The first thing Cyclone noticed was the smell.
Damp earth. Rotting stone. A strange chemical tang that clung to the back of his throat. He opened his eyes slowly, vision swimming, darkness pressing in from every side. For a few long seconds, he didn't move. His mind was a haze of disjointed memories—flashes of the dimensional rift tearing them apart, Boboiboy's face as he let them go, and the sound of rushing winds as his essence was flung across space and time.
Then it came back to him, clear and resonant like a voice carried by the storm.
"Live a life that belongs to you."
Boboiboy's last message. Their parting moment. The decision to separate.
Cyclone exhaled slowly, centering himself. He pressed his palm to the dirt beneath him and felt it: the rush of Tempest power still thrumming in his body, surging through every cell. The elemental energy of wind and storms was still there—untamed, alive, ready to erupt at a thought. His body felt lighter than air, the currents around him almost responding to his breathing.
He wasn't dead.
He wasn't powerless.
He was somewhere new.
Pushing his hands against the ground, Cyclone launched upward in a sudden burst of swirling air. The earth gave way beneath him, and in a single motion, he shot up through the narrow shaft that had entombed him, bursting out of the ground in a swirl of dust and debris.
He landed lightly on cracked pavement.
The world he emerged into was… broken.
The sky was a permanent gray, clouds hanging low and heavy like a shroud. Buildings stood half-collapsed, their windows shattered, their walls scarred by fire and age. Rusted cars sat abandoned in the streets, some overturned, some burned to twisted metal. The air was thick, still, as if the wind itself had died.
And in the distance, he saw movement.
A group of six people was under attack.
Dozens of humanoid figures, gray-skinned and jerky in their movements, were swarming toward them. Zombies. Their eyes were hollow, their mouths twisted into eternal hunger. The group fought desperately—one man with long, curved claws sprouting from his hands slashed through the undead like an animal, while two enormous twins, each as big as a small house, swung chunks of debris like clubs. The remaining three—two women and a man—used scavenged weapons: pipes, knives, anything they could find.
Cyclone narrowed his eyes. If he wanted to understand this world, this group could be a good starting point. And besides, watching them struggle stirred something instinctive inside him.
He stepped forward.
The air shifted.
Without a sound, he disappeared into a blur of motion. The zombies closest to him exploded backward, torn apart by slicing gusts. He weaved through them like a phantom, each movement precise, efficient, his strikes more like razor-edged winds than physical blows. Within moments, the horde was scattered, their numbers halved before the others even realized what had happened.
The clawed man froze mid-swipe. The twins paused. The three with primitive weapons stared wide-eyed.
The zombies were gone.
Cyclone stood a few paces away, wind swirling faintly around his feet, his expression unreadable.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the twins demanded, voice booming.
He hesitated. In that moment, memories of the rift returned again. Boboiboy's last words. His own decision. A new life.
He needed a name. A story.
"I… don't remember," he said slowly, adopting a tone of confusion. "I woke up in a hole underground. Crawled out. That's all."
The group exchanged wary glances.
The clawed man stepped forward. His face was weathered, eyes sharp with suspicion but not hostility. "You've got skills," he said. "And that wind trick—haven't seen anything like it in years. You sure you're not one of those awakened?"
"Awakened?" Cyclone repeated, feigning ignorance.
The man sighed. "You really don't know. Fine. Ten years ago, the Necrolife Virus broke out. Spread like wildfire. Eighty percent of humanity turned into those things you just helped us kill. The rest of us were either immune… or mutated. Some of us got lucky. Developed powers." He flexed his clawed hands. "Name's Jace. I lead this group."
Cyclone nodded slowly. "Call me… Noctus," he said, picking the name instinctively.
Jace raised a brow. "Noctus, huh? Fine. You helped us, so I'll give you a choice. You can join us. Safety in numbers. Or you can go your own way. But out here, loners don't last long."
Noctus glanced around. The world was clearly dangerous, and while he could survive alone, information was something he lacked. And this group clearly had knowledge of the land.
"I'll join," he said.
Jace nodded curtly. "Good. We're heading to find shelter before nightfall."
The group moved quickly, Noctus blending into their formation with practiced ease. Over the next hours, he observed them carefully. Jace was the leader, experienced and decisive. The twins—Bram and Boro—were simple but loyal, using their massive strength to defend the group. The three others, Mina, Celia, and Ken, were scavengers, quick and resourceful despite lacking powers.
They eventually stumbled upon an abandoned military base on the outskirts of the ruined city. Overgrown with weeds and rust, it still bore the remnants of its former might: reinforced walls, barracks, and armories.
"Jackpot," Mina whispered.
They broke through the outer gates and began exploring. Inside, they found caches of old firearms, boxes of ammunition, even some military rations still sealed. Spirits lifted for the first time in days.
But as they moved deeper into the base, voices echoed from the shadows.
"Put down the weapons," a rough voice barked.
From the darkness emerged another group—seven or eight people, all armed, their expressions hard. Their clothing and bearing made it clear they were experienced survivors.
Jace raised his claws, the twins tensed, the others gripped their weapons tighter.
A tense silence stretched between the two groups.
Then, suddenly, a blast of wind knocked several of the hostile group members off their feet.
Noctus froze. That wasn't him.
From behind the other group, a figure stepped forward—a girl, slender and pale, with silver hair cut short and cold blue eyes. The air around her shimmered with a subtle, controlled wind current.
"Artemis," one of the men behind her muttered nervously.
She ignored him, stepping forward. "Apologies," she said calmly. "My teammates were overzealous. We didn't mean to provoke."
Noctus studied her carefully. He could feel it—the resonance. The wind she commanded wasn't just similar to his own; it was in sync. Tempest recognized Tempest.
Before he could speak, a loud klaxon blared through the base.
"Zombies!" Ken shouted from a lookout post. "A massive horde—heading straight here!"
Artemis turned sharply toward her group. "Positions! Now!"
Noctus moved just as fast. "Block the entrances! Barricades!"
The two leaders barked orders simultaneously, their groups snapping into action. Despite their earlier hostility, survival came first. Soldiers and scavengers moved side by side, dragging crates, welding doors, preparing for the inevitable.
In the brief lull before the attack, Artemis and Noctus found themselves standing near each other, watching the main gate. Their eyes met. Neither spoke, but something passed between them—recognition, perhaps. Understanding.
Then the gate buckled.
The iron doors blew inward as the zombie horde slammed against them. Dozens, hundreds, pouring through the gaps. The defenders roared and met them head-on.
Noctus dove into the fray, wind swirling around him like a cyclone, tearing through undead ranks with surgical precision. Artemis fought nearby, her movements a stark contrast—sharp, cold, calculated, each gust of wind slicing like a blade.
The two groups fought as if this were their last stand. Gunfire echoed. Claws slashed. The twins smashed through waves of zombies. Mina and Celia darted between foes, stabbing and distracting.
Then it came.
A mutant zombie, faster than the rest, blurred through the chaos like a bullet. It leapt toward Mina, claws extended.
Noctus reacted instantly, launching a tornado blast.
At the same moment, Artemis unleashed her own wind strike.
Their attacks collided—not in conflict, but in perfect harmony. The twin tornadoes merged into a single roaring vortex that caught the mutant mid-leap and hurled it backward into a cluster of its own kind.
The two of them exchanged a brief glance, both surprised. There was something there, an unspoken connection that neither could fully explain.
But there was no time to dwell.
The horde was still coming.
Noctus and Artemis turned back to the battle, wind swirling around them like twin storms, ready to unleash hell upon the undead.
The night was far from over.