The creature skittered through the sand, its legs writhing against the grain. Then, with a powerful leap, it soared into the air, its bloated underside aimed toward them. From it, thick strands of white goo flung outward—webbing.
"Guess even mutated spiders still need their webs," Theresa said, surging forward, shield raised. The sticky threads splattered against its surface, then dribbled onto the ground.
Ansel caught a glimpse of the shield—double-plated, with the inner layer forged from metal and the second likely an even stronger material. It had to weigh at least two thousand pounds, a rough and probably inaccurate estimate.
Whatwasitwitheveryoneandswingingaroundgiantweaponsliketheyweighednothing?
He darted out from behind her, his arms pumping at his sides. The terrain was nearly invisible in the darkness, but it didn't matter. The myutant's hulking form gleamed under the moonlight—that was all he needed.
As it landed, its eyes snapped toward him, locking onto the dark figure sprinting in its direction. One of its massive arms swung, aiming to swat him aside like an insect.
Ansel jumped.
His karambit hooked into the creature's leg, the force of the impact yanking him upward. He tore the blade free just as the momentum sent him flying high above its head.
He always seemed to end up airborne in these fights.
And he was still terrified of heights.
Spinning the karambits in his grip, he flipped them into a forward grip as he landed on the myutant's head.
A T-level four. If he stabbed its eye now, it would likely go berserk. And once it did, its regeneration would kick in at full force.
Still, what choice did he have?
Ansel drove both blades down, stabbing into the mushy flesh of its eye. Grey blood gushed against his hands. He didn't stop. He stabbed again. And again. And again.
The myutant thrashed wildly, its massive body twisting and spinning. As Ansel yanked his blade from its eye, he lost his grip, flung violently into the air.
"Not a bad attempt, rookie!" Theresa called out, sprinting after his shadow. "But we need you up there!"
With a powerful stomp, she planted her foot into the sand, bracing herself. Raising her shield over her head like a makeshift platform, she caught Ansel mid-fall. The moment his feet touched the surface, she pushed upward, launching him skyward once more.
"But she came and stood right by me—" Vladimir sang, sliding through the sand. His twin katana's flashed under the moonlight, carving through the myutant's front legs in a swift motion. The creature lurched forward, its balance shattered. "Just the smell of sweet perfume—"
The myutant slammed face-first into the ground, its pincers plunging deep into the sand—straight into two of its own eggs.
If stabbing its eye hadn't been enough to send it into a frenzy, this certainly was.
The creature's shriek tore through the night, a piercing sound that rattled the air, even drowning out the blaring music in Vladimir's headphones.
It reared up, its legs already regenerating, new eyes bursting from its ruined sockets. With a swift, violent motion, it lashed out—its hardened limb cleaving through the air, aimed straight for Vladimir.
"Don't worry, Leader!" Theresa called out, already in front of him, her shield raised high. Sparks erupted as the myutant's claw scraped against the reinforced metal. "I'll be your shield, like always!"
"You're still not getting a pay raise!" Vladimir shot back, slipping out from behind her. Both blades bobbed in his hands as he ducked low, slashing through the freshly regenerated legs, severing them once more.
As the creature collapsed, Vladimir pressed forward, one blade angled upward, carving a deep line along its underbelly as he ran toward its rear. A fresh spray of blood splattered across the sand, thick and steaming.
The myutant shrieked again.
Ansel, high above, watched the scene unfold. Something nagged at him. Why hadn't they gone for the head yet?
Even back during his training, it was drilled into them—decapitation was the surest way to kill a myutant for good. The human myutant in Raval had been the only known exception.
So why were they avoiding the head?
The creature towered over them, nearly thirty feet tall on its spindly, regenerating legs.
Ansel's mind raced. If Theresa had launched him up here, why couldn't she do the same for Vladimir? And what did she mean when she said they needed him up here?
The myutant shifted beneath him, its ligaments stitching back together, its body rising once more. Ansel tightened his grip, his karambits digging deep into its back. Something felt off, but before he could place it—
The creature dived.
Sand exploded around him, stinging his skin as he clung to its carapace. The world blurred, a thrashing movement as the myutant burrowed deep, twisting and flexing beneath the dunes.
He had no idea which way was up anymore—until, suddenly, the air rushed past his face, and the sky came back into view.
They weren't underground anymore.
They were high up, tens of feet in the air.
Ansel's eyes darted downward, catching the glint of the moonlight on the myutant's pincers. They were red-hot.
Beneath its mouth, a swollen sac near its neck pulsed—growing larger, filling with something volatile. And then, before he could fully process what he was seeing—
It fired.
A concentrated blast of flames erupted from its mouth, lightening up the night in a violent surge of crimson, aimed straight for the ground.
"Might just be one number to you, but the jump is astronomical."
Theresa's earlier words echoed in his mind.
Below, she slammed her shield into the sand, bracing against the scorching inferno, shielding herself and Vladimir from the firestorm.
That still didn't explain why they hadn't gone for the head.
But maybe it didn't matter.
He was already here.
All he had to do was take it off.
He could do it.
Maybe he'd been useless in Raval—but not this time.
The myutant landed on its feet, flames flickering against the ground before quickly dying out.
Ansel seized the moment.
Standing on its back, he sprinted forward, karambits gripped tight. He could cut through it—it hadn't regenerated yet. He could do this.
Planting his first karambit at the base of its skull, he dragged it downward, dashing along its side while keeping his grip firm. Unlike with the flying myutant, he wouldn't fall off this time.
Reaching the end of its neck, he pivoted midair, slashing across with his second karambit—one clean stroke from the skull down to the lower neck.
He hit the ground, blood splattering against his overcoat.
Glancing up, he saw the myutant's head lolling to the side, barely attached by a thin strand of flesh.
"Ansel, run!"
Theresa's voice rang out, her boots pounding against the sand as she sprinted toward him.
What did she mean?
He'd killed it, hadn't he? The head was about to fall—it should have fallen.
But it didn't.
Ansel looked up again.
The myutant's head had already regenerated.
And its pincers, now burning red-hot, were right next to him.
Ansel's gaze snapped to the swollen sac at the base of the myutant's neck. His earlier slash had torn through it, and now it was swelling at a terrifying rate, pressing against the creature's body as if it was about to rupture.
Itwasabouttorupture.
And he was right beneath it.
That's why they hadn't gone for the head. That's why they'd kept cutting it down instead of aiming straight for a beheading. His botched execution had triggered the creature's last resort—its suicide attack.
If it had been fully decapitated, the explosion would've been its death knell. But since it wasn't, it was simply using this as a preemptive strike, ready to flood the battlefield with flames.
"I needed you up there so you wouldn't burn alive," Theresa said, dashing toward him, her shield raised as embers rained around them. "You triggered its self-destruction. It's about to blow, but it's not going to die. It'll regenerate and do it again."
"I—I'm sorry," Ansel muttered, eyes locked on the flames spiraling across the sand.
"Don't be." Theresa's voice was steady, but her fingers tightened on her shield. The heat was scorching her arms, the metal plating starting to glow red. "After the firestorm, we have to move. You're going for its lower legs. Vladimir will hit the front legs, and when the creature falls—"
She paused, glancing at him. His face was blank.
He had no idea what she was talking about.
Theresa exhaled sharply. "Damn it. My shield's melting—I can't take another blow. So you're going to be V's shield in my place."
"Shield?" Ansel echoed. The firestorm was beginning to slow.
"Vladimir doesn't defend when he fights," she said simply. "That's why I'm here. He fights on a rhythm. All you need to do is match it."
"And if I can't—?"
The flames stopped.
Theresa threw aside her shield, its outer layer warped and dripping molten metal. In the same motion, she grabbed Ansel's wrist and flung him forward.
"You better!" she shouted.
The myutant lurched forward, its sac already beginning to regenerate. In a few seconds, it would be ready to incinerate them again.
Ansel gritted his teeth, his boots digging into the sand as he sprinted. Beside him, Vladimir was already moving—blades drawn, his pace set.
Thechorushadbegun.
Ansel struggled to keep up. Timing, rhythm, music—none of it made sense to him. But it didn't have to.
Because if there was one thing he was good at, it was watching people.
He matched Vladimir's stride, his hand already outstretched. Vladimir grinned, tossing a katana into the air. It spun once before Ansel caught it, the steel firm in his grip.
"You'regoingforitslowerlegs. Vladimir will hit the frontlegs. Andwhenthecreaturefalls—"
Ansel lunged, the blade flashing in the dark. A single slice, and the myutant's leg gave out beneath its weight.
Still, it wasn't down yet.
A second limb tore through the air, sweeping toward him. Ansel threw the blade upward, catching it just as he slid beneath the myutant's attack. In one fluid motion, he slashed.
Another limb crashed down—he twisted, dodging by inches. One more step, one final cut—he swung in a wide arc, the blade slicing clean through the last three legs.
The hind legs collapsed, now all that remained—
Was Vladimir.
He would take care of the rest. A clean beheading—that was all it would take.
But as Ansel turned, something was off.
He didn't understand rhythm, but something was wrong. Missing.
And then, he saw it.
Ansel pivoted sharply, gripping the katana's hilt and throwing it. The blade spun through the night—Vladimir's fingers closed around the handle.
"Massiah really gets all the good recruits," Vladimir grinned, adjusting his grip.
He lunged.
The creature slammed its last leg down, struggling to keep balance with only its front limbs. The strike grazed Vladimir's cheek as he moved through the sand—Ansel couldn't be the shield.
That was honestly too much to even comprehend.
But it didn't matter anymore.
Vladimir moved—both swords arcing in perfect sync. A clean, precise slash through the front legs.
The myutant crumpled.
And in the same breath—
A final step—a last strike.
A wide slash.
The creature's head hit the sand, rolling before coming to a stop.
Silence.
Theresa exhaled, flexing her burned fingers. "He actually did it," she muttered. "Somehow didn't expect him to."
Vladimir tugged his headphones down to his neck, turning to Ansel as he emerged from behind the corpse.
"You did good, kid."
"I'm sorry for overstepping, I—" He stopped, looking between them. "I did good?"
"You did good," Theresa confirmed, stepping toward him.
"I kept you on top of the myutant to protect you," she admitted. "Against creatures like this, we usually have V attack the front while Cillian handles the rear. I didn't want to put you in his place."
She tilted her head, studying him.
"But I was wrong. You are capable enough to fill those shoes."
Ansel exhaled, turning to glance at the fallen myutant. His karambits had been blown away in the earlier chaos—probably reduced to scrap.
But somehow, that didn't matter.
He had helped. He had been needed.
His presence had made a difference.
"Thank you," he said. "I still have a lot to learn, but I appreciate you guys helping me through this."
"Of course," Theresa replied, patting his shoulder—before quickly pulling back to blow on her burned palm.
"Okay, that I do feel bad about," Ansel admitted.
"No worries, part of the job," she shrugged. "But we do have a small problem."
"Yeah," Vladimir cut in, surveying the endless dunes. "How the hell do we get home? Hate to be that guy, but all I see is sand and more sand."
"Have you forgotten about your trusty navigator?"
Theresa froze, her head snapping up. "That sounded like Joe—am I hallucinating? Is he haunting me?! Am I the only one he's haunting?!"
"My name is Ryan," came the voice again, followed by approaching footsteps.
Ryan stepped out from the shadows of the dunes, brushing sand off his clothes. "And no, I am not dead."
"Ryan!" Theresa dashed toward him. "I thought the myutant ate you!"
"I managed to slip behind its jaws right before it snapped shut. But more importantly." He pointed to his side. "I found the nest. And the victims from the haven attack."
"I'm getting paid," Vladimir murmured, pumping his fist.
"What he meant to say is that we're so happy we saved these people—" Theresa sighed mid-sentence, then gave up. "Hell am I saying—we getting paid, baby!"
As she and Vladimir broke into a sprint toward the nest, boots kicking up sand, Ryan blinked. "Are they okay?"
Ansel watched them—Vladimir skipping with his headphones back on, Theresa mirroring him while still blowing air on her burned hand.
He smiled softly.
"I don't think they were ever okay."