Rain still hung in Bhutala's air like a slow-moving fog.
The night hadn't recovered from the tremor that tore through its veins — smoke curling from broken rooftops, puddles catching the dull orange shimmer of dying streetlamps.
Down below, three shadows slipped through the skeletal maze of the city's rusted sprawl.
Their breaths came in sync — not hurried, not calm. Controlled.
They had learned long ago that fear makes sound.
Ahan paused near the collapsed tramline, placing a palm against the cold metal.
Something thrummed beneath it — faint, rhythmic, mechanical. Not thunder.
A search-grid sweep.
"They're moving tighter," Aryan murmured.
"OutfitX," Abhi answered.
"They're not searching," Ahan said. "They're closing."
The city itself felt alive, watching. Drones glided above like metallic crows; every window held a reflection that wasn't quite still. The deeper they went, the thicker the silence grew — a silence heavy with old circuitry and forgotten prayers.
They reached an abandoned freight yard. The tracks, long swallowed by moss, pulsed with residual Aether — traces of what Bhutala once was, a city that tried to harness the light and burned itself instead.
Ahan crouched, brushing his fingers over the residue. The Aether fragments shimmered for a heartbeat before dying again. He frowned.
"They've mapped the old pulse network," he whispered.
"Meaning?" Aryan asked.
"Meaning every time we breathe, it registers."
Abhi straightened, the rain streaking across his jawline.
"Then let's give them something to register."
He unsheathed the proto-blade. Its edge gleamed briefly, feeding off the faint glow around them. Aryan's spear caught that light, splitting it into three beams — gold, silver, and ash. The Aether between them responded, humming faintly, as if remembering who once commanded it.
The trio moved. Not to attack — to reposition, to fade into the industrial labyrinth that had raised them. Each step was a conversation with memory; every sound a reminder of what they'd lost.
Above, the storm thickened.
A distant tower — black, alive, humming — pulsed once.
The Predator Wakes
Lightning cracked, tearing open the horizon.
In that flash stood Virag, his outline carved by glass and flame. The storm rolled behind him, mirrored in the obsidian walls of his command spire.
On the table — fragments of corrupted Aether glowed faintly. His fingers hovered above them, tracing three spectral threads that drifted in mid-air, converging into shapes that resembled the trio's energy signatures.
"Siddharth's disciples," he murmured. "Still breathing."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing — not anger, not surprise. Curiosity.
"You survived the fall. Good."
"Now," he whispered, the corners of his mouth curling, "let's see how long you can run."
His hand sank into the console. Energy rippled outward, spreading through satellite webs, down fiber veins, into Bhutala's arteries. The hunt began in silence — invisible, precise, merciless.
Back in the freight yard, Ahan's device flickered violently.
A surge of static. Then — three words scrolled across the cracked display:
"TARGETS ONLINE — TRACKING RESUMED."
He looked up at the others.
"It's not over."
Thunder rolled again. Abhi's blade flared in response, as if daring the storm to strike first.
Aryan lifted his spear, eyes cutting through the shadows.
"Then let it begin."
The rain fell harder. The city dimmed.
Somewhere above the storm, Virag smiled — the kind of smile that precedes ruin.