A long stretch of silence came next. No one dared to speak, make a move.
Then a voice broke everything.
Saya's whispers crawled over my skin.
At first they were barely sound—broken syllables leaking from her lips as she stared at the burning corpse of her boss. Then they grew clearer, sharper, like knives scraping together.
"He killed the boss… I'm going to kill him."
A pause. Her head tilted.
"Yes. Kill him. Kill everyone who stands in your way."
Her breathing quickened. "Needles. More needles."
Her smile stretched too wide. "I'll give you more than needles. I'll give you power."
A soft laugh escaped her throat. "Yes… yes… let's kill this bastard."
I felt my stomach sink. Eyes widened.
Her body changed—not violently, not explosively—but wrong. Her skin smoothed, gleaming under the firelight, pale and flawless like polished porcelain. Joints stiffened, posture straightening unnaturally. Needles slid into existence around her, dozens at first, then hundreds, hovering in a dense, trembling halo. Whatever lived inside her had taken the wheel.
Gunfire erupted.
The remaining gang members opened fire on Hephaestus, bullets streaking through the heat-distorted air. Saya's needles screamed forward in black torrents.
None of it mattered.
Hephaestus didn't even look. He walked up to the four-limbed man, who was still twitching on the ground, and drove his burning hand into the man's chest. Flesh parted like wax. He pulled the heart free, flames sealing the wound instantly. The man, turned black and still.
He ate the man's heart. Casually. Almost thoughtfully.
Bullets melted before touching his armor. Needles vaporized mid-flight. Hephaestus didn't flinch, didn't hurry. To him, they were insects throwing pebbles at a star.
That was my opening.
I ran.
I tore the taxi's back door clean off, grabbed my backpack, and spun to bolt—
Steel flashed.
The swordsman stepped into my path, blade already moving. Heat shimmered around him now, sweat pouring down his face, but his grip was steady.
"It's either you die," he said flatly, "or I die. I can't let go."
I bared my fangs. "You're not worried about your comrades?"
"My mission is you," he replied, raising his sword. "Their lives are irrelevant."
The swordsman charged. He came straight at me, heat rippling off his blade. He swung downward with both hands, a killing stroke meant to split me in two. I twisted aside at the last second, the edge screaming past my shoulder and biting deep into the concrete. Before the dust could rise, I snapped my tail toward his ribs.
He saw it.
The man reacted instantly, pivoting and bringing his sword up in a clean, vertical arc. Pain exploded as the blade sheared through my tail. The severed end hit the ground with a wet slap.
I didn't stop.
I roared and lunged, claws flashing. He thought it was desperation and raised his sword to counter. That was the mistake. I halted mid-swing, muscles screaming, and struck with my other arm instead. He tried to pull back, but I caught him—just barely.
My claws tore into his side.
It wasn't deep, not enough. But blood spilled anyway, dark against the glowing ground. His breath hitched, surprise flashing across his face before discipline snapped back into place.
Without their formation, without the needles and the four-limbed brute hemming me in, it became simpler. Not easier—just clearer.
I pressed him.
I abandoned restraint. Every strike came faster, heavier. Claws, tail stump, shoulder—anything that could hit, did. He met me with steel, blade ringing again and again, sparks bursting where my claws stopped short of the sword, held back by that invisible pressure around him.
Screams echoed somewhere behind us.
Neither of us looked. We both knew what they meant. No one survives a monster like Hephaestus.
My lungs burned. My vision swam in heat and smoke. Time was slipping through my fingers.
I lunged again, feinted high. He parried, stepping back. I surged forward, forcing him to retreat, then let him swing. The blade came for my head. I raised what remained of my severed tail and took the hit.
Agony ripped through me—but it held long enough.
I drove my claws into his abdomen.
They punched through him and burst out his back. Blood poured down my arm, splashing onto the concrete. His mouth opened, soundless, eyes wide—not with fear, but disbelief. Yet, the swordsman refused to fall.
Even with my claws buried through him, even with blood pouring down his front and pooling at his boots, he tightened his grip on the hilt. His teeth clenched so hard I heard them grind. With a guttural shout, he twisted his body and dragged my arm with him, forcing me off balance.
Pain ripped through my shoulder as my claws tore free.
He staggered back two steps, then surged forward again, sheer will keeping him upright. The blade came at me in a blur—low, then high, then a vicious thrust aimed straight for my throat. I raised my forearm on instinct.
The sword sliced through my armor.
The black fabric parted like skin, heat and steel biting deep into my arm. Tristan's gift wasn't useless—but against this blade, it wasn't enough.
I hissed and kicked him square in the chest. He flew backward, skidding across the ground, carving a trench through concrete already softening from the heat. He rolled once, planted his sword, and hauled himself upright like gravity had lost its authority over him.
Stubborn bastard.
I rushed him before he could reset his stance. My claws slashed in rapid succession—left, right, overhead. He parried each strike with ruthless precision, steel screaming as it carved through the air. Sparks burst every time my claws met his blade, but this time they weren't harmless flashes. Every near miss burned.
He countered with a spinning cut.
I tried to block again.
The sword tore across my shoulder.
My armor split open, fabric and fiber parting as if they were never reinforced at all. Pain exploded through me, white and blinding. Blood soaked the black hood and ran hot down my chest.
I staggered back, breathing hard.
"Your armor slows death," he said, voice strained, "but it won't stop it."
I snarled and lunged low, aiming for his legs. He anticipated it, drove the blade down. I twisted at the last second—felt the sword graze my side instead of my spine. Another line of fire opened across my ribs.
I grabbed his wrist with my good hand, claws digging into flesh, and slammed my forehead into his face. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed warm across my eyes. He reeled, grip faltering for the first time.
I didn't give him space.
I drove my knee into his ribs once—twice—felt something give. He coughed wetly but still tried to raise the sword. I stomped down on his forearm.
Bones snapped.
The blade clattered to the ground, ringing like a bell.
For a heartbeat, we both froze—bloodied, shaking, barely standing.
Then the heat surged again.
A presence pressed down on us, heavy and absolute. Flames roared louder than screams ever could.
The swordsman looked past me.
Fear finally broke through his discipline.
I looked back, eyes widened.
Saya's porcelain body lay shattered across the road, cracked and blackened. The remaining gang members were nothing but scorched silhouettes frozen mid-run. And through the wall of flame and smoke, Hephaestus walked toward us, each step turning asphalt into lava.
My legs trembled. My stamina was gone. Blood dripped from shredded armor onto glowing stone, sizzling on contact.
Behind us, the world burned.
Our fight no longer mattered.