A man stood alone on a ridge overlooking the abandoned city, the wind tugging at the edges of his tailored purple suit. The fabric shimmered faintly under the dying light, as if woven with threads of dusk itself. He adjusted his cuffs with deliberate care, a faint smile playing on his lips. "The lab is finally opened by the heir of that person. It's time for a showdown."
His eyes gleamed with something ancient and hungry before he turned and vanished into the treeline.
---
The helicopter sliced through the sky, rotors cutting a steady rhythm against the gathering clouds. Inside, Kurana Alexanderia gripped the controls, his battlesuit hugging his frame like a second skin. Beside him sat Ritik Aether, face set in grim lines, and Gunjan Aether in the rear, checking the seals on his own gear. The tension inside the cabin was thick enough to choke on.
"Who in the world thinks that the Purple Sun God himself is trying to take over that serum, Ritik Aether?" Kurana muttered, eyes fixed on the horizon where the mountain lab loomed in the distance.
Ritik's jaw clenched. "That's why I didn't want my son to go to that fucking lab."
Kurana glanced sideways, the helicopter dipping slightly as he adjusted course. "You should have told me this earlier. If you had, I would've sent Shogun with Akshat."
"I am powerful enough to protect my son," Ritik shot back, voice low and edged with frustration. His gloved hands tightened on the harness. Gunjan remained silent in the back, but his posture spoke volumes—ready, watchful, the weight of family bloodline pressing down on all of them.
The chopper pushed forward, carrying them closer to the unfolding chaos.
---
Back in the mountain lab, Akshat leaned heavily against the cold wall, his breathing shallow. The coagulants and vasoconstrictors had slowed the bleeding to a trickle, but the pain in his right arm was a living thing—raw, throbbing, the exposed humerus bone a gruesome reminder of how close he had come. He avoided moving it entirely, keeping the mangled limb tucked close to his body.
"Master, emergency extraction of the right hand is mandatory for your health," Veronica's voice chimed urgently in his ear, the goggles overlay flashing red warning icons across his vision.
"Just shut up already," Akshat growled, pushing off the wall with his good arm.
A small holographic face materialized in the corner of the lens—Veronica's avatar, a youthful digital girl with wide eyes that suddenly welled up with animated tears. She sniffled dramatically, the expression rendered in crisp, almost playful detail like advanced AR overlays. It was strangely human, and strangely irritating right now.
Akshat ignored the display and started toward the exit, steps unsteady but determined. The briefcase with the remaining Initiator syringes bounced lightly against his back. He had barely reached the heavy door when a deep explosion rocked the mountain outside. Dust showered from the ceiling. The ground trembled under his boots.
He shoved the door open with his shoulder. Fresh air rushed in, carrying the scent of smoke and disturbed earth.
"Master! Bunch of armed soldiers coming this way," Veronica warned, her voice shifting to alert mode. Red targeting markers bloomed across his vision, highlighting distant heat signatures moving through the jungle approaches.
"What the hell?" Akshat muttered, scanning the treeline. "Isn't this place supposed to be hidden?"
"They might be after the Initiator. Protect the serum, Master."
No time to question how they had found the location. Akshat moved fast. He popped open the briefcase, carefully transferring the five titanium-cased syringes into secure pouches built into his battlesuit. The containers were solid, reassuringly heavy against his chest. He ditched the empty briefcase and slipped out into the overgrown terrain, melting into the dense jungle that had reclaimed the city long ago.
Trees pressed close, vines snaking across his path as he ran deeper. His right arm hung useless, sending fresh spikes of agony with every jolt, but he pushed through, using the goggles' enhanced overlays to navigate—highlighting stable ground, potential cover, and faint trails. Veronica stayed mostly quiet now, only offering occasional route suggestions. An hour blurred by in a haze of adrenaline and pain. He hid in thickets, doubled back through streams, climbed rocky outcrops. The soldiers were persistent, their voices occasionally carrying on the wind—shouts and radio chatter.
Then they found him.
Gunfire erupted from the undergrowth. Akshat dove behind a fallen log as bullets chewed into bark above his head. He drew *Flawless Mistake* with his left hand, the magnum feeling heavier than usual. The first soldier broke through the foliage—a tactical vest and assault rifle raised. Akshat fired once. The round slammed into the man's chest, dropping him instantly.
More came. He took down two others in quick succession, the magnum's bark echoing through the trees. But chaos mounted. During a frantic sprint across a narrow ravine, he lost the rifle—slipped from his grip as he scrambled up a muddy slope. The shotgun went next, snagged and torn away by thorns in the dense brush. He kept moving, breath burning in his lungs.
Only three weapons remained now: the fighting knife strapped to his thigh, *Flawless Mistake* in his left hand, and the tactical hatchet secured at his belt. His right arm was dead weight, blood still seeping slowly through the makeshift seals.
Another group of soldiers converged. Akshat crouched low, using the natural cover of twisted roots. He waited for the closest one to pass, then surged up. The hatchet came down hard, burying into the man's shoulder with a meaty thunk. A twist and pull freed it as the soldier screamed. Akshat fired *Flawless Mistake* twice more, dropping another before rolling away from return fire.
Pain made his movements sloppy. The Perfect Body's earlier damage had taken too much. His vision swam at the edges, but the titanium syringes pressed against his chest reminded him what was at stake. He couldn't let them fall into enemy hands.
Veronica's voice cut in again. "Master, three more approaching from the east flank. Suggest tactical retreat to higher ground."
Akshat didn't reply. He slashed with the knife at a soldier who got too close, opening a deep gash across the man's arm. The hatchet followed in a brutal overhead swing, cracking against another's helmet. Flawless Mistake barked one final time, taking down the third.
He broke into a run again, deeper into the wild, heart hammering. The jungle seemed endless—trees blurring into green walls, wildlife scattering at his passage. Behind him, the sounds of pursuit faded slightly, but he knew they weren't gone. The Purple Sun God's forces, or whoever these men served, wanted the cure. Wanted the power in his bloodline.
Akshat's mind flashed to the helicopter conversation he couldn't hear—his father's protective anger, Kurana's steady calculations. Help might be coming, but right now, he was alone with a ruined arm, dwindling ammo, and a legacy that refused to stay buried.
He pressed on, knife and hatchet ready, the magnum warm in his grip. The jungle swallowed him whole.