CHAPTER 14
[AT THE PARK — WHERE THE STORM RAGES ON]
The storm was no longer merely brewing.
Something catastrophic was descending.
High above the city, suspended within the churning mass of murky clouds, Reagan hung in the sky—his presence alone warping the atmosphere around him. As his descent continued, the already raging winds intensified into something far worse.
Cars were torn from the streets and hurled like toys. Concrete structures groaned and collapsed under the strain. Streetlights bent and snapped, ripped clean from their foundations. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in the open were lifted screaming into the air, slammed against walls and buildings—many never rising again.
And it wasn't over.
He had not yet reached the ground.
To those who witnessed it, the scene felt unreal—like a nightmare clawing its way into existence. From their perspective, a lone man descended from the heavens at an eerily graceful pace, as though gravity itself had chosen to spare him. Behind him trailed a force no mortal should ever command—a presence that birthed a storm capable of leveling an entire city if allowed to persist.
With every meter Reagan descended, the storm answered.
The wind howled louder. Pressure crushed the air. The city screamed beneath it.
Then the clouds began to move.
The vast expanse of murky darkness twisted and folded in on itself, forming a colossal silhouette—one spoken of only in forbidden legends. It lived. Slowly descending behind Reagan, the shape stretched downward, manifesting massive, tentacle-like limbs forged from storm clouds and reinforced by ancient, unseen forces.
This was no natural phenomenon.
This was an art.
An ancient one.
THE EIGHTH COMMAND — THE KRAKEN OF TEMPEST
A forbidden art of Zall.
A catastrophic release passed down through the descendants of a long-lost civilization—people who once worshipped the Kraken as both god and executioner thousands of years ago. The practice had vanished with time, erased from history… until fragments of its esoteric knowledge were rediscovered by the Mercenaries of the Iron Altar.
And through them, it returned.
Reagan—blood of Zall—had inherited not only the lineage, but its curse.
Thus, his name: The Kraken of Zall.
Though immensely powerful, the Eighth Command was classified as a calamity-type art. Its use was strictly forbidden within national borders. Not because it failed—but because of the destruction it guaranteed.
Collateral damage was inevitable.
Below, the Iron Lady stood unmoving, her gaze locked skyward.
"So… he's versed in the ancient arts as well," she said calmly.
Her voice carried no fear.
"I've heard of this release… an art unique to the descendants of Zall."
A pause.
"So this is it…"
"The Kraken of Tempest."
She watched the storm take shape, the titanic form looming behind Reagan like a god answering its summoner.
"The practice was supposed to be lost," she continued. "I didn't expect him to actually wield it."
From where she stood, the beast filled the sky—its vast, tentacle-like arms stretching across the heavens. Each limb was as wide as a high-rise building, all of them slowly angling downward toward a single point.
Toward her.
She looked like nothing more than a speck beneath it.
Still—
"That just gives me more reason to kill him."
Behind her mask, a manic grin spread.
The pressure descended first.
A high-velocity wind event detonated outward, ripping vehicles from the streets, uprooting trees, and battering buildings until their foundations screamed in protest. Glass shattered citywide. Entire blocks trembled as though bracing for annihilation.
Then—
Impact.
The tentacles slammed into the ground where she stood.
The shockwave roared through the city like the detonation of a contained sun. Buildings were obliterated in its wake. Entire streets vanished beneath debris and flame. Scores of lives were lost in an instant.
And yet—
The Iron Lady lived.
The force hurled her skyward, blasting her through multiple high-rise buildings in rapid succession, concrete and steel erupting around her. She was a projectile of devastation, carving a violent path through the skyline.
Moments before striking the final structure, she twisted her body midair—forcing her momentum into alignment.
Her feet hit the vertical face of the building.
For a brief, impossible moment, she stood sideways against the skyscraper, boots grinding into the concrete as a web of fractures spidered outward beneath her. The building groaned, resisting her weight and momentum.
She pressed harder.
Then—
She launched herself.
Propelling back toward Reagan's position in the sky.
The battle was far from over.
Standing at the point of impact caused by the Kraken of Tempest, Reagan held out both arms, an unsettling smile etched across his face—the smile of someone who could see beauty in the carnage he had created.
"It's all your fault. Look at what you made me do. This… this wouldn't have happened if only you would just die…"
"die… die…die."
As the words left his mouth, the smile twisted into despair. He screamed until his lungs burned, directing his rage at the wreckage stretched out before him like a man driven mad—mentally unstable, yet desperately trying to hold together what little sanity remained.
His bloodlust began to seep outward, reinforced by the Kraken of Tempest. It became visible—dense enough to be seen and felt by anyone nearby.
"…Why," he gasped. "Why won't you just die already?"
He drew his handgun and aimed it at the wreckage—not at anyone in particular.
Frustration consumed him. His earlier attack should have neutralized her, especially after invoking such a forbidden art. Yet she remained. Worse still, the reinforcements had not arrived, their absence feeding his anger and tightening the knot of dread in his chest.
The scene shifted.
High above, the Iron Lady clung to the side of a high-rise building, her body positioned horizontally against the structure. She forced her weight inward, knees bent into a shallow squat, generating immense power in her legs. Web-like cracks spread beneath her feet as the concrete strained to endure the pressure.
Then she pushed off.
The impact shattered the air. Wind snapped violently as her body launched forward, the force ripping through the building's upper structure and shaking its foundation. Her form blurred instantly, leaving behind a compact shockwave that shredded the rooftop.
The distance between her and Reagan vanished in less time than it took to blink.
In that instant, Reagan understood something terrifyingly clear.
Distance was never the problem.
She was.
She was power incarnate—so overwhelming that space itself could not hinder her pursuit. Within a heartbeat, she was upon him, flying straight toward him with her blade drawn and aligned for the kill.
Reagan's gun was still raised, aimed in the direction of the wreckage. He hadn't expected her to charge directly at him—straight into the mouth of his barrel.
Time fractured.
Her head entered his firing range, and Reagan spotted a narrow window of opportunity. All it would take was a single pull of the trigger. He could reinforce the bullet with the Kraken of Tempest and ensure a decisive blow.
If he was quick enough.
If his timing was perfect.
In his mind, it was flawless. The battle would end here. He would be remembered as the one who slew the Beast of Iron.
The deciding factor was simple: whoever struck first.
And the advantage leaned toward Reagan.
It took less time to pull a trigger than to swing a sword.
Something felt… off.
As the Iron Lady closed the remaining distance, time slowed unnaturally. Her approach became deliberate—almost serene. She swung her sword just a fraction too late.
Reagan noticed the discrepancy but dismissed it as a miscalculation on her part. Even monsters made mistakes. Even legends faltered.
The opening felt real—real enough to trust.
Her advance toward the gun barrel was calm, unwavering. Her head aligned perfectly with his sights as the gap between them shrank at a terrifying rate.
A sharp grin crept across Reagan's face.
Yes… this is it.
I've won.
She was only inches away now. All that remained was a simple pull of the trigger. Reagan refused to hesitate—hesitation meant death.
He fired.
The gun roared as the bullet tore free, heavily reinforced by the ancient power of the Kraken of Tempest. The projectile struck her forehead and detonated, obliterating her head on impact.
The resulting force tore through the surrounding wreckage, exploding outward with seismic intensity.
For a moment, Reagan simply stood there.
He had won.
Disbelief gave way to manic laughter. At first it came in short, broken bursts, then spilled out in full as he threw his head back toward the night sky.
Then pain struck.
Sharp. Immediate.
Something wrenched violently at his back.
His laughter faltered as his head slowly tilted downward. His eyes followed the sensation until he saw it—
The blade.
Its length protruded from his chest.
Blood spilled from his mouth as his breathing turned shallow and erratic. His clothes darkened as warmth spread across them, soaking fabric and skin alike.
Reagan did not turn around.
He didn't need to.
He stood frozen, spirit broken—not because he believed he had won, but because he had always known the truth.
He had already lost.
The laughter hadn't been triumph.
It had been acceptance.
He had looked to the sky to see the world he was about to leave behind—to confront the reality he had spent his life trying to change but never could. To ask the gods if they still offered redemption to a soul as tainted as his.
The heavens had failed him.
And now, the last known descendant of Zall would become nothing more than ashes—
lost to the wind.
Just as Zall itself had been lost to time.