…LESS THAN 43 SECONDS…
From the soldier's thigh—tearing through the metal as though it didn't exist—filaments of muscle, hideously mutilated and moving in a way that turned the stomach, coiled around Bakunin's leg and began crushing it whole. There were too many to count, soaked in blood and rancid fat.
Almost immediately, as they tightened their grip, the creature's leg collapsed—shattered, pulped. Rivers of blood spread across the floor beneath Bakunin's agonized screams as it fell sideways, trying to drag itself away.
Nikita, meanwhile, pressed his right hand against the metal pipe lodged in his body. Though no longer in a state of desolate, near-death collapse, he showed no emotion whatsoever—only a dark, almost imperceptible presence, silent and still, as with brutal precision he snapped the front section of the pipe with nothing more than the grip of his hand. Then he raised that same arm, closing his fist as tightly as he could—so tight that the fingers of the armor were beginning to bend, grinding as the phalanges drove into the palm. With a single sharp blow, he struck the wound at full force, driving the rear section of the iron pipe free. The tip shattered on impact.
The blood barely came. Only a few drops, before the flesh began sealing the holes shut—wet, viscous sounds rising from the wound, some close to a hiss.
Alongside them, electronic grunts were emitted by the soldier, who now stood upright, motionless, like a statue, his gaze fixed on nothing for a long moment. "Rwon… Rwon." Strange sounds. They were most likely coming from the "mouth."
Very slowly, he turned toward the creature. As his head rotated, faint metallic sounds issued from the neck. It was as though his body had fused with the suit. Nikita was completely blank. That didn't mean he was absent. His oppressive presence was almost tangible.
…LESS THAN 35 SECONDS…
Bakunin, meanwhile, rose slowly as the bone and muscle tissue of its leg rapidly regenerated in a visceral, grotesque process.
The creature stood a few meters from the soldier, who loomed motionless atop the pile of iron.
It roared once. Territorial. Defensive. Clearly an act of aggression—a display of dominance. It slammed its legs against the ground, shaking the floor, moving in near-zigzags as if trying to intimidate. Each roar was worse than the last. They sounded like a chainsaw tearing through the living flesh of an innocent victim. Like the desperate screams of someone drowning in their own blood from a completely severed throat. Its teeth grew more exposed, more jagged. Its horns sharper—especially the one that had just regrown. The body began emanating a luminous glow from pulsing, macabre veins that spread upward toward the head, lighting the horns themselves in small concentrated points before flooding into the open mouth, already choked with thick black smoke that seemed to crackle with electric sparks the same color as the glow.
Blood red.
Then it roared again. This time without the agitation. Just pure terror.
But Nikita was not intimidated. Not even slightly. He didn't move—hadn't moved for a while now. He simply stood there. Watching, it seemed. Five full seconds passed. His breathing grew heavier, more measured. With each exhale, vapor escaped through the base where the air tube had been lodged. The light filtering through the warehouse cut across the shadows inside, carrying with it a heat that was as heavy and sharp as it was alive and welcome. It fell across the left side of him, leaving the rest in shadow. Behind him, the man seemed to carry something almost like a divine aura. His front was barely visible—more silhouette than shape, an unknown shadow. Something else entirely. All he did was turn. Rotate his entire body toward the creature, and stand there in absolute silence.
Those few seconds felt like an eternity. Time itself seemed to be grinding to a halt.
Then Bakunin attacked first. The demon came in with extreme aggression—shrieking and roaring as though it had lost its mind entirely. Berserk, loaded with repressed rage that was explosive and purely murderous. It charged on all fours like a bull, spitting blood and saliva as it screamed.
Nikita didn't move.
…33 SECONDS…
Bakunin was nearly on top of him. Only inches separated them. Its right foreleg was already raised, claws angled toward the soldier's head. Its jaws were inches from his skull. Its teeth were almost close enough to perforate his cranium.
Bakunin seemed desperate to get there. Ravenous for it. The mere presence of Nikita had driven it into a fury it could barely contain. Something about the man tormented it. Pushed it past reason. Perhaps even the beast itself didn't fully understand how to react.
The near-sadistic, almost conscious demon it had been moments ago seemed to have collapsed back into something purely instinctual—a creature driven by nothing but the need to kill, as though it had never been anything else.
Then Bakunin struck.
And Nikita did nothing.
Because the moment contact was made, the creature's arm and jaw were pulped in an instant—as though they had slammed into an impenetrable wall.
…30 SECONDS…