The echoes of gunfire still ricocheted through the ruins, mingling with the acrid tang of gunpowder and the metallic stench of Punishing particles—rusty, corrosive, and suffocating. Yasha crouched behind a crumbling concrete barrier, the eerie purple flames in her mask's eye slits burning with quiet vigilance. Her senses stretched outward like invisible tendrils, searching for the source of the gunfire.
But no follow-up attack came.
No enemy emerged.
It was as if the assailant hadn't even noticed her presence.
"Roar—!!"
A guttural, inhuman cry tore through the silence—bloodthirsty, primal, laced with the screeching grind of metal. More howls followed, rising and falling in a discordant chorus that clawed at the nerves.
Yasha climbed silently to the top of the barrier. Her vision widened.
Below lay a fractured clearing, littered with rubble and jagged Punishing crystals. Crude walls of scrap metal and broken concrete formed the outline of a makeshift Conservation Area—fragile, dilapidated, and now on the brink of collapse.
Five humans huddled in a corner, shadows clinging to their trembling forms. Two men in stained work uniforms gripped pistols, arms shaking, eyes hollow. A middle-aged woman clutched a young girl, no older than eight, whose terror had stolen even her tears. Beside them, a boy barely into his teens held a bent metal pipe, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.
Their enemies surged forward—a tide of Corrupted.
Low-tier Aberrants skittered like insects, twisted and fast. High-tier monstrosities lumbered behind them, grotesque masses of metallic flesh, radiating crimson light and a nauseating stench. A bullet struck one Aberrant square in the head, sending it sprawling—but the larger ones, encased in crystalline armor, shrugged off the gunfire. Sparks danced across their carapaces, but they did not slow.
At the entrance lay two shattered Construct husks. Their armor was torn open, cores ripped out, wires exposed and twitching with dying energy. The faded paint and model numbers marked them as the guardians of this outpost. They hadn't even managed to send a full distress signal before being overwhelmed—now just wreckage among the Corrupted swarm.
Thirty souls had once lived here.
Only five remained.
Yasha's gaze swept over the scene. The screams. The roars. The futile gunfire. It was a tableau she had seen too many times—a cruel, familiar portrait of the apocalypse.
Her claws flexed, scraping faint lines into her metal armguard.
Save them?
The thought dropped into her mind like a stone into stagnant water—rippling briefly before sinking into cold, silent depths.
What's the point?
The voice in her head was bitter, weary. A whisper of self-mockery. Who was she? A failed replica. A monster stitched together by Punishing, wearing a face that wasn't hers. She couldn't even die—what right did she have to save anyone?
Save them? And then what?
Let them see the twisted echo of the Commander beneath her mask?
Let them die slowly, corrupted by her very presence?
I can't even save myself.
The weariness surged. Endless wandering. Eternal torment. The same tragedy, again and again. She was tired. She didn't want to feel anymore. Didn't want to fight anymore.
She turned away.
Her steps were heavy, deliberate. The cold clink of metal echoed across the rubble as she walked—away from the Conservation Area, away from the dying screams.
Leave. Wander. Become a ghost.
Like the land itself—silent, broken, and cold.
A crow landed on a shattered wall ahead. Its crimson eyes watched her. No judgment. No guidance. Just silent observation.
Then—
A scream.
Desperate. Raw.
A massive claw, armored and jagged, tore through the air toward the woman and child. The man fired wildly—useless. The boy charged with his pipe—like a moth to flame.
Yasha stopped.
Frozen in the shadow of the ruins.
A statue of cold metal.
The purple flames behind her mask flickered violently.
Time stretched.
The claw's shadow engulfed the mother and daughter.
The man roared.
The boy closed his eyes—
Buzz—!
A sudden eruption of energy tore through the air at the Conservation Area's entrance.
Immediately after—
A shadow tore through space.
Too fast for the eye to follow. No sound. No trajectory. Only a condensed blade of dark purple light, so dense it seemed to devour the very air around it.
Pfft—!
Like a hot knife slicing through congealed steel.
The massive Corrupted with the claw, poised to strike the humans, was cleaved cleanly from shoulder to waist. The cut was impossibly smooth. Viscous, foul-smelling fluids and shattered components erupted like a geyser. Half its body collapsed with a thunderous crash, kicking up a choking cloud of dust.
Silence.
Not just from the survivors—but from the entire Corrupted horde. Even their frenzy paused, stunned by the sudden, soundless death.
As the dust settled, a lone figure stood at the entrance of the Conservation Area.
Yasha.
Her grotesque mask concealed every trace of humanity, leaving only the eerie purple flames burning in her eye slits. Her gaze locked onto the Corrupted, cold and unflinching. In her right hand—no longer a claw, nor a mimicry of human fingers—she held a blade.
Long. Slender. Elegantly curved. Its surface shimmered with a deep, dark silver luster that seemed to absorb light. Along its edge, a living stream of violet energy pulsed—a chilling aura of Punishing, sharp and absolute. The blade's form mirrored Lucia's katana, but its color was darker, heavier. Not the fiery red of Crimson Abyss, but the cold silver of despair—moonlight drowned in shadow.
No words. No declaration.
Yasha moved.
Her form blurred, vanishing into the horde like a phantom. The katana was no longer a weapon—it was death incarnate. Each swing was precise, surgical. No wasted motion. No clash of steel. Only the whisper of cuts.
Low-tier Corrupted fell like wheat before a scythe, their cores disintegrated by the concentrated Punishing energy. High-tier monstrosities, armored like tanks, were sliced open with ease—their crystalline shells offering no resistance to the abyssal blade.
She killed in silence, like a program executing its final directive. The blade's arc wove a web of violet death, enveloping the entrance of the Conservation Area. Roars turned to wails, then faded into nothing. Bodily fluids pooled beneath her feet, only to be evaporated and absorbed by the purer Punishing aura radiating from her.
It was over in moments.
The final Corrupted's core was pierced, extinguished like a dying star.
Yasha stood alone in the aftermath. The katana angled toward the ground. From its tip, a single drop of dark red fluid fell, blooming into a foul flower on the dust.
She didn't turn.
Behind her, the five survivors collapsed, panting, minds numbed by the shock of survival. They stared at the masked figure—her back to them, her aura colder than the monsters she'd slain. Fear lingered, but it was eclipsed by awe. And confusion.
The older boy stared at her posture, at the way she held the blade. Somewhere in the chaos of his thoughts, a memory stirred. That stance—he'd seen it before. He opened his mouth, but no sound came.
Yasha's wrist twitched. The katana dissolved, melting into dark violet energy and flowing back into her arm. She turned to leave, stepping away from the blood-soaked Asura field.
"Wait… wait!"
The woman clutching the child found her voice, hoarse and trembling. She staggered forward, reaching out.
Elev—!
A sharp, corrosive hiss filled the air. Her exposed skin flared with pain—like thousands of needles piercing at once.
Yasha stopped.
She didn't turn. But her voice emerged—cold, metallic, scraping through the mask:
"Don't come closer."
Not loud. But absolute. Like ice driven into bone.
Only then did the survivors realize: the air around Yasha was thick, dark, suffocating. Highly concentrated Punishing particles formed an invisible miasma, corroding anything that dared approach. More lethal than the Corrupted. More unforgiving.
The woman recoiled, clutching her child, trembling. No one else moved.
Yasha didn't linger.
She stepped forward, her figure melting into the ruins, vanishing as suddenly as she had appeared. Only the lingering Punishing aura and the crystallized remains of the Corrupted bore witness to her presence—and her cold, silent salvation.
The crow took flight, circling once before following her into the shadows.
The Conservation Area fell into eerie silence.
The survivors looked at one another. Relief gave way to confusion. To fear. That masked figure—wielding a blade like Babylon's elite, yet radiating an aura darker than any Corrupted—was she a savior?
Or something else?
No one could answer.
Only the boy continued to stare into the distance, the memory of that combat stance refusing to fade. He whispered, voice barely audible:
"…Order…?"