The city that had awakened to a peaceful morning was now drowning in panic.
People ran blindly through the streets—screaming, stumbling, pushing past one another.
All of them fleeing from the open Riss.
From the unnatural figure standing within the smoke.
It did not move.
It did not chase.
It simply stood there.
And then—
From the thick smoke surrounding it, crystallized spikes erupted outward.
They shot into the air.
Then descended.
Like a storm.
The spikes rained down upon the civilians, piercing through bodies without resistance. Concrete cracked. Glass shattered. Blood sprayed across the pavement.
Screams overlapped into a single, suffocating noise.
The figure remained still.
Watching.
***
The thunder of heavy vehicles rolled through the ruined streets.
Armored military carriers screeched to a halt around the perimeter of the Riss.
Doors burst open.
Soldiers poured out in coordinated formation, boots hitting pavement in unison. Rifles raised. Safety off.
All aimed at the silhouette within the smoke.
"FIRE!!!" the Commander roared, eyes locked onto the figure.
The order detonated.
Gunfire erupted.
A relentless storm of bullets tore through the smoke.
Muzzle flashes flickered violently. Shell casings clattered against asphalt. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder.
"Ashforde! Magazine!" a soldier barked.
Ashforde didn't hesitate. He pulled one free and hurled it across the chaos.
"Here, Ironhart!"
Ironhart caught it cleanly, reloaded in one fluid motion, and resumed firing.
The barrage did not stop.
For ten full minutes, the military unleashed everything they had—layer after layer of sustained automatic fire.
The smoke churned under the assault.
Concrete shattered.
But the silhouette—
Did not fall.
Behind the firing line, a secondary unit set up rocket launchers.
Bazookas locked into position.
"Target confirmed!"
"Launch!"
Rockets screamed through the air and struck the center of the smoke.
The explosion rocked the city block.
Fire and debris burst outward in a violent shockwave.
For a brief moment—
There was nothing but smoke.
For a moment, even the soldiers hesitated.
Then—
The silhouette moved.
It stepped forward.
Out of the smoke.
Ashforde's breath caught in his throat.
"What the hell… is this Dweller?" he whispered.
It was massive.
Not just tall—overwhelming. Its presence bent the air around it, as though darkness itself clung to its body.
Its upper half resembled a man.
Broad shoulders. Muscular frame.
But below the waist—
A horse.
Four powerful legs pressed into cracked asphalt, hooves splintering concrete with each step.
Two enormous wings unfurled from its back, leathery and jagged, stretching wide enough to shadow the street.
From its forehead curved two horns, glowing a deep, ominous red—pulsing faintly.
Its hair was not hair.
It was crystal.
Jagged strands that caught the morning light and fractured it.
Its hands ended in elongated claws, black and razor-sharp.
And its eyes—
Pure black.
No iris.
No pupil.
Just void.
It did not roar.
It did not charge.
It simply looked at them.
Then—
The Dweller slowly raised one arm.
And pointed.
The Commander's instincts ignited.
"Take cov—"
He never finished.
A crystallized spike erupted from the air.
It punched through his open mouth and tore out the back of his skull in a spray of blood.
He dropped instantly.
Dead before he hit the ground.
For half a second, the soldiers froze.
Ashforde locked eyes with Ironhart.
No words.
They moved.
"Cover!"
They dove behind armored vehicles as more spikes tore through the air.
The sky rained death.
Metal screeched as spikes embedded themselves into military carriers. Windshields shattered. Concrete burst apart.
The soldiers pressed their backs against steel, rifles trembling in their grips.
The spikes kept falling.
But for now—
The vehicles held.
The rain of spikes stopped.
Silence fell.
Ashforde slowly leaned out from behind the armored carrier.
The Riss was still open.
Smoke lingered.
But the Dweller—
Was gone.
His eyes scanned the ruined street.
Then they stopped.
Two bodies lay a short distance away.
The mother.
The child.
Blood had spread beneath them, dark and heavy against the pavement.
Ashforde's breathing turned uneven.
His face drained of color.
"S-Sister…?" he whispered.
The word barely existed.
He stepped out from cover without thinking.
"Ashforde! Where are you going?!" Ironhart shouted.
No response.
Ashforde moved forward, legs unsteady, boots splashing through blood.
The closer he got, the more his vision blurred.
When he finally stood over her—
There was no doubt.
It was her.
His sister.
Her body still curled protectively around her daughter.
Tears spilled down his face before he realized he was crying.
He tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
His gaze shifted to the little girl.
His niece.
Still clutched tightly in her mother's arms.
Ashforde collapsed to his knees.
He pulled both bodies toward him, holding them as if warmth might return.
Their blood soaked into his uniform.
He didn't care.
A broken sound tore from his throat.
Behind him, the soldiers stood frozen for a moment—
Then snapped back to focus, weapons raised, scanning for the Dweller.
Because it was still out there.
Ashforde was drowning in grief when Ironhart's voice cut through the air.
"Ashforde—!"
But it wasn't a call.
It was a warning.
The Dweller stood right in front of him.
Silent.
Close enough for Ashforde to see his own distorted reflection in those void-black eyes.
Ashforde's blood ran cold.
But rage overpowered fear.
He drew his sidearm and fired.
Once. Twice. Again and again.
Bullets struck the Dweller's torso.
Metal pinged.
Smoke flickered.
No wound appeared.
Not even a scratch.
The Dweller raised its claw.
And swung—
A flaming arc tore through the air.
The Dweller's arm separated from its body in a clean, blazing slice.
The severed limb hit the ground before Ashforde fully understood what had happened.
"Run."
The voice was heavy. Commanding.
Zeph stood behind him.
Blade drawn.
Flames engulfed the entire length of his sword, twisting upward like a living thing.
A cigar rested between his fingers, smoke curling calmly around his face.
Ashforde didn't hesitate.
He grabbed the bodies of his sister and niece and staggered backward.
The Dweller roared—
And lunged again.
A burst of ice slammed into its side.
The force sent the creature crashing into a nearby building, concrete exploding outward.
"We're late, Eirwyn," Zeph muttered.
Eirwyn stood beside him, his left arm coated in thick frost, vapor curling from his fingertips.
He didn't reply.
His gaze flickered briefly toward the bodies being carried away.
Then he nodded once.
The Dweller rose from the rubble.
Its severed arm had already begun crystallizing at the stump.
Reforming.
Ashforde had made it out of immediate range.
Eirwyn's voice finally broke the silence.
"This… is something we've never seen."
Zeph's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I know," he said. "And that's exactly what concerns me."
His grip tightened on the flaming blade.
"We don't know what it can do."