"Let them come. Grind against me if they wish. I hate them, and they hate me. We'll see who hates best." - Unknown.
With both guns in hand, Kali moved like a shadow with purpose, weaving through the wreckage and flame-licked corridors of the depot. The echoes of Priene's battle rang out ahead, metal shrieking, crates collapsing, the unmistakable percussion of steel colliding with steel.
The trail was easy to follow: scorched floor tiles, jagged gouges across support beams, shattered lighting that flickered like dying stars. The Reaper fought like a dancer forged from blade and rage, but Priene was no less terrifying, a force of unwavering will wrapped in flesh.
Kali rounded a corner just in time to see the two locked in a furious exchange at the far end of the warehouse, their silhouettes backlit by burning fuel cells. Priene ducked under a wide horizontal slash, kicked off a crate, and countered with a downward cleave. The Reaper parried it with the flat of his katana and pivoted like wind changing direction.
Kali raised both weapons and fired in unison. The bullets cut the air in tandem, aimed with surgical precision. The Reaper turned mid-motion, blade flashing like obsidian lightning, he caught the rounds mid-flight.
But they weren't ordinary rounds. The moment steel met steel, they detonated.
Kinetic charges flared, the explosions small but sharp, designed for disruption, not devastation. The Reaper was flung backward, boots skidding across the concrete floor, cloak whipping like a torn banner in the wind. He caught himself on one knee, smoke curling around him.
For the first time, he spoke. "I remember you both," he said, standing smoothly. His voice was surprisingly young, clear, bold, with an edge of arrogant calm. He turned to face Kali, one hand lazily resting on the hilt of his sword. "Though it appears much has changed since then."
Kali stepped forward, eyes sharp, stance controlled, settling beside Priene. "You speak a lot for someone who's about to die."
The Reaper smirked, cocking his head as if weighing the odds, mocking the premise. "And who's going to kill me?" he asked, voice dripping with amused contempt. "You?"
Priene didn't flinch. She raised her machete, its edge already stained with blood and burning with her vow's resonance. "My blade," she said, her voice low and certain.
The Reaper gave a small, approving nod, more entertained than intimidated. "Then come try," he said smoothly, lifting a hand to unfasten the mask concealing his face. The cloth fell away, revealing a visage untouched by hardship, young, sculpted, a bit too handsome to be real. Pale skin, dark eyes that flickered with cold amusement, and no trace of scar or wear. A face that hadn't earned its calm but carried it like a birthright.
"Mugen Ryu accepts death," he intoned, raising his blade in salute, "if it earns him."
The world exploded into motion. Priene lunged first, machete leading like a spearhead, her vow still humming through her veins. The Reaper met her head-on, katana gleaming as it sliced down to intercept. Metal shrieked against metal, sparks burst from the impact, bright as muzzle flash.
She twisted, brought her elbow into his side, but he pivoted with the strike, sweeping her legs. She hit the ground, rolled, and was back on her feet in a blink, machete already swinging again.
The Reaper flowed like liquid precision, every movement rehearsed in blood. He ducked under her blade, sidestepped the follow-up, and struck out with the blunt of his hilt, catching her jaw and sending her stumbling.
Kali opened fire from behind. Twin bursts flared from his pistols, the shots angling low to force the Reaper's attention. The swordsman spun, blade flashing in a quick arc. One bullet split in half mid-air, the other ricocheted off his shoulder guard. He staggered for only a heartbeat, but that was enough.
Priene was back in range. She roared and drove her machete into his shoulder, metal grinding against armored weave. He snarled, twisted his body to trap the blade between his ribs and breastplate, and slammed a knee into her gut. She spat blood, but held on.
Kali didn't let up.
He swapped to his automatic rifle and unloaded three quick bursts into the melee. The Reaper ducked and spun, using Priene as partial cover, but she had anticipated it. She let go of the machete entirely and slammed her forehead into his.
He reeled. Blood finally ran down his brow.
She yanked her blade free, now slick and ringing with friction-born heat. "You bleed like the rest."
He answered with a guttural laugh, equal parts admiration and fury. "So do you."
Ryu surged forward with newfound rage. His strikes came fast, no longer precise but overwhelming. He forced Priene back, step after step, until she was blocking with the flat of her blade, teeth gritted in exertion.
Kali moved in. Close-range now. He holstered one pistol, drew a blade of his own—compact, carbon-edged—and slashed at the Reaper's exposed back.
But the swordsman turned, parried both machete and knife with a single sweeping arc, the clash of steel sending vibrations up both their arms. Then he spun, kicked Kali square in the chest, sending him flying into a crate that cracked from the impact.
Kali groaned, wind knocked out of him.
Priene seized the opening, Her machete ignited with kinetic resonance. She brought it down in a mighty arc that split the ground beneath them, forcing the Reaper to leap aside.
He landed hard, favoring his left leg now.
Kali was already back on his feet, rifle up, breath shallow.
The Reaper glanced between them, his chest rising, mouth parted in shallow exhales. Sweat now dotted his brow. And for the first time since the fight began, he looked uncertain. He faltered, his stance no longer flawless. Blood soaked his side. His left foot dragged just enough to show he was slowing. But not stopping.
He charged Priene again with a final, desperate fury, his blade a whirl of deathlight and will.
Kali knew this had to end. He inhaled, slow. Focused on the weight in his chest, the cold, the ache, the loss that never really left. He let it surface. His hands trembled for a moment, then steadied. His rifle grew heavy, as the bullets left them. Not just projectiles. Memories. Emotional entropy, condensed.
Priene provided the distraction.
The first shot hit his shoulder and didn't explode. It imploded. The Reaper froze mid-strike as agony. Not physical, but soul-deep, coursed through him. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His sword arm faltered.
The second round hit his thigh and dropped him to one knee. The Reaper convulsed. His blade clattered to the ground. He clutched at nothing, his breaths ragged. His eyes went wide, not in pain, but in remembrance. He remembered his first kill. The guilt that followed. His mother's face the day he was forced to leave. His last moment of peace before the Friction took him.
The Reaper trembled, twitching as residual pain wracked his frame, lost somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.
Priene stepped in with silent resolve, her machete gleaming with blood and intent. She leaned forward, and pressed the blade against his throat. One twitch and she'd cleave him open.
But then, footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Echoing across the torn metal bones of the depot.
Priene froze mid-motion. Kali looked up, eyes narrowing.
From the far entrance, a man entered, short, compact, dressed in loose grey clothes and a worn bomber jacket like he was just out for an evening stroll. His expression was unreadable, calm to the point of absurdity in the blood-drenched ruin around him.
Priene blinked. "Darius?"
She took a step back, lowering her blade, tension flooding her voice. "How the hell are you here?"
Darius didn't answer right away. His eyes passed over the ruined battlefield, the dead guards, the unconscious Ryu, the blood-slicked walls. Then his gaze landed on Kali. And held.
"You knew," Darius said quietly.
Kali didn't flinch. "Not for long."
"Known what?" Priene snapped, head whipping between them. "What the hell are you two talking about?"
Kali exhaled, slow. "He's the leader of Willow Teeth."