The snow-covered valley stretched wide and jagged, like a scar etched into the mountainside. Wind howled between the cliffs, dragging mist and snow in long ribbons across the ridgeline. And down below—
Mikal Thorne ran like a living faultline.
Each step shook the ground beneath him. His boots cracked frozen earth. His fists vibrated with a deadly hum, tuned like seismic charges waiting to erupt.
Overhead, perched far across the opposite side of the valley, Maja "Våpenhånd" Gjertsen stood unmoving—eyes sharp, breath slow, body braced against the recoil of her transformed sniper cannon arm.
Target acquired.
Crack!
Another shot rang out.
The sound took half a second to reach Mikal—by the time it did, he'd already twisted mid-air, the blast screaming past him and shattering a frozen spruce behind him into splinters.
He landed hard, then exploded forward again, the ground beneath his feet vibrating violently from the accumulated pressure. A small landslide rolled behind him—dislodged by the tremor alone.
"Persistent," he growled under his breath. "Good."
Another shot hissed through the fog—he ducked under this one, letting it slam into a rock face that disintegrated under the force.
Maja, hundreds of meters away, narrowed her eyes.
"He's getting faster…"
She adjusted her aim, breath syncing with the target's rhythm. Her arm shifted—mechanical joints whirring—as her cannon evolved into a longer-barreled high-velocity railshot, lined with rotating stabilizers.
"Let's test your reflexes, Thorne."
Down below, Mikal wasn't just running—he was reading the earth.
Every step sent micro-vibrations forward, giving him a mental map of terrain density, slope, and weak points.
A quake of his own design.
Can't get pinned here. That sniper's built for suppression, not killshots. They want to funnel me. Herd me like a sheep.
He leapt over a frozen ridge—BOOM!—a rail-blast detonated behind him.
He landed on a downward slope, slammed a palm into the rock—and sent a shock pulse directly forward, collapsing a line of snow and stone that would have guided him directly into a kill zone.
"Not today."
From the ridge, Maja readjusted.
"He's… thinking," she muttered. "He's not just rampaging."
Behind her, drones hovered, tracking Mikal's speed and trajectory.
"Coordinates locked. Projected path: southwest curve, avoiding rune net."
Maja activated her comms.
"This is Våpenhånd. Thorne is adapting to suppressive fire. If we want to stop him, we'll need close-quarters engagement."
Static buzzed.
"Understood," came a reply.
"Prepare for intercept."
"Hilde is moving in."
Maja's arm shifted again—now a sleek, multi-barreled repeater loaded with concussive blast rounds.
Buy time. Guide him. Don't let him reach the house.
She fired again.
Mikal roared, shoulder-first through a frozen ledge that burst apart like glass.
He was bleeding now. Not from a wound—but from strain.
His muscles twitched. The vibrations rattled his bones.
"Just a little farther…"
Through the thinning fog, he could almost see the edge of the tree line.
And beyond that—
Bjørnevika.
Mikal Thorne tore through the final line of pine trees, his boots kicking up snow and earth as he charged toward his destination: the remote government-funded residence sheltering Laurick Andersson. Not Bjørnevika itself—no, this was personal.
He could almost feel it. That chaotic storm hiding inside the boy. That pressure. The kind that didn't belong to someone sleeping in safety.
He grinned.
"Let's see what you've become."
Then—
Crack!
The snow to his left exploded, a shockwave ripping through the air before he could react.
Out of the smoke came a fist wreathed in white-hot heat.
Boom!
It connected with his ribs, detonating like a sledgehammer made of fire.
Mikal gasped as he was sent slamming into a boulder, skidding across the snow with steam trailing from his jacket.
Before he could get his bearings—
BOOM!
She was already on him again.
Hilde "Flammejenta" Akselsen didn't let him breathe.
Her fists glowed bright orange, shimmering waves of heat radiating from her shoulders as she slammed him again, each punch stacking momentum, temperature, and raw power thanks to her quirk: Hellfist.
Her barrage was relentless.
Left hook – faster.
Right cross – hotter.
Rising elbow – stronger.
CRACK!
She sent him flying with a spinning back-kick, flame bursting from her heel.
Mikal groaned, tumbling through a snowbank, coughing up steam.
"Okay... that was new."
He pulled himself upright, bones rattling with suppressed vibrations.
"You're not the sniper."
Hilde stood between him and the path forward, fists raised, snow hissing as it vaporized beneath her feet.
"And you're not the first overconfident bastard I've burned through."
Mikal smirked and cracked his neck.
"Finally. A warm-up that hits back."
He clapped his hands together—BOOM—and the shockwave buckled the ground in a wide arc. Trees shook. Snow blasted outward.
But Hilde didn't flinch. She charged through it, eyes blazing.
Their next clash was thunder on snow.
Mikal countered with seismic punches, each strike sending ripples through the terrain—but Hilde weaved around them, her movements precise, blisteringly fast, each dodge turning into a counterattack that ignited with every strike.
He was grinning at first.
Until the rhythm turned.
Until her strikes became too fast.
Her pressure too constant.
"You're not just strong," Mikal growled, backpedaling now.
He hurled a palm forward—shockwave—but Hilde spun mid-air and punched through it, her knuckles erupting in a burst of fire that knocked Mikal into a kneeling position.
Steam poured off her body.
"You came here looking for a monster," she said. "But all you've found… is a bad idea."
Mikal staggered to one knee, chest heaving, his body trembling not just from his quirk now—but from exertion.
His fingers twitched.
I underestimated her.
Far off, the sound of Maja's next shot thundered down the valley.
But Mikal didn't flinch.
He smiled again—just slightly.
"This is getting interesting."
The ground shattered beneath the next clash—snow blasted upward like a geyser, and fragments of earth were flung into the air like shrapnel.
Hilde Akselsen came down hard with a flaming axe kick, her leg trailing a white-hot arc that cracked the frozen ground upon impact. Mikal Thorne rolled aside just in time, but the blast still sent him skidding back, digging trenches into the frostbitten slope with his boots.
"You hit like a meteor!" Mikal growled, half-grinning, half-winded.
"You vibrate like a loose washing machine," Hilde shot back, sweat mixing with steam across her brow.
She launched forward again, a blur of fire and fury.
Mikal planted his foot and slammed both palms into the ground—his Vibration Manipulation quirk activated in full force.
BOOM–BOOM–BOOM.
A rhythmic, rolling shockwave pulsed outward like a heartbeat from the earth itself. Trees shook violently, snow slid from the high slopes, and Hilde's charge staggered for half a second.
But a half-second wasn't enough.
She leapt forward through the tremors, body spinning as her fists superheated with her quirk's build-up. The more she punched—the faster, hotter, and stronger she became.
She unleashed a rapid flurry of blows—left, right, uppercut, straight to the chest.
Mikal managed to block a few, but each impact chipped away at his defense—until one final haymaker crashed into his jaw, sending him spinning through a tree and slamming into the snow below.
Mikal gasped, blood in his mouth, ears ringing.
He was having the time of his life.
"You're relentless," he coughed, laughing.
Steam hissed off his bruised body as he pressed his hands into the ground again.
Don't run. Reset. Regain rhythm.
He pushed up with a snarl—and the ground beneath him fractured, channeling the vibrations into a single focused pulse that launched him back toward Hilde like a cannonball.
She didn't flinch.
She braced.
Come on.
He slammed into her—shockwaves rippling through the area—but Hilde held her ground, feet sliding back, boots tearing through the earth.
She gritted her teeth and headbutted him, her forehead flaring with heat as it collided with his.
CRACK!
Both staggered.
Both smiled.
Then Hilde stepped back, panting, smoke rising from her shoulders.
Mikal dropped to a knee, his legs shaking—not from fear, but from reaching the upper edge of his control.
"You're not just a wall," he muttered. "You're a damn volcano."
"And you're stalling," Hilde replied, cracking her neck.
"You were heading for Laurick. But not anymore."
Mikal wiped his mouth, breath heavy.
The rage he'd entered with was slowly cooling… replaced with something else.
Uncertainty.
Fatigue.
And… a spark of respect.
High above, Maja watched through her scope.
"They're both nearing their limits," she said into her comms.
"Any sign of fallback behavior?"
"None," came Vegar's calm voice.
"But Laurick… he knows something's coming."
And in the house, sitting quietly on the floor, Laurick opened his eyes.
The shockwaves had reached him—subtle, but clear.
He stood up, exhaled, and looked toward the door.
"It's starting."
The air cracked with the collision of power and pressure.
Hilde's fists flared like sunbursts as she collided with Mikal again and again, each strike echoing across the valley with a concussive boom. Her body steamed, each blow compounding—hotter, faster, stronger.
Mikal staggered, boots sliding in the churned snow, ribs rattling with each hit. But he still grinned.
"I haven't felt this alive in years."
With a defiant roar, he slammed both palms to the ground, sending out a spiral of quakewaves that buckled the terrain beneath Hilde's feet. She slipped—just for a moment—and Mikal capitalized.
He leapt into a spinning kick, his heel charged with raw seismic energy—
BOOM!
The kick connected, sending Hilde flying into a slope with enough force to crack stone.
Back at the Safehouse
Laurick's eyes snapped open.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
But inside, something had changed.
The Dreamcatcher, resting beside him on the desk, pulsed in erratic waves—its soft silver glow now flaring with brief flashes of violet.
Laurick clutched his chest. His breath hitched.
Something's wrong.
A dull pounding was growing in his head.
Like footsteps in his mind.
Like breathing that wasn't his own.
"They're waking up…"
The Nightmare Monsters. The ones locked in his dreamworld.
They weren't asleep anymore.
[Inside the Dreamscape]
The dreamworld rippled like disturbed water.
And in the far reaches of the dark horizon, the Moon turned.
So did the Man with the Drill.
The Pteranodon's feathers bristled.
The Pink Cube emitted a warning pulse in high-pitched Morse.
And standing before them all, The Wizard, robe billowing in a non-existent wind, whispered:
"He's tasting combat. Fear. Pressure. He's reaching."
Behind the Wizard, the Detective adjusted his hat.
"He's bleeding over," he murmured. "Just a little more."
Back in Reality
Laurick doubled over, his fingers clawing at the desk.
His reflection in the window flickered—just for a second—replaced with the silhouette of something taller, darker… not entirely human.
He gasped—and the desk beneath his hand twisted, the shadow of his palm pulsing with subtle static, as if reality itself had shifted.
A lightbulb above flickered.
"No," he whispered. "Not now."
But deep inside, his quirk was responding to the bloodlust outside. To the power. To the potential threat to his safety.
And something was pressing against the surface.
Outside – The Fight Continues
Mikal sprinted forward again, ribs aching, breath ragged. Hilde had risen—bloodied but grinning, flames dancing along her fists once more.
But then—both fighters paused.
Mikal staggered, glancing toward the house beyond the hill.
His eyes twitched.
He felt it.
So did Hilde.
A pressure. Like something massive just breathed.
"What… was that?" she asked under her breath.
Mikal turned slightly, brow furrowing.
"That's not you, is it?"
Hilde shook her head.
"No. That's him."
Inside the Safehouse
Laurick stood.
Steam rose off his shoulders, his pulse loud in his ears.
A faint green glow sparked along his fingers—just like The Wizard's lightning.
He closed his hand into a trembling fist.
"I won't lose control."
But the Dreamcatcher flickered, her digital voice barely a whisper.
"You're already opening the door…"
The battlefield near the government-built safehouse crackled with fading heat and residual tremors.
Mikal Thorne stood still, his boots embedded in churned-up frost, chest heaving. His eyes weren't on Hilde anymore—they were fixed on the house in the distance. Something was radiating from it. Something old. Heavy. Familiar, in the worst possible way.
He's waking up…
Hilde didn't press her advantage—she too was drawn to the sudden shift in atmosphere. The oppressive, low-frequency hum in the air. A feeling like reality had just blinked.
"That pressure… it's coming from the kid," she muttered.
Before Mikal could speak—
CRACK!
A massive cannonball, fully formed from invisible force, slammed into his back and sent him crashing into a slope of frozen earth.
From the side, Brynjar Paul "My Gig" Oliverson slid into view, his arms miming the recoil of a freshly fired bazooka, a wide grin on his face.
"You guys forget the plan already?" he shouted, conjuring a new air-formed greatsword with a sweeping gesture. "I'm the distraction!"
Mikal growled, the snow around him vibrating as he forced himself upright.
"You people are really starting to annoy me."
Above the Ridge – Eastern Overwatch Position
Maja "Våpenhånd" Gjertsen lay prone, one arm fully morphed into a long-barrel rail-lance, her eye locked behind a glowing scope.
Her HUD tracked Mikal's shifting posture—calculating angles, distance, and vibration patterns from his last few shockwave discharges.
Her expression was hard, focused.
Behind her, standing near the cliff's edge like a sentry etched into the ice, was Tormod "Runesetter" Iskesson. His hands were stained with residual rune-light, his inscribed defensive lattice now complete across the hillside.
"All rune anchors are holding," he said calmly. "Containment perimeter is stable."
Maja didn't respond immediately. Her hand twitched, adjusting her aim slightly.
"Something's off."
Tormod glanced down toward the house in the valley below. "You feel it too?"
Maja's grip tightened on her rail-lance.
"Yeah. Pressure spike. Not seismic. Not him."
Her gaze shifted—past Mikal, past Brynjar and Hilde—toward the safehouse.
"It's coming from inside."
Inside the Government-Built Safehouse
The lights above flickered in rhythm with a slow, ominous pulse.
Laurick Andersson stood motionless in the center of the hallway. The Dreamcatcher sat idly on the nearby table, flickering erratically with silver and violet pulses.
He exhaled slowly.
The walls seemed closer now.
The room too quiet.
Every heartbeat felt louder. He could hear his own blood.
"It's getting harder to ignore," he whispered.
Behind his eyes, the dreamworld stirred.
In the corner of his vision, he saw a flicker—an image of the Moon, watching him from the dreamscape's horizon.
And then—
Silence.
Laurick stepped forward, reached for the door—
—and opened it.
Snow and wind greeted him as he walked out onto the frozen porch.
The sky was low and gray.
And in the distance—
He saw the battle.
The heroes.
The villain.
The trembling forest.
The dream pressing against his skin like a second heartbeat.
"I didn't want this," he said quietly. "But I think I'm done hiding."