The safe house was a far cry from the polished grandeur of the Igan Tower. It was a nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by rusted fences and overgrown weeds. Yet inside, it hummed with urgency—a hidden command center for those who refused to bow to the dynasty's shadow.
Ikris sat at a battered table, the flickering light of a single lamp casting harsh shadows across his face. The wounds from last night's fight throbbed, but his mind was sharper than ever. He spread the files he had copied from the data chip on the table: schematics, reports, photographs—all pieces of a puzzle that painted a terrifying picture.
"This isn't just about me," Ikris said, his voice low but fierce. "It's about every kid they experimented on. Every life they controlled and discarded."
Sevik, cleaning his handgun with precise motions, looked up. "There's a name that keeps popping up. 'Project Ignis.' It was the core of Emberseed—the real origin of the Igan fire lineage."
Lyssa leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Project Ignis was supposed to create the perfect pyrokinetic weapon. But it went sideways. Subjects went rogue, some disappeared, others... died."
Ikris's grip tightened around a photograph showing a young boy engulfed in flames—his own childhood image, distorted by time and pain.
"So I'm the last of them?" Ikris asked.
"Not necessarily," Lyssa said. "There are rumors of others—survivors hidden or on the run."
A sudden buzz interrupted their conversation. Sevik's encrypted phone lit up.
"Movement near the safe house. Possible recon team."
Ikris stood, the weight of the katana on his back grounding him. "Then we don't have much time."
The three moved swiftly through back corridors, emergency plans rehearsed but never welcomed. Outside, rain hammered the cracked pavement, and shadows darted among flickering street lamps.
As they exited the warehouse, a black van screeched to a halt nearby. Doors slammed open, and a squad of operatives spilled out, weapons raised and scanning.
"Hostiles incoming!" Sevik shouted.
Ikris ignited the katana, flames dancing along its edge. His power was raw but controlled—a fiery tempest ready to explode.
Lyssa's breath deepened, summoning swirling gusts of air that whipped rain and debris into a chaotic barrier.
The firefight erupted.
Bullets met flame and wind as the trio fought with precision and desperation. Ikris slashed through armored foes, flames licking and scorching with every sweep. Lyssa's air currents knocked attackers off balance, sending them crashing against walls.
Sevik's shots were deadly accurate, providing cover as they pushed forward.
But the attackers were relentless.
A grenade rolled toward them, smoke hissing from its fuse.
Ikris's eyes widened. Without hesitation, he swung his katana, sending a controlled wave of fire that intercepted the explosion, diverting the blast upward and away.
The flash illuminated the night—an inferno of light and heat against the storm.
Amid the chaos, a figure stepped out from the shadows—a tall man clad in black tactical gear, face concealed behind a sleek helmet.
He moved with purpose, targeting Ikris directly.
"Who are you?" Ikris demanded, voice steady despite the danger.
The figure's voice was distorted but cold. "I am Raze. Your family's reckoning."
Ikris tightened his grip, flames rising. "I won't let you destroy what I am."
Raze charged, weapons blazing.
The duel was fierce. Katana met energy rifle, fire met precision technology. Raze was skilled, but Ikris's flames burned brighter, fueled by rage and survival.
With a final, sweeping strike, Ikris channeled all his power through the katana, sending a torrent of flames that knocked Raze back.
The man crashed into a shipping container, motionless.
Breathing heavily, Ikris turned to Sevik and Lyssa. "This isn't over. Raze was just a warning."
Lyssa nodded. "The deeper you dig, the darker it gets."
Sevik reloaded and scanned the area. "We need to find out who sent him—and why."
Back inside the safe house, as rain battered the windows, Ikris sat alone with the weight of his legacy pressing down.
He pulled out an old, faded photograph—his family, smiling and whole, before everything changed.
His father's voice echoed in his mind: "Power demands sacrifice."
But Ikris had decided.
He would not be a pawn in their game.
He would forge a new legacy—one born not of fear and secrets, but of fire and freedom.
The flame inside him flickered once more, steady and strong.
It was his—and his alone.