiplying. Sand erupted around them as more tore free from beneath the surface. Michael's heart hammered violently. Staying and watching was a death sentence.
He sprinted, dodging low-hanging shards of stone, ducking under jagged outcrops, adjusting his weight instinctively. Every motion screamed urgency. Every breath burned.
The woman followed—or at least, she was moving in the same direction. He didn't look back. He didn't check. Coordination, trust, concern—they were luxuries he could not afford.
A scream rose nearby, sharp and brief. Someone else had been caught. The wet, metallic smell reached Michael's nose. Blood, raw and sweet, coating the sand like a reminder of mortality.
He ignored it.
Not cruelty. Necessity. Survival was a self-centered thing, and he had learned quickly that selflessness was a liability here.
Ahead, the desert changed abruptly. A massive, jagged mountain had appeared, its black spires tearing upward like claws. Michael knew, without doubt, that it had not been there before.
Instinct told him it was a waypoint. A shelter. A trap.
It didn't matter. Survival demanded action.
He lunged toward it, dodging a creature that leapt from the sand, scraping the stone with its bladed limbs. Pain shot across his shoulder, but he forced himself upright.
A narrow gap yawned between two massive slabs of rock—a裂 barely wide enough to squeeze through. It was just large enough.
Michael dove.
Sand and stone scraped his back as he fell into the darkness. Behind him, a creature slammed against the opening, screeching in frustration before retreating. More waited outside, clicking furiously.
He slid down, chest heaving violently, every muscle trembling, sweat and blood drying on his face. His hands clutched the rusted sword like a lifeline, knuckles white.
Then, as if on cue, she slipped in beside him, dust streaked across her face, dark eyes sharp and unbroken.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
Breathing together, backs pressed to the cold stone wall, they waited.
Michael stared into the darkness ahead, thoughts sharpened by fear and instinct. Trust would come later—if ever.
For now, survival was the only law.