The yearning surged through her body so strongly that memories flashed before her eyes unbidden. Elara instantly understood why her body had reacted so violently to the name screamed by that vile man.
Mira. A seven-year-old girl. Her daughter—born out of tragedy.
Seven years ago, while fleeing her homeland, the original Elara encountered a group of drunken men with powerful connections. Knowing her identity made her an easy target for abuse. Helpless and powerless, the rest went without saying. The following morning, taking advantage of their stupor, she escaped further into the unknown.
She dared not inform the officials to seek justice since she was being chased originally by powerful figures affiliated with authorities.. Even if her parents and other important family members were already killed, the pursuit never stopped.
Volkova Clan was doomed. As an innocent lively member of the family, she knew nothing about why her clan was destroyed.
The only reminder that kept her moving was her mother begging to run fast and don't stop.
Perhaps the main perpetrators didn't care about her existence, but those small-time lackeys who liked to flatter for benefits might choose powerless victims like her to gain merits.
Someone who couldn't put up resistance and yet was able to draw the attention of the flatterers was a good deed. Especially the good was priced with beautiful appearance.
By the time her focus on escaping further away dissipated, she realized she felt unwell after crossing the border. One day, the unwellness caused her to vomit and lose consciousness due to the lack of nutrition.
Kind strangers found her and brought her to a rural clinic. That's when the pregnancy was discovered. Upon hearing the news, the original Elara was devastated. She felt her will to live evaporate. A child conceived under such horror? It seemed like fate mocking her.
Fortunately, the nurse and doctor took pity on her and understood her situation more when they discovered she was an illegal migrant. The diagnosis fees were waived, and the kindhearted medical personnel provided a cheap, reliable long-term approach and advice.
They strongly advised against abortion based on the body's physique, and indeed they were right to warn the original body because she was determined to abort, especially a child whose father was unknown and haunted her with traumatic experiences.
Nonetheless, under the doctor's persuasion and her acknowledgment of the preciousness and vulnerability of life, the original body chose to give birth. She regained the fire to live on and persevere. Maybe she had no financial stability, but these kind people supported her faith.
The world consisted of both good and bad people. Just because she had met unlucky ones didn't mean that she should give up. Perhaps her luck soared after experiencing so many misfortunes that little to no obstacles stood in her path. Every problem became easier to solve, at least compared to her past tragic events.
Her child brought great luck and incredibly smoothed her life. Her existence brought her joy and peace. She named the child Mira, three months before birth. Peace and prosperity—that's what she wanted her daughter to embody.
But fate wasn't done playing games. Mira was born blind. And within a year, she was diagnosed with leukemia.
No parent wishes for an impaired child. But the original Elara never abandoned Mira. She took on multiple jobs, hustled relentlessly, and funneled every cent into her daughter's care.
Since the original body decided to give birth, she would take responsibility to the end. It was natural as a mother.
Her determination allowed Mira to live to age seven.
Elara now understood why the original host had been so desperate for money. Why she never complained. Why she seemed so hardened. Why she juggled so many jobs. Not bother about shame or face so long as she obtained money.
No wonder the earned money burned quickly.
The child had been her everything.
The child's weak physique, as well as the condition during regular treatment and early maturity from probably understanding her mother's predicament, were pitiful.
The daughter never once complained or acted spoiled like other normal kids. Although the original body knew her daughter was clever, she wished the kid had grown up like others.
'Oh, Elara in this universe is a pitiful person. It's totally in contrast with me, swinging guns and kicking doors,' Elara muttered. 'Although I can understand her life experience creates obstacles, this is too much, right?'
[Actually, Elara Volkova in this world is another version of you. A parallel world existence.]
'Wait, what? Is that supposed to mean that I'm so miserable here?' Elara could never believe her version was so outrageous.
[Correct.]
Elara's heart skipped. 'Well, if that's the case, where did the original body go?'
Elara panicked as she recalled that transmigrators usually possessed the body when the original spirit dissipated or through consuming it into their own.
The former, despite feeling sad, was acceptable. The latter was totally frowned upon. She didn't want to become someone who cannibalized her other version to survive because she knew she didn't need it.
Of course, she wouldn't be hypocritical and say she didn't want to survive in the worst-case scenario, but currently, if she consumed her by mistake, she would feel guilty.
[Please don't worry. The original soul has fused with you.]
'Then, wouldn't I have swallowed her and killed her indirectly?' Elara complained.
[Negative. Since your existence is probably beyond four dimensions or higher, she is just a part of you. It's like a branch returning to its root, the origin.]
'Understood,' Elara didn't need further clarification.
So long as she didn't kill her directly, she felt no pressure. The version of herself in this universe was too tragic. As for why her memory wasn't recalled yet, important matters grabbed her focus. As a higher-dimensional being, it was easy to sift through past histories, provided she was willing to do so.
In the current dilemma of escape and fight, Elara really had no time. Not even to lament that she had an additional daughter all of a sudden to parent.
Of course, Elara was pissed off by the scumbag's threat. Now, she hadn't had the opportunity to care for her daughter in this new world, and somebody planned to lay hands on her cutie.
Even if she had yet to meet Mira, all those flashing memories had solidified her love. This bastard wanted more leverage about the police chief, but the original Elara dared not compromise.
Her daughter was the only hope. Perhaps the police chief might look up to her loyalty and take care of the child. Now, she had the power to flip the table. Having discussed it with the Crisis Response System, she could treat her child in the future when the system regained energy.
Elara sneered and shook her head at the original's extravagant hope. Depending on others would never end well, but she still admired the predecessor for not giving up.
While she communicated back and forth numerous times with the system, time ticked by no more than a few seconds.
The scurrying scratches of clothes captured Elara's eyes. The man shuffled backward as if trying to create distance, while his eyes regularly peeked at the cupboard multiple times.
Snap!
"Offft!"
The man crumbled as he covered his crotch. Elara shook her bare feet in disgust and strode in the direction where the man had looked.
She snickered when he tried to crawl in panic.
"How dare you mention my daughter?"
The child had been her everything. He was perplexed as to why his words no longer threatened the woman. He thought he had captured her weak point. This woman had changed too much. No, he couldn't allow the woman to reach it.
Sure enough, Elara smiled and pulled open the drawer from the short cupboard. Inside, there was a pistol and a single magazine.
Colt M1911 pistol.
A classic beauty. Reliable. Brutal. Timeless. Lived since the 20th century. Elara marveled at the masterpiece and gasped satisfactorily as she studied both sides.
Ignoring the man's frustrated shout, she punched in the magazine, cocked the weapon, pushed the safety button off, and aimed at him.
The man froze, forgetting the agonizing pain in his groin as his heart thudded from the closeness of death.
Elara's killing intent overflow like the vast sea but it quickly receded as she engaged the safety and put the firearm on the cupboard.
Elara swallowed. The heartbeat inside her wasn't hers alone. Somewhere in the silence of her mind, the original Elara had whispered: "Protect her."
Killing him was easy but to take care of everything and parent Mira was far more crucial. Her daughter needed her more; so, she must ensure that her return was foul proof.
"Forget it, I don't want to make too much noise," said Elara.
The man instantly collapsed and sighed with joy from survival. He now could fathom the state of mind of those being pointed at by the gun.
The reason Elara didn't squeeze the trigger was the complications that could result from her impulse.
Intelligence.
She had no idea apart from roughly being kidnapped by a hostile gang. No numbers, no equipment, none.
Acting without intelligence was far scarier, and Elara felt the caution deeply. Usually, gangs thrived with simple weapons like sticks, knives, and machetes. The worst case was being armed with firearms. However, most gangs only had leader figures wielding firearms.
The presence of a Colt pistol increased the chances of the availability of firearms among other members, as well as the danger level. After all, guns could be attributed to the mafia and cartels in the worst case. Thinking of such bad notions, Elara cursed bitterly.
Firing a gun sounded stupid; it would alert others and ruin her escape. Glancing at the frightened man, Elara suddenly smiled. Based on the respect from his bodyguards, this man's level must be very high—he could even be the head of the gang, based on how he spoke about her police chief.
Elara searched the room amidst the puzzled eyes of the frail man. She took out several shiny handcuffs and chuckled. Her laughter caused the man to shiver. His bad premonition was confirmed when Elara locked his wrists behind him, and with a snap, his upper body lost control, wiggling like a snake on the cold floor as he struggled.
To guard against any mishaps, she also secured the two female guards sprawled unconscious. She had undressed one of them; now, she stripped another and wore her clothes. Not everything, but the windbreaker to cover up.
Actually, she didn't care too much about revealing her bare skin, but somehow, her craving inside wanted a cover-up.
Afterward, Elara grabbed all the weapons she found: an L-shaped baton, or side handle baton, as well as the stun baton with an electric shock function. These two sticks stayed close to her waist through the windbreaker belt.
Naturally, the handgun was holstered in a shoulder style, with the belt wrapped around her body. The holster was placed in the same drawer where she had taken out the gun.
Lifting the powerless man by his wrist, Elara pushed him out of the door after unlocking it.
Then, she paused.
There was a pair of two confused men, their expressions hurried and nervous while stunned, apparently not expecting to see her soon.
"What a surprise."
Elara blinked mockingly and hurled her captive toward the approaching duo.
The man crashed into them, sending the pair scrambling to catch him in a panic. Elara surged forward, stomping down hard on one of them mid-reaction.
Using the momentum, she spun and delivered a roundhouse kick to the second man — the one still partially entangled with her hostage.
He staggered back. Elara didn't let up.
In one fluid motion, she extended the L-shaped baton from her waist and gripped it in a reverse hold by the short side handle. The longer length lay flush against her forearm, only a few inches protruding past her elbow.
She slammed the short end into his neck, then swung her arm sideways. The baton's length cracked against his temple — he dropped like a sack.
Pivoting on her heel, Elara used her spin's leftover force to grip the baton's short end with the other hand and hammer the other man — the one she had stomped — square on the head.
Plop.
Both collapsed in a heap.
Elara didn't even break a sweat. She flipped the baton again into a reverse hold and used its short end to hook under her hostage's armpit, yanking him upright.
The man — her torturer — stared at her in horror.
If she was this dangerous… why had she been captured so easily?
"Move—unless you want your head decorating the floor like theirs," Elara growled, shoving the hostage forward and storming ahead without sparing him a glance.
He stumbled along, stunned, breathless.
She didn't care. Maybe dragging this bastard was a mistake—dead weight in enemy territory—but she didn't know the way out, and she didn't trust any of these bastards enough to stop moving. He was her unwilling compass, and her meat shield.
Footsteps thundered down the stairwell.
"Suka... they coming for you?" she asked without slowing. "How the hell do they already know I escaped?"
No answer.
She glanced down—his head lowered, shoulders trembling.
He was laughing.
Cocky. Confident. Arrogant to the end.
He thought she'd lose grip eventually.
"Keep dreaming," she hissed through her teeth.
Then, the threat appeared.
Three figures. Two women. One man.
No weapons drawn. Sprinting, breathing heavy. They'd come fast—too fast. That meant one thing.
He mattered. Enough to trigger panic.
She didn't hesitate.
Elara hurled her hostage like garbage straight into them.
The man crashed into the trio like a wrecking ball. They shouted, arms reaching, instinctively trying to protect him—exactly what she wanted. Their formation broke instantly.
She was already moving.
Elara blitzed the first woman—arm up, baton low—parried a wild elbow, slammed her forearm into the woman's throat, pinning her to the wall with crushing pressure. Then—
Thwack. Thwack.
Two knifehand chops—windpipe. Draining all the air.
The woman gagged violently, knees buckling as she slid down the wall, face slack and breathless.
She pivoted instinctively.
The man lunged in, punch cocked.
Elara intercepted the blow with the long arc of her L-baton, absorbing the hit with a metallic clang, then rebounded with a brutal horizontal strike at his abdomen and another smack across his face.
Crack.
He staggered; his upper body crunched.
Her baton mimicked her elbow and fist—two strikes, one weapon.
She snapped a low kick into his knee, making him buckle.
He dropped. She timed it.
Thwump.
Her knee smashed into his skull. Lights out.
Before his body fully collapsed, Elara chambered her next kick from kneeing and backward-struck her heel straight into the throat of the first woman trying to stand back up.
She dropped like a ragdoll.
Two down. One left.
The third woman had just recovered the hostage from his fall, panic beginning to claw at her eyes. She hadn't expected her teammates to fall so fast.
Too late to retreat.
She shouted, snapping open an expandable baton, charging.
Elara didn't flinch.
She stepped in, angled her own baton so the opponent's swing glided harmlessly across the extended length—nullifying the momentum entirely.
The woman's guard flared open.
Elara's hand snapped forward—grabbing the back of the neck, lifting her slightly off balance.
Thud. Thud.
Two knees to the gut. Then—
Bang.
She slammed the woman into the wall.
Before the enemy could crumple, Elara's elbow cracked across her cheek, then the metal protrusion of her L-baton kissed her jaw with a final blow.
Spatter.
Blood painted the wall. The woman slid down, unconscious, lips torn open and twitching.
Elara exhaled slowly.
Three enemies.
Fifteen seconds.
The hallway was still. Her hostage moaned nearby, face scraped and dazed.
"Yeah," she muttered, flexing her hand around the baton. "You've got friends. Pity none of them are useful."
Then she pulled him upright again, reset her grip, and kept moving.
The trio before did launch meaningful combo and defensive techniques but Elara solved them easily with calculated fluid steps.
Nothing noticeable since even the criminal gangs consisted of several practitioners in their ranks.