The footsteps of Hastur and Efa echoed through the tunnel, blending with the faint hum of distorted music.
From the speakers above, the singer's voice kept chanting his warped refrain.
The emergency panels flashed the countdown: 1 hour and 37 minutes before gas release.
— "There! Got it!" Hastur shouted.
— "I've located Sakurai! But…" His brow furrowed.
— "No signal from Ban. The area he's in turned into an actual North Pole. Lilith can't reach him."
Efa, panting, shot back:
— "Great. So we've found half the team."
Hastur ignored her sarcasm and focused.
He pressed two fingers to his temple.
Lilith's wings shimmered, and a faint golden light spread through the tunnels — reaching all the way to Arata.
— "Sakurai, can you hear me?"
— "Hastur?! Is that you?! What, are you a telepath now?!"
— "No, idiot. I'm speaking through Lilith — that little dragonfly following you."
Arata spun around and spotted the glowing insect fluttering near his shoulder.
Despite his exhaustion, he managed a grin.
— "Oh, that's awesome! So we can actually have familiars in this world!"
A short silence, then he burst out laughing.
— "Dibs on MAHORAGA!"
From the other end of the network, Hastur sighed.
— "We're literally trying to escape death, and you're thinking about making a summoning pact…"
— "Well yeah! Gotta keep the faith, right?" Arata replied, tightening his grip on the boy clinging to his back.
He kept running, his breathing ragged.
The hero's laughter echoed through the tunnels — soon drowned by the singer's voice:
> 20th Century Toy,
I wanna be your boy…
Arata: — "By the way, Hastur… I've got a kid here who lost his parents. Can you locate them for me?"
Hastur: — "Wait a second…" (He tapped glowing symbols projected by Lilith.)
"…That's strange. There are mostly homeless people here. I know this underground network, and I've never heard of any family living here."
Arata: — "Maybe he just fell down by accident and got stuck.
If that's the case, we've got to get him to the train — somewhere safe."
Hastur: — "Got it."
Before Arata's eyes, Lilith vibrated and split into a translucent duplicate, darting forward and disappearing into the darkness.
Hastur: — "Analysis complete. Keep going straight, then turn left at the third junction.
We'll meet there."
Before he could say another word, a shadow leapt from the darkness.
A fist slammed into his jaw, golden sparks bursting at the impact.
??? : — "Target located."
Hastur staggered back, eyes wide.
Blood trickled from the corner of his lips — and he smirked bitterly.
— "Jackal…"
The air vibrated.
The wet floor echoed with droplets, sounding like heartbeats.
The flickering neon lights drew dancing shadows along the tunnel walls — madness itself in motion.
Hastur stood again, a thin line of blood trailing down his temple.
His opponent approached — bare shoulders, chest covered in old scars, one arm bent at a grotesque angle.
And yet, he walked as if nothing was wrong.
> — Target located.
— Execution authorized.
His voice was distorted, filtered through something metallic.
Hastur's cold smile returned.
> — "What a bad joke… Your arm should be hanging like a rope.
You're still moving — can't you feel anything?"
The man raised his head.
Those weren't a soldier's eyes — they were a fanatic's.
> — "Pain doesn't exist.
There is only determination."
---
The strike came fast — brutal.
Hastur sidestepped, but the gust alone cut his cheek open.
He stepped back, analyzing every motion, every breath, every twitch of muscle.
> Analysis: Speed 6.2. Power 8.9.
Fighting style: Distorted Kung-Fu. Flow irregular.
Recording: Initiated.
A golden halo pulsed briefly in Hastur's eyes — Recording activated.
His opponent roared, striking with his broken arm.
The cracking sound was sickening — yet he didn't stop.
Each punch thundered like a war drum.
Hastur parried, countered, slid under the next blow, and placed two fingers to the ground.
> — "Copy: Deviant Shaolin Style."
His movements shifted — smoother, sharper.
He intercepted a punch, swept the enemy's legs, and hit his ribs with surgical precision.
The shockwave bent the metal wall.
The man stepped back, panting — then laughed.
> — "You're mimicking me, blondie?
You copy… but you don't feel."
---
Hastur's expression didn't change.
His eyes gleamed — emerald, then gold.
> — "To feel is to limit yourself.
Emotions are parasites in the art of combat."
The man spat blood, smiling madly.
> — "Wrong.
Pain is proof you're alive!
Determination — that's what you lack, you perfect little doll!"
He charged again.
Hastur copied him instantly.
The two bodies collided — fist against fist, foot against foot — like distorted reflections of one another.
The entire tunnel trembled under the rhythm.
With each impact, Hastur recorded.
Every move became his before it was even thrown.
But the more he copied, the more something cracked inside his mind —
Fragments of memories, faces slipping away.
> A memory erased for every power retained… that's the price.
The enemy's punch hit his chest —
Hastur flew back, crashed against a steel beam, and fell into the dust.
> — "You're bleeding, genius.
And you still don't get it — I don't fall."
Hastur slowly lifted his eyes.
> — "You think pain makes you stronger?
No. It makes you slow. Predictable. Human."
He raised his hand.
A golden circle appeared in the air — a fusion of two copies: Deviant Shaolin + Purple Wave.
The energy twisted the light, forming a violet vortex around his fist.
> — "Perfected Copy: Purple Wave — Flow Rupture!"
The punch landed.
The enemy was hurled into the wall — stone shattered, debris flew everywhere.
But… he stood back up.
His arm hung limp, his breath ragged — yet he smiled.
> — "You're strong, blondie…
But I don't fight to win.
I fight 'cause I refuse to die."
---
He charged again.
This time, Hastur didn't move.
He just watched.
A chill ran down his spine.
What he saw wasn't fighting.
It was pure faith — something no recording, no memory could ever hold.
> — "You still don't get it, huh?" the man said, striking again.
"You can copy my moves… but not who I am.
You've got no heart — just a memory that bleeds for you."
The blows kept coming — over and over.
Then, in a heavy silence, Hastur raised his hand and caught the final punch.
> — "You're right.
There are things I can't copy."
His fingers clenched around his opponent's fist.
A crack split the ground beneath them.
The air grew electric.
> — "But I learn."
A golden flash erupted.
The explosion tore through the tunnel ceiling.
Debris rained down, dust filled the air.
When the haze cleared, both men were on their knees, exhausted.
One was laughing.
The other — silent, observing.
The wounded man, barely conscious, murmured:
> — "You've got… a bit of fire in your eyes now."
Hastur stood up.
> — "Maybe.
But that fire — I owe it to you."
He turned away, leaving the unconscious warrior behind — a peaceful smile frozen on his face.
For a brief moment, Hastur's eyes glowed red — the sign that he had recorded something beyond mere combat.
> Recording: Human Determination.