My body is wrecked.
Every muscle is screaming, my lungs are on fire, and every breath feels like a battle. The Fusion drained me.
— Finally... some peace.
My eyelids feel heavy, and the ringing in my ears still echoes from the shock. But rest is a luxury I can't afford.
BAM!
A vibration in the air. A cold, clinical metallic echo.
At the end of the alley, massive shadows emerge.
At first, they're indistinct. Then, under the faint glow of urban lamps, their silhouettes take shape.
Knights.
Their techno-magical armor pulses with a bluish glow, moving like living beasts with each step.
Ancient engravings snake across the black metal, inscribing a forgotten language.
The air cools.
Every step is a death sentence.
The clinking of chains shatters the silence, a sinister whisper that echoes against the walls.
No hesitation. No panic.
Their movements are precise. Their presence overwhelming.
A sharp sound. CLACK. One of the Knights adjusts his gauntlet.
Another slides his fingers through a dull crackling sound.
Their weapons retract and morph, as if they can sense my panic.
They know.
They know I'm on my last legs.
— Escape plan? I whisper, my throat dry.
— According to my calculations, you have a 2% chance of survival at your current level. However, you can still try.
Her sarcasm makes me want to upload a virus into her.
Flee? Scratch that off the list.
Fight? With what? My last kick and my wannabe ninja mode?
They're closing in. Their formation tightening.
A massacre in the making.
Then, a detail.
Objects highlighted by a bluish halo appear in my vision.
Iris never misses a thing.
— Crafter Mode activated.
My eyes scan the area.
Broken bricks. A rusty tin can. Twisted pieces of metal.
A flash.
Sunday afternoon. MacGyver on the living room screen.
An old memory.
— Iris, I think I can craft something with this.
— Analysis in progress. Possibility of distraction via homemade detonation... if you survive it.
— Not the time for jokes.
A blue flash on the interface.
[New creation available: Catalyst]
A translucent holographic capsule floats above my palm.
Inside, a colorless liquid pulses, vibrating like a beating heart.
— Iris: Synthesized glycerin. Highly unstable. Detonation on impact.
I swallow hard.
— You could've told me you could do that earlier!
— You didn't ask.
Of course.
My fingers shake as I insert the capsule into the tin can.
I stuff it with metal debris, crush a brick to compress it.
— Iris: 60% chance of controlled explosion. 40% chance of you taking it to the face.
— Love your stats.
The Knights are only a few meters away.
Their visors lock onto me.
I feel the air freeze, like time itself is hesitating to let me live. One of the Knights moves closer, his weapon already drawn, a blade pulsing with bluish light, ready to strike. I don't have time.
— Stay alert. Move faster.
No choice.
I toss the homemade grenade.
BAM!
The explosion tears through the alley.
A blinding white flash.
A brutal shockwave.
My skin burns.
An invisible sledgehammer slams me against the wall.
A metallic taste floods my mouth.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
Shouts.
Figures on the ground.
Others taking cover.
Metal fragments flying in all directions.
Pure chaos.
Then I hear it.
The rhythm of the Ravanne.
A deep, hypnotic beat.
This is my chance.
— Congratulations, Master William. New skill acquired: Crafting. You gain a level.
No time to savor it.
Run.
Breathe.
Flee.
Left.
Right.
Zigzag.
— Iris, tell me your GPS is updated!
— 30 meters ahead, unarmed individual. Potential ally.
An ally? Really?
I look up.
An old rasta.
Scruffy beard. Worn clothes.
A gaze sharp as a blade.
He signals.
Calm.
No panic.
A bewildering confidence.
— Hey! Brother! Over here, quick!
This guy comes out of nowhere.
Right on time.
I grit my teeth.
The timing is too perfect.
Trap?
Coincidence?
The sound of the Knights grows closer.
Between heavily armed mercenaries and a rasta smoking his joint...
I choose the joint.
He slips into a dark hallway.
I follow.
His steps make no sound.
He almost floats.
A scent of raw tobacco and dry wood surrounds him.
An ancient smell. Almost familiar.
A shiver runs through me.
A flash.
The worn leather of an old Peugeot 504 seat.
The hum of the radio, a Bob Marley song blending with muffled laughter.
The sun setting on the horizon, painting the road red.
I'm there with my big sister, curled up in the backseat.
Kaya sitting in front, her head resting on the headrest.
My sister and I admiring her dreads, our hands brushing them.
I hear my uncle, eyes fixed on the road, cracking a joke to my dad, who laughs heartily.
Everything is so alive, so simple. No Knights. No dark alleys. Just… us.
A forgotten memory.
A suspended moment.
Frozen in the amber of time.
I blink.
The rasta glances at me from the corner of his eye.
— Move it! Mister, the bad road's ahead, brother!!
A slight smile.
As if he knew.
The sound of the mercenaries fades.
Silence closes in on us.
Only the irregular thump of my right boot breaks the darkness.
Who is this guy?
A savior?
Or just another fool in this ruined city?