The hum of the Academy's silent-runner transport was the only sound breaking the night as we plunged into Sector 7. The district was a stark, brutal contrast to the Academy's sterile perfection. Here, the air hung heavy with the scent of decay and damp concrete. Dim, flickering streetlights fought a losing battle against the omnipresent shadows that clung to crumbling buildings and forgotten alleyways. It felt less like a city and more like the skeletal remains of one, a perfect hunting ground for the kind of vermin Vance Krait commanded.
Kai was already a shadow within the shadows as we disembarked, his gear a darker silhouette against the night. His voice, crisp and low over our comms, was our only guide. "Perimeter clear. Move as practiced. No noise, no mistakes."
We flowed through the labyrinthine alleys, our six months under Kai's iron fist manifesting in every synchronized step. My boots made no sound on the broken pavement. Kaito moved with the silent grace of a hunter, his Blue Spectra a suppressed pulse beneath his skin. Emi, a whisper of motion beside him, was a study in controlled power, her Green Spectra making her reflexes unnaturally sharp. We were a single, lethal unit, our senses tuned to the subtle shifts in the stale air, the distant, unsettling sounds that hinted at the district's hidden life. Every shadow was a potential threat, every gust of wind a warning.
We reached the designated warehouse, a hulking, derelict structure that blended seamlessly into the urban decay. It was the kind of place where deals were made in the dark, far from prying eyes. We moved into our pre-planned positions, scattering around the perimeter.
Kai took a primary forward position, a ghost by the main entrance, and I moved alongside him. My Green Spectra felt a familiar hum, ready to amplify my every strike. Kaito and Emi positioned themselves deeper in the backline, near what looked like a secondary access point.
"Emi, defensive perimeter. Secure our flank," Kai ordered, his voice barely a breath. Her Green Spectra glowed faintly, ready to absorb impacts, her body a coiled spring prepared for any physical challenge. She was all enhanced reflexes and raw resilience.
"Kaito, tactical oversight. Overwatch on points Alpha through Gamma. Call out any shifts, any new contacts. Be ready to fortify Emi's position if needed," Kai continued. Kaito's subtle nod was his only acknowledgement, his eyes already sweeping the dark interior through a thermal overlay, his Blue Spectra already analyzing.
Our objective was clear: no lethal force. Just immobilization and knockout. Precision was paramount.
We settled in, the oppressive silence of the warehouse broken only by the faint hum of unseen machinery and the distant, almost imperceptible sounds of Sector 7. The minutes stretched, thick with anticipation. We were here early, and now we waited for the mole's signal, a silent, unseen cue that Vance Krait had arrived and the black market deal was underway. The tension in the air was a living thing, tightening with every passing second.
Kai's voice broke the silence. "Go. Now."
From the shadows above, Squad Beta-Seven dropped like hawks. No hesitation. No warning. The impact of our landing was thunder across concrete.
I landed first—my boots crushing a crate lid beneath me as I struck the first guard from above. My knee slammed into his shoulder, snapping it inward with a sickening crunch. He collapsed before he could shout.
Emi's landing was a spinning blur of motion. She drove both feet into her target's back, sending him flying headfirst into a wall. He didn't move again.
Kaito came down like a guillotine—shoulder-checking a third man into a steel beam so hard the metal reverberated. The guard slumped unconscious at its base.
Then, we surged forward—no pause, no space to breathe.
I swept another guard's legs out and struck his throat before he hit the ground. One gasp, then stillness.
Kaito ducked beneath a wild punch, came up with a brutal elbow to the jaw. As the man staggered, Emi launched off Kaito's back, flipping through the air and landing a heel into another's collarbone—he dropped like a bag of bricks.
I caught the last one mid-charge, turned his momentum against him, and drove him through a stack of crates. Wood splintered. He didn't get back up.
Six bodies. Down. In seconds.
But the moment our boots stopped echoing, we heard the sound.
A slow clap.
Measured. Mocking.
From the far end of the warehouse, between rusted shelves and crates of stolen tech, stepped a man with a clean-cut coat, half-buttoned, and an unreadable smirk on his lips. His eyes glinted like daggers behind tinted lenses.
Vance Krait.
His gaze passed over us—briefly—but it lingered on Kai. Then it sharpened.
"…You," he said softly.
Kai took one step forward, voice low and lethal. "Krait."
There was a history in that word. A weight.
Vance's smile spread. "Been a while, hasn't it?" He tilted his head. "You're still wearing it, I see." Kai didn't respond. He just stepped forward again, body taut with rage barely held in check. Vance's three top men stepped from the shadows behind him—each marked with hardened eyes, thick builds, and a steadiness that no other grunt had shown. Elite Greens. Not just physically trained—they had experience.
"No speeches?" Vance asked, pulling off his gloves with a slow, exaggerated flair. "No justice talk? Shame. She would've said something noble."
Kai's stance shifted. "Don't say her name."
Vance's grin turned wolfish. "She screamed it before the end."
That's when Kai moved.
Their clash was instant, explosive—a blur of fists, elbows, feints and counters. Kai's strikes were surgical, his form honed. Vance blocked each blow with unnatural calm, like he was reading Kai before he even moved.
And we didn't have time to watch. Because the three elite Greens were on us.
Kaito's opponent was tall, lean, and deceptively fast. They closed distance in a heartbeat, fists blurring. Kaito ducked a high kick, then retaliated with a sweeping kick of his own. The man leapt over it, countering with a sharp knee—Kaito caught it, twisted, and shoved him back.
The clash continued like a chess match in motion—feint, strike, analyze, counter.
Kaito adapted well. But his enemy wasn't slowing.
A solid jab broke through Kaito's guard, rocking his head to the side. He reeled, blocked the follow-up, then landed a counter elbow—but it barely staggered the man. The tide shifted. A hook to Kaito's ribs. A rising strike to his chin.
Kaito dropped to one knee.
His opponent moved in, one last spinning kick connecting with brutal precision to the side of his head.
Kaito hit the floor hard.
"KAITO!" Emi cried, launching herself toward him.
But her own opponent was already in motion—now joined by the one who had downed Kaito.
Two-on-one.
Emi didn't retreat. She charged.
Her foot connected with one's chest, forcing him back. She ducked a punch from the other, countered with a palm strike to his throat.
For a brief moment, she held her ground.
But they pressed harder. Hits started to slip through. One cracked against her jaw. Another slammed into her shoulder.
Still, she stood.
Until they struck together—one feinting low, the other crashing a punch across her temple. She dropped.
I saw them fall.
And I snapped.
I moved like instinct. My Spectra flared, Green light threading through my limbs. I met the trio head-on.
One charged—I caught his wrist, twisted, elbowed him in the throat.
Another came from behind—I spun, ducked his punch, drove a fist into his gut so deep he gagged.
The third grabbed me—I flipped him over my shoulder and kicked him midair into the wall.
But they regrouped.
Three against one.
They attacked in rhythm. One from the front. One from the flank. One from behind.
I fought back like a man possessed. Blood on my fists. Pain forgotten.
My elbow cracked against a jaw. My heel drove into a chest. My shoulder slammed one against steel.
But it wasn't enough.
One grabbed my arm. Another drove a punch into my ribs. The last caught me with a knee under the chin.
I staggered.
Then they all struck—knees, fists, strikes to joints and ribs. Blunt, brutal, punishing.
I collapsed beside Emi.
Breathing. Conscious. But broken.
We were dragged.
Each of us gripped by the elite who had bested us.
They didn't mock us. They didn't speak. They just showed us.
Dragged to the center of the warehouse—before Kai, still fighting, still holding on. Bleeding. But slowing.
Vance's movements changed—no longer just fluid, but impossible. He flickered. One moment he was directly in front of Kai, blocking a blow, the next his image shimmered, an illusion that vanished as he teleported two feet to Kai's blind side.
Then, it happened.
His eyes flashed Violet. Kai's stopped mid-strike, his pupils dilating as he tried to track something that defied logic. "No... You—"
Vance appeared directly behind Kai, his hand already striking. Kai spun, a desperate, enhanced reflex, but Vance simply flickered again, an afterimage distracting him, only to reappear through Kai's guard. A precise Violet-infused palm strike slammed into Kai's chest, directly over his heart.
Kai gasped, stumbling back, his face contorted in shock and agony. He barely blocked the next blow—Vance was a phantom, weaving in and out of reality, making Kai lash out at empty space. A kick that seemed to come from nowhere shattered Kai's stance. A chop, delivered from an angle that shouldn't have been possible, drove him to a knee.
Blood smeared the ground.
Vance stepped close.
"I wonder if you still hear her voice," he said softly. "She heard yours—begging, when I took her away."
Kai lunged, one last punch— Vance wasn't there. He teleported a step back, then manifested an illusion of himself lunging forward. Kai struck the illusion, his fist passing through empty air.
Vance appeared solid behind him, and with a single, precise Violet-infused palm strike to the gut, he dropped Kai, sending a tremor through the concrete floor.
Kai hit the ground, coughing blood. He looked up—defeated. Broken.
Vance crouched down, hand glowing with raw, violet energy.
"Tell her I said hi… when you reach the other side." He raised his hand—