Chapter 106
KASSARA
IAM emerged from the bathroom, the warm mist of the shower still clinging faintly to the air behind him. His skin was fresh, his hair hidden beneath a bonnet. He wore a plain white top and black shorts that hung lightly on his frame, and his feet were bare against the cold , polished floor. With no rush, he walked forward, his pace casual and natural—then let himself collapse onto the couch with a dull, satisfying thud.
A satisfied sigh left his lips.
He didn't move. He simply laid there, his body sinking into the cushions, one arm draped across the top of the couch, the other resting loosely at his side. His eyes rose to the ceiling.
His eyes tracing invisible lines across the white ceiling above. His expression gave nothing away—blank, unreadable, as though he were both entirely present and yet far away. He stayed like that, unmoving.
A long, motionless pause filled the room. A moment of silence that was neither peaceful nor heavy.
Then, as if making a reluctant decision, IAM exhaled again, this time deeper, wearier. He leaned forward slowly, reaching out with one arm and dragging the suitcase across the table toward him. He did not open it immediately. He stared at it.
Then, with a flick of his thumb and fingers, the lock clicked open.
The sound echoed faintly in the quiet room.
He lifted the lid.
The first thing his eyes landed on was a small book. Plain, slightly creased at the corners. He picked it up carefully, flipping it over in his hands. It was an instruction manual—for his mech.
Of course.
But before he could open it, something fluttered out from between the pages and floated downward like a falling leaf. It landed on the floor. IAM's eyes followed it, his body frozen for a moment.
Then, with cautious movements, he bent down and picked it up. It was a small piece of paper.
A letter.
There was just one sentence.
"I heard of your situation and made sure to take extra care of it."
—From dg.
IAM stared at the signature.
Dg?
Initials, probably. That was all he could assume.
Still, the message was clear. Whoever "dg" was, they had handled this personally. IAM read it again.
"Extra care."
A quiet hope stirred in his chest. I hope he did the thing I asked properly...
He folded the letter, placed it gently to the side along with the manual, and looked back into the suitcase.
A slightly surprised expression crept across his face.
The mech inside was both familiar and alien.
Like seeing an old friend dressed for war. The frame was mostly the same—sleek, strong, built with a silhouette that still similar to a Glock 18—but now... now it had changed. Not transformed completely, but it was perfected.
The barrel, for one, had been extended even more than before. A standard Glock 18's barrel was 4.49 inches. His now measured 5.5 inches. The difference was small in appearance but massive in performance. That extra inch offered more velocity, more control, and greater stability during full-auto bursts.
The kind of stability would help IAM greatly.
It allowed it the kind of precision that made death seem beautiful.
Mounted at the end was a compensator—designed to reduce recoil. Especially during full-auto fire, the compensator would help tame the beast, allowing IAM to keep control, even in the most violent exchanges. It would let him fire with accuracy… and ruthlessness.
Attached on top was a micro red dot sight, a MRDS, the kind that could be turned on or off as needed. Perfect for when he would need stealth.
And when needed it would be a surgeon's scalpel for the battlefield.
The grip was stippled, custom-textured for his hand, It would never slip, even under sweat or blood. It had an undercut trigger guard—an elegant modification that allows a higher grip and greater recoil control.
There was also an ambidextrous selector: a switch that could flip between semi and full auto. One side for control. One side for rage.
A weapon with two faces.
A deep gray Cerakote finish covered the body like armor, cool and matte, reflecting almost no light. It wasn't supposed to enhance it's functionality, it just to look cooler.
The trigger was flat-faced—but near its center, a tiny red needle glimmered. IAM could infuse it with mana, empowering each bullet that was fired.
He had always thought his mech looked beautiful.
But now—now it was something else.
It was death dressed in steel.
A goddess cloaked and reborn in violence.
He reached for it slowly, almost reverently. His fingers closed around the grip. It was still a perfect fit. Like it had always belonged to him, like it had been carved out of destiny itself.
As he held it, a wave passed through him. He looked down, his eyes intense, and traced his gaze along the slide of the gun.
And there, etched in gold—was the custom engraving.
The words he had chosen. The one phrase that had come to define all that he was. Or would be.
He read them.
"To those who rest, I am peace. To those who run, I am End."
He didn't know where those words had come from. Not really. Maybe a dream. Maybe a memory. When he looked back—through all the pain, all the madness, all the blood—they were the only words that ever made sense.
Just below the inscription, etched in the same gold, was a name. The name.
It was no longer unnamed. No longer just "his mech."
The name he had chosen. Was...
KASSARA.
It meant to break.
Not simply to destroy. Not simply to kill.
But to undo.
The breaking of what holds.
The end of what lingers.
The release of what must fall.
KASSARA was not just a weapon. It was a philosophy. A purpose. It existed not to conquer—but to end the things that chained.
The grudges.
The pride.
The pain.
The invisible binds people carried in silence.
The truths too heavy to speak.
The burdens too deep to lift.
KASSARA would strike, and when it struck—it would undo.
That was why he had named it so. That was the meaning behind every letter of its name.
Because this weapon would not just kill.
It would unmake.
IAM held it tighter, the frame cold in his palm, yet warmer than anything he had touched in days.
He stared at it.
With KASSARA, he would undo.
The circle of the acursed.
The secrets, the mysteries.
All of it.
IAM did not speak. He did not have to.
Carved into steel. Etched into gold. Burned into his soul.
He had already sworn it.
With KASSARA, he would undo.