The air thickened. For a heartbeat, silence reigned—just the faint hiss of steam from the pipes, the low hum of a thousand breaths held in the dark.
Then the first voice broke through. "Get her!"
The room exploded.
The Blood Rats surged like a tide of motion—pipes, chains, knives flashing beneath the dim orange lights. The noise was thunderous, a living roar echoing through metal corridors. Their movements weren't random; they swarmed with precision, each group of ten flowing in formation, each strike meant to overwhelm.
But Bia didn't move.
Not at first.
Her golden eyes narrowed slightly—just enough for light to catch.
And then—she was gone.
The first group reached where she had stood. Empty air.
A split second later, the sound came— WHUMP. A pulse of pressure burst outward as three men crumpled mid-stride, their bodies spinning from invisible blows.
She reappeared behind them, palm still extended, the faint shimmer of golden energy coiling around her fingers like smoke.
Before anyone could react, she vanished again.
Her speed was not human—it wasn't even visible. Every movement left only a trace: the flutter of her coat, the echo of her step, the low hum of displaced air.
A man swung a metal bar toward her face—she leaned just an inch, the weapon slicing empty space. Her hand rose, fingers barely brushing his wrist, and a shockwave of force rippled through him. His arm went limp; his knees hit the ground.
He gasped in pain, clutching his side as if gravity itself had turned against him.
She was already gone.
"Surround her!" someone shouted. Fifty men obeyed instantly, circling from every direction.
They charged.
Bia exhaled once—softly, almost bored—and stepped forward. The ground cracked beneath her heel.
In the space of a blink, her leg snapped upward, catching one man under the chin. The impact wasn't loud, but the air itself trembled. He was airborne before the sound reached anyone's ears.
She twisted on the same pivot, elbow meeting another's ribs with pinpoint accuracy. The man folded inward, his weapon clattering to the floor.
Her hand followed through—open-palmed, graceful, final. It connected with a third attacker's shoulder, and the shock sent him spinning backward as if struck by a hurricane gust.
Every strike came with precision—mathematical, divine. Every target hit a vital point that neutralized, not destroyed. Pain blossomed like light. Bodies fell in waves.
By the time the circle closed again, it was half the size—and she still hadn't broken her rhythm.
The Blood Rats fought like they lived—desperate, fast, relentless. But their desperation met the cold perfection of a goddess.
She didn't dodge—she moved through. Their attacks weren't blocked; they were redirected by air currents she shaped with her movement.
A punch came from her right. She caught the wrist, pivoted, and used the man's momentum to drive him into another's chest. Both collapsed.
A chain whipped toward her neck—she tilted her head slightly, caught it mid-air, and yanked. The attacker stumbled forward into her knee. The crack of impact echoed, followed by a groan that melted into silence.
Another group charged with batons. Bia spun low, sweeping her leg across the ground. A golden ripple followed her movement, sweeping through the group like a wave through grass. Every single one of them hit the ground simultaneously, clutching chests, ribs, arms—groaning, windless, overwhelmed.
The lights flickered. Dust fell from the ceiling.
She didn't breathe hard. She didn't even look ruffled.
Her coat barely swayed as she straightened, scanning the room.
Hundreds were down. Dozens more hesitated.
Their eyes darted across the floor where their comrades writhed, clutching at ribs, arms, and legs. Not broken—but screaming with the ache of impact so deep it rattled their bones.
Her power wasn't blood. It was pressure. Every blow carried the weight of a collapsing world condensed into a pinpoint touch.
Someone screamed, "She's not human! She's not—"
Bia appeared before him before the sentence finished. Her hand pressed lightly against his chest. A ripple of golden light passed through him like a heartbeat magnified by a thousandfold.
He gasped, falling to his knees, clutching the center of his body as if the air itself had turned solid inside his lungs.
She stepped past him, silent.
They came again, smaller groups now—five here, three there, all driven by adrenaline and fear. It didn't matter.
She walked through them as if through a storm of paper. Every step was a counterattack. Every motion, a command.
One swing—she ducked. A kick—she sidestepped. An overhead strike—she caught it with two fingers and snapped her wrist, sending the weapon spinning through the air like a comet before it embedded itself into a wall.
Her strikes were sounds. Each impact echoed sharp and rhythmic: THUD. CRACK. WHOOSH. THUD.
Bodies hit the ground in a grim, synchronized percussion.
The floor became littered with groaning men, their breaths ragged, their limbs trembling, clutching at the points where her blows had landed—burning, aching, pulsing with pain that felt far too clean to be mortal.
By the time the last one fell, the echoes of her movements were still bouncing off the metal walls.
She hadn't even broken a sweat.
For a long moment, she stood still at the center of the wreckage.
The air shimmered faintly with golden motes—residue of her aura. Her eyes glowed faintly in the gloom, calm, untroubled, almost disappointed.
Around her, hundreds of Blood Rats lay on the ground, moaning softly, clutching bruised torsos, gasping for air that seemed too heavy to draw. The strongest among them tried to stand—only to stagger, fall again, and stay down.
The room that had been a roaring hive minutes before was now silent but for the sound of dripping water and quiet groans.
She took one step forward—her boot splashing softly through a puddle—and the entire chamber seemed to hold its breath.
Her voice cut through the quiet like silk through smoke.
"Is this all the dark can offer me?"
Her words weren't cruel. They were factual. Observational. Like the statement of a judge who had just delivered a verdict.
And then— a slow clap broke the silence.
From the shadows of an upper walkway, a figure emerged—calm, composed, smiling faintly.
Riku Kazanari. The Commander of the Blood Rats.
He leaned against a railing, eyes sharp, a half-grin cutting through the haze. The dim light caught the curve of his jaw, the glint of a chain around his neck.
He looked down at her—the goddess standing amidst the ruin of his army—and laughed softly, not in mockery, but in recognition.
"Well," he said, voice smooth and steady, "so the stories were true. The slums really did give birth to something divine."
He tilted his head, that crooked smile widening. "You're strong, lady. But tell me—can even a goddess drown in the dark?"
Bia lifted her gaze toward him, unblinking, her expression unreadable. The air around her shifted, faint gold light flickering across her hands like sunlight on water.
"Then come," she said. "Let the dark try."
The clang of Riku's boots echoed through the silent chamber as he dropped from the railing above.
Metal screamed under his landing, dust curling up from the ground around him. He stood tall, rolling his shoulders, a quiet smirk cutting across his sharp face.
Hundreds of his men groaned on the floor around them, the remnants of a failed storm.
But Riku's confidence didn't waver.
"You really did all this alone, huh?" he asked, walking toward her with an easy, loose stride. "Guess the rumors about the Kogane Dragons' new queen weren't exaggerated."
Bia didn't answer. Her gaze followed him, calm and silent—eyes like molten gold reflecting dim, orange light.
He stopped a few meters away, the faint hum of fluorescent bulbs buzzing above them.
"I've fought men who could tear steel," he said, cracking his neck. "I've fought faster. But gods?" His grin sharpened. "Never got the chance."
He raised his fist. "So don't disappoint me."
He vanished.
The sound came first—the pop of air displacement as his feet launched from the ground. Then came the flicker of movement, too fast for most eyes to track.
Riku's fist was already at her cheek before the echo of his step reached the walls.
Bia turned her head slightly. His strike grazed air.
She blinked once. His knee followed—a low, rising strike aimed at her ribs. She leaned aside, letting it pass within a hair's width. The wind pressure brushed against her side, making her coat ripple.
Then, suddenly, she was gone.
Riku's eyes widened. A fraction later, he felt it—a sharp impact against his back, precise, clean, enough to send him stumbling forward.
He spun on his heel, eyes alive with thrill. "Fast," he hissed, grinning. "But not faster than me."
He came again, faster this time. Every punch sharper, every kick cleaner. He weaved through the air like water turned solid, each move flowing into the next with no pause. His fighting style was wild but calculated—chaos guided by instinct, a storm that danced to its own rhythm.
And Bia— watched.
She dodged without haste, without strain. Every time his fist passed through the space she occupied, she was already gone—her movement so fluid it felt less like reaction and more like premonition.
Her eyes followed him quietly, studying.
He's refined, she thought. Sloppy on the edges, but adaptable. His body and mind move as one.
She let him strike again, and this time, she didn't move.
His fist connected squarely with her abdomen.
The sound echoed—a solid THUMP that made the floor tremble. Riku smirked.
Then his smirk faded.
She didn't flinch. Didn't even exhale.
He pulled back, eyes narrowing, knuckles aching from the sheer resistance of her skin. It was like punching sculpted stone.
"What… the—"
She stepped forward before he could finish. Her index finger tapped his chest lightly—barely a touch.
A pulse of golden energy erupted, throwing him backward like he'd been struck by a sledgehammer. He crashed into a pillar, coughing from the shock.
Still, he laughed. "Okay," he said, pushing himself upright, grin widening. "Now you're just showing off."
They clashed again. This time, the sound filled the entire chamber—echoes bouncing through the tunnels like war drums.
Riku moved with impossible speed, a blur of fists and kicks. He used walls, pipes, debris—anything to gain advantage. His style had no pattern, no rhythm, yet somehow it flowed like music, each attack unpredictable but connected.
He twisted midair, spinning into a flurry of strikes that cracked against the air around her. His heel came down like thunder. His elbow shot out with whip-like force.
And Bia— met him halfway.
For the first time, she blocked. Not with aggression—just quiet precision.
Her forearm caught his kick. Her palm deflected his fist. Her body turned with each strike, using his own momentum to unbalance him. Every time they connected, a low boom rolled through the floor.
The energy between them thickened—the aura of a mortal who burned every ounce of himself to fight, and a goddess who had yet to breathe.
She moved like liquid light, her presence filling the room even when she stood still. Her strikes weren't wild; they were elegant, deliberate, inevitable.
Riku's attacks intensified, his grin feral, his adrenaline boiling. He didn't notice her small smile—the faintest curve of her lips.
He's good, she thought. But he still believes he's in control.
She let him hit her again—a spinning backfist that connected with her jaw. The impact cracked the air. He followed instantly with a heel kick that struck her shoulder.
Two perfect hits. Both times, she didn't move. Didn't react.
No bruise. No blood. Just a quiet, golden glow beneath her skin.
Riku stepped back, panting lightly, realization creeping in.
She tilted her head, eyes soft with amusement. "You're skilled," she said calmly. "Unrefined, but clever. You've turned chaos into art."
Her fingers flexed slightly, the air around her beginning to hum. "But let's stop playing."
The air collapsed inward.
Riku froze as the weight of her aura hit him—an invisible force pressing down like gravity intensified a hundredfold. His muscles strained just to stay standing.
She didn't move quickly this time.
She walked toward him.
Each step was deliberate, silent, but every footfall carried a shockwave that rippled through the air. Dust rose in soft circles around her boots.
Her hand rose.
Palm open.
The next instant—she vanished.
Then came the impact.
Her strike connected with his midsection.
No sound—just a ripple of light, and then he was airborne.
He hit the far wall, the shock throwing cracks through the concrete. Before he could fall, she appeared again—this time behind him—her elbow slamming into his back with pinpoint accuracy.
He spun midair, body folding, the breath ripped from his lungs.
She caught his arm, twisted, and slammed him downward with enough precision to crater the ground beneath them—but without breaking a single bone.
He gasped, kneeling, his vision blurring.
And through it all—she stood above him, calm, unmarked, her expression faintly warm.
"This," she said quietly, "is five percent."
Riku tried to move—his instincts screamed at him to get up, to fight, to not bow. But his body wouldn't obey. Every nerve felt alive with pressure, every muscle trembling beneath the weight of the force she had unleashed.
Still, he grinned weakly. "Five percent, huh?"
She crouched before him, eyes meeting his—gold reflecting black.
"Yes," she said softly. "If I used any more, you wouldn't still be breathing."
Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. The aura around her dimmed, the crushing pressure fading. She stood again, looking around the chamber—at the fallen swarm, at the silence that had replaced chaos.
The goddess exhaled, a slow, steady breath, and her voice filled the space like a whisper of thunder.
"The dark can't drown me," she said. "It only reflects my light."
Riku lowered his head, laughing softly through the pain. And though he couldn't stand, he did what no one in the slums had ever seen him do— he bowed.