"Bahhhhh!!!" said Rudra, throwing out his hand as if he was waiting for the world to erupt in light and energies.
Nothing occurred.
The bus swayed, passengers shrieked, and Rudra remained statue-still mid-pose, eyeballing wide-faced frights back at him. His ears felt hot. ".Sorry," he said embarrassedly, ruffling a hand through the back of his neck. "Still very inexperienced at this. Only been doing it for. uh. a month and a half.
Rather than limit his losses, he doubled down. He folded his fists, bent his knees in a crouch, and started throwing himself into dramatic poses as if he was a kid who was replaying Saturday morning cartoons.
"It's Morbin' time!" he exclaimed, breaking out.
{"....."}
Flame On!" he exclaimed, waving his hand back and forth over his chest.
{"..."}
"KAMEN RIDER ZETA!!!" he exclaimed, adopting a sideways kick position.
{"..."}
"PERSONAAAAA!!!" His voice reached a screeching pitch, quivering in exertion.
{"....."}
"BHAIRAVA,SPOT ON!!!!" he hollered, pounding a chest as if he was expecting an explosion to erupt out from somewhere behind him.
{".Tumhe pata hai,"} His voice echoed in his skull, filled to bursting with deadpan incredulity, {"ye bakchodi karne ke bina bhi to change
(You know you can morph without doing this shit, right?)
The silence was blinding. Each patron in the bus was gawking—mouths open, eyes wide, a few frozen in horror and unable to scream. Another student held fast to his Solid Snake action figure, mouthing a prayer.
Rudra, suspended in mid-position, blinked.
The bus shook as dragon's coils crashed against bridge, its scales blazing liquid greens and golds like jewels. The screams within reached a fever pitch—mothers covering children, aged men gripping seats, the entranced driver slack-jawed and incompetent.
Come on, come on! Brown Power Ranger, if you're going to do anything, this is when!" the same boy shouted, voice trembling in a panic-bravado.
Rudra whipped his head around, glaring down at him, eyes narrowing. "Hey!!" he snapped, almost more offended at the nickname than the monster trying to kill them all. His gaze swept the bus—pale faces, wide eyes, desperate hope hanging on him. He clicked his tongue, lips pressed tight, then turned back toward the window. The serpent's massive head was sliding closer, gleaming fangs opening like gates to the underworld.
Rudra's jaw set. His eyes darted to the driver, who was still glassy-eyed and motionless in the car. He chewed hard at his lower lip, breaking blood.
[X] Draw Crimson Ace and battle
[Y] Take control and steer
[B] Try to awaken the driver
[A] Do nothing
He had a choice.
And he hated it.
[X is Chosen]
Good," he finally growled, shutting his eyes. The whole bus was holding its collective breath.
From the left pocket of his jeans, a glow started to creep out--red, hot, throbbing like a heartbeat. The boy from before leaned in, his shaking hands clutched the seat in front of him. His eyes went wide as the glow took definition, bleeding through fabric till it burned against cloth like hot coal.
Then he saw it.
Sliding up like it had been waiting all along, a card—sleek, sharp-edged, its black face etched with strange runes—surfaced from Rudra's pocket. And there, at its center, glimmering with a dark fire, was the unmistakable emblem: the Ace of Spades.
The boy's mouth fell wide open. "What… the hell is that?"
The blood-red light flashed, synchronizing to Rudra's heartbeat as he reached toward it.
The card burst into crimson fire, erupting with a deafening crack. The whole bus was swallowed in flame so hot and sudden that every passenger screamed, clutching loved ones, shielding their faces, convinced their flesh was about to blister and peel away.
But the heat never burned them.
Instead, the fire curled around their bodies harmlessly, a living thing that licked at their clothes and skin like a phantom wind. When it receded, gasps of disbelief filled the air—not a single passenger was touched, not even a hair singed.
All eyes turned forward.
Rudra now stood in the aisle, taller than before, posture sharp, presence heavy as if the flames had reforged him. The dazed boy who staggered through Seoul's streets was gone—what remained was something far more dangerous.
His attire had been turned into a sharp uniform: a dark red blazer tapered to suit his body, the chest emblazoned with a golden ace sigil which reflected the shine of the bridge's shattered neon lights. Underneath it, a clean white shirt shone, collar stiffened, secured by a dark green tie which bore the same golden emblem sewn along its edge.
Around his middle, a black belt carried a bird sigil in radiant gold, wings spread as though about to fly. His legs were covered with clean black trousers, the material spotless and pressed as though he'd stepped out from another realm altogether. On his feet—polished black leather shoes, sharp and shiny, the type worn not for fighting, but for ceremonies, conferences, or bashes.
The change radiated an atmosphere that pushed against the lungs of the passengers, half-frightening, half-protective. He resembled a student but a soldier too. A child, yet something mythic.
Rudra's lids came up slow, slow, until his eyes found the creature thrashing beyond the windows of the bus. The pupils which had a while before been earthy brown now blazed crimson, molten and alive, the same color as the fire which had consumed the card and dressed him all over again. His irises blazed softly, as if fire itself had taken up residence in his skull and now regarded the world through his eyes.
The serpent-dragon coiled across the bridge, its scales shining in changing rainbows—greens dissolved into golds, reds into cobalt, and colors glided across its form like oil on water. Its bellow shook the glass windows of the bus, vibrating the steel frame, but in that tremor, Rudra remained fixed, unshaken, his measured breath, his scarlet stare pinning the beast as if challenging it to come closer.
Rudra's jaw set hard as his breath clouded the glass in front of him. The scarlet light in his eyes narrowed, intent not on the rainbow glimmer of the dragon's scales but on the dark, primeval depth of its eyes.
Each of its scales along its length quivered with unnatural loveliness—broad bands of turquoise, gold, violet, and silver that seemed to move of their own will as if each one held a piece of sky captured in stone. To anyone else, it was unresistable, hypnotic, a living weave consumed by thought. But Rudra braced himself against it, focusing instead on those huge black eyes outlined with molten amber.
The bus lurched brutally as the creature's gigantic form scraped the bridge. Glass shattered in fine spiderwebs across the windows, passengers screaming. A man clawed at the emergency door; another covered his child's eyes. The trance-like pulse within the scales pulled at their brains—some of the passengers were already swaying, speaking half-conceived prayers, under its influence.
{"Rudra"} Bhairava's voice hammered harder, now an urgent, bony crunch of iron.
{"Uski Aankh problem nahi hai, uske scales hai"}
("The eyes aren't the problem; the scales of that thing is doing the hypnotism.")
Udra's jaw clamped hard, breath hissing between his teeth. He leaned back on one shoulder, his eyes fixed on the serpent's huge golden eyes, vertical pupils, molten as smelted ore. His gut revolted at the enormity of them, but he struggled to stare beyond the glinting scales.
"Well then I'll be damned," he muttered, half to himself, half to Bhairava. "Gotta stare the bastard in the eyes and not blink at the disco-ball hide. Can't trust danger sense to bail me out again."
The bus creaked under the dragon's weight as a section of its long body rubbed against the guardrails. The bridge rocked. One of the children whimpered. Rudra rolled his shoulders back, the scarlet gleam in his irises burning brighter as if the fire within him burned hotter the longer he didn't turn away.
The bus erupted into chaos, passengers screaming, pointing, and ducking, but Rudra didn't move an inch. He stood rigid, eyes fixed on the serpent-dragon, the crimson fire in his gaze matching the heat of the card's flames that had summoned this moment.
"YOU ARE A HUNTE—" someone yelled, but Rudra cut them off sharply.
"Shut up and look at his eyes," he said, voice low and commanding, almost carrying over the cacophony of panic.
The bus shook as the dragon's massive head pressed closer to the windshield, nostrils flaring, scales glittering like molten metal. People panicked, waving their hands, yelling for him to move, to do something. But Rudra remained still, almost statuesque, his body taut, radiating an almost unbearable intensity.
The kid who had called him Brown Power Ranger felt a chill run down his spine, staring at the boy whose calm defiance seemed to warp the air around him. Something clicked in his mind, an understanding he couldn't yet voice.
Then, with a sharp zip, Rudra vanished. Glass exploded outward as he lunged through the windshield, shards flying in every direction. He landed with precision, stepping on the jagged glass of his own lounge while on air without hesitation, each movement fluid, predatory.
In a single movement, he dove into the dragon's open jaws, engulfed by the blackness in its cavernous teeth. Within, flame and scale rubbed against him like a living furnace. Rudra moved with intent, arms reaching out, legs driving in, and then—he emerged through the beast's back in a crimson flash, scales shattering around him.
Carried in the palm of his hand as he touched down on the dragon's back was a black revolver, inscribed with runes and imbued with a soft crimson aura that harmonized with his own eyes. The snake hissed, writhing in mid-air, but Rudra didn't bat an eyelid. He brought the gun up, crimson flames dancing at its sides, and for the first time ever, the passengers understood—they were seeing a predator hunt a predator, a monster among monsters.
The bus jolted abruptly as the driver's faculties snapped back, eyes staring in pure panic at the bedlam outside. The road disappeared beneath the sheer weight of the dragon's crashed body, and with a shrieking crunch of tires, he stamped the brakes in terror. The bus fishtailed, skidding wildly, and in a ghastly moment, it shot into the air.
Rudra's scarlet eyes followed each minute detail, seconds slowing into an eon as the bus whizzed past his head. Time warped at his command. He probed his awareness in a ten-meter circle, slowing the world, stretching the plummet into forever. Passengers and bits of glass suspended mid-air, screams distorted into a wailing whine of fear.
His instincts were screaming—someone was approaching.
"Jalhaess-eo… kkomaya," he whispered to himself, voice rough, eyes squinting.
("Good job…Kid.")
Within the bus, gliding in impossible slow motion, the child's wide eyes locked with Rudra's as he saw a figure move towards him—a presence intentional, unflappable, impossibly precise. Rudra's head canted slightly, tracking the figure's course even as the bus was suspended in chaos.
"Kim Han Jhoonghyuk," he muttered to himself, recognition threading into the tightness, the name a warning of coming confrontation. The world around them continued to be taut, each heartbeat resonating as a drum, every plummeting shard suspended, waiting for the inevitable collision.