The bullets began to fall like rain. Bombs and rockets were fired one after another at the creature. Every soldier gripped their rifle as if it were a lifeline—tight, too tight—many wearing expressions of disgust, teeth clenched hard. Others refused to be ruled by emotion, remaining outwardly neutral yet carrying the same ferocity for war.
It was a storm of fire.
Just before landing, "Nikita" struck the creature's snout with a powerful kick. The impact shook the ground violently, blasting away Bakunin's muzzle along with part of its forehead and jaw, splattering everything around. Chunks of flesh landed on "Nikita," who stood before his opponent in a fury, head lowered and aimed toward it, almost like he was locking onto a target. The soldier emitted thunderous grunts. With every breath, the air seemed to burn, to incinerate beneath his head. All of it was accompanied by a deep, chilling sound—a kind of vibration that echoed like a massive horn, deafening, chaotic, apocalyptic.
Bakunin, thrown off balance by the blow, fell, then slowly rose again—slick and imposing—its armored tail lashing like a whip. It stood on its powerful legs, each step shaking the earth, cracking the ground, spreading terror with every movement. The monster's face began to coat itself in oily, rotting fluids. The massive wound smoked and reeked of rancid decay. Mold-like muscles seemed to have a life of their own as they regenerated, forming new flesh without apparent logic yet with a clear, eerie synchronicity. The most damaged parts sloughed off, dropping to the ground and splattering like half-melted ice cream, slowly peeling and spreading, perhaps under the oppressive heat.
Almost immediately, it attacked the soldier—first with its remaining horn, aiming to pierce his chest. When the strike was deflected, Bakunin lunged with its front limbs, far thinner and more shriveled than the hind ones, yet just as sharp and deadly. It roared and shrieked in a horrifying, distorted way; its mouth was not fully reformed, so with every scream, pieces of flesh, blood, and other fluids sprayed outward, even onto the soldier, who tried to retreat. Despite this, the creature's killing fury was completely out of control—faster, more aggressive, more frenzied. It was utterly insane, monstrous, and dangerous. Its attacks became so overwhelming that "Nikita" was soon cornered. The soldier seemed to have no way out, yet he kept resisting as the beast drove him across the battlefield, spreading blood even onto ground that had once been untouched.
At one point, near a warehouse, Bakunin struck the man brutally across the face with a heavy blow, sending him crashing through the wall of a small building, piercing and destroying it instantly with a force the soldier could not resist. "Nikita" was hurled inside, into a structure filled with construction-grade metal materials.
The soldier—his face mangled and completely disfigured, covered in blood arranged in almost perfectly aligned horizontal streaks along deep gashes, where the skin had nearly cooked and fused with the metal of his suit's helmet, itself heavily damaged and torn open, exposing soft inner layers and severed, blood-stained cables—landed among the rubble, impaled through the abdomen by a large pipe. The moment his body struck it, passing clean through, it was coated entirely in dripping red.
Nikita writhed in despair. He thrashed in pain in a raw, animalistic, instinctive way. His vision dimmed and blurred. Everything around him swayed like a ship in a storm. It was made worse by the loss of his stomach and parts of both intestines, completely destroyed and reduced to pulp both inside and outside the pipe. Split open, they revealed their internal fluids and waste, some spilling onto the ground, others slowly sliding along the pipe back into his body, mixing with the rest of the exposed, severely damaged, and shredded flesh.
In front of him, Bakunin advanced.
"Uom…"
The creature let out a powerful roar—so strong it resonated through the surrounding metal and shattered the nearby windows. Shards of glass fell onto the soldier. Even when a large fragment lodged itself into his head, Nikita did not react. It was a miracle he was still breathing at all.
The creature drew closer to the soldier's body. In the background, he could faintly hear the monster's horrific laughter. It felt like a deliberate condemnation. Even the faint ringing in his ears was beginning to fade. Bakunin's rear right leg pressed down heavily on the soldier's leg. With every passing moment, one could hear the metal bending and twisting more and more. "Nikita" could no longer feel his leg—blood flow had been cut off or blocked. Small, faint cracks could be heard beneath the pressure. Perhaps the femur was giving in, slowly fracturing under the crushing force, subjecting the soldier to a pain too immense to even express. At the same time, the claws that had pierced his lower abdomen and side had already reached the flesh within, embedding themselves deeper, further shattering bone.
And Bakunin kept laughing, reveling once more in the act of torture—even as the body enduring it no longer seemed able to fully perceive it. Even when the femur finally gave way, collapsing into ruin and spilling blood upon blood, Nikita remained motionless. He had likely felt the pain, yet seemed to suppress any reaction, denying the beast its satisfaction. He could hear his own breathing—faint, insufficient, shallow. His own heartbeat—slow and disappointing. Lying on a cold, hard surface, trapped within a psychological paradox, threatened and tormented by a biological one, arms spread, head slightly tilted to the right—he looked almost resigned. That position seemed to scream, do whatever you want. It wasn't by choice. The man was simply unable. He was suffering.
On one side, he awaited death. He could no longer stay awake, let alone stand. He wasn't accepting it—he was enduring it. He wanted to prove he could still make it. It wasn't the first time. He was strong—very strong—and he knew it. Yet at the same time, he could not rise. In fact, he didn't want to. The real question was whether he truly wanted anything at all anymore. It was as if a battle raged within him—himself against himself. Or at least, that's how it could be described. The outcome was impossible to predict. In such conflicts, even the strongest can lose when measured against infinite possible futures. There was no guarantee of survival. In either case, death remained a possibility. He had to ask himself whether it was worth risking everything—only to arrive at the same end.
The creature continued to scrape at the armor with its front limbs. Its claws screeched against the surface, leaving shallow marks, accompanied by spiraling glints of torn metal.
Suddenly, Nikita's motionless body began to tremble.
At first, slightly—like nervous tics, random and uneven.
Then the spasms grew violent.
A grotesque scream was about to change everything.