Late afternoon. Ember 18, 2999. Saturday.
A low rooftop overlooking the warehouse district. Windy. Quiet. Empty food wrappers at their feet.
Shiro laid stretched across the edge, shirtless, hands behind his head, chewing on a toothpick.
Dez crouched beside him, peeking through a scope rigged to a pair of enchanted goggles, muttering to himself and scribbling notes.
They'd been up there for hours.
"See anything?" Shiro asked, eyes closed.
"Yeah," Dez muttered. "Dust. Pigeons. My patience running out."
Shiro yawned. "Man, I'm about to Slump…"
"Don't—"
Too late.
The shiro was out like a light, a soft snore escaping between his gold fangs.
Dez stared at him. "Unbelievable…"
He went back to watching.
About an hour later, Dez nudged him hard.
"Yo. Wake up."
Shiro groaned. "Mmm… someone better be dyin'."
"You might be," Dez said, pointing. "Look."
A massive black haul truck pulled up to the back of the warehouse—branded with no markings, matte armor plates, and smoke-glass windows.
The rear doors hissed open.
Out stepped four guards.
And then—
Big Ugly.
The same orc-ogre hybrid from Lena and Grakka's meeting. Crooked jaw, heavy steps, and that same slow-ass stare like he was thinking real hard… and not gettin' far.
Shiro narrowed his eyes. "That him?"
"That's him," Dez confirmed. "He's the one who gave me the relic—before i gave it to."
The two went quiet, watching the guards start unloading crates—heavy ones.
Dez clicked his tongue. "Enchanted weapons. A lot of 'em."
Shiro's eyes followed the crates. "That's not a street hustle. That's a whole damn supply chain."
"No shit."
They didn't move. Not yet.
They just watched. Waited.
The sun dipped lower, painting the buildings in molten gold.
Shiro cracked his neck. "We wait till it's dark."
"Smart."
Neither of them knew about Lena's half-finished deal. Or the fact Grakka nearly cut off Big Ugly's head hours ago.
But that wasn't important yet.
Right now, it was recon.
And the hunt had just begun.
Later that night…
Darkness fell heavy over the district.
The wind had quieted. The lights from nearby streets barely reached the lot below.
Shiro slipped his phone from his pocket and tapped a quick message to the group chat:
"Out late. Don't wait up."
He tucked it away and crouched beside Dez.
"What's the layout?" he asked, voice low.
Dez pointed with his stylus, tapping a quick holo-map on his scrollpad. "Main warehouse's got three points of entry. Front gate's guarded heavy. Rear dock is where they unload. Side fence has a blind spot for about 40 seconds during camera rotations."
"Traps?"
"Too many. Arcane sensors. Motion glyphs. And a bunch of janky-ass mechanical junk wired into the stone like a paranoid raccoon set it up."
Shiro grinned. "So it's fun."
Dez nodded, then pulled out a smooth, palm-sized device and clicked it once. It gave a soft buzz and released a shimmer in the air like oil on water.
"Jammer's up. Short range, but it'll scramble most of their tech and mess with their alerts. Won't last long, so we move fast."
"Copy."
They dropped down the opposite rooftop, sliding against the metal siding of a loading ramp. Shiro moved ahead, body low, muscles coiled.
Dez followed—nearly tripping on a loose pipe again.
"Shit—"
Shiro caught his collar mid-fall, hissing, "Quit fuckin' around."
"I'm not used to field work! I'm a relic guy!"
"You a liability right now."
"Bruh, I invented the jammer you're usin'."
"And I'm still savin' your clumsy ass."
They slipped behind a stack of crates. Two guards approached—casual patrol.
Dez pulled a knockout pebble from his coat, flicked it.
Thunk. It hit the crate.
"…What was that?" one guard asked.
Before they could react, Shiro was already behind them.
CRACK. One elbow. One sleeper hold. Two bodies dropped silent.
Dez blinked. "How…?"
Shiro rolled his neck. "Ninja moves."
They crept deeper.
Sliding past sensors. Ducking behind cargo. Creeping through shadows.
Finally, they reached the upper catwalks inside the main warehouse—overlooking the operation floor.
Below: crates stacked high. Runes glowing faint. Men in suits moving clipboards and gear. Techs scanning items with handheld codex stones.
And in the center…
Big Ugly.
Still massive. Still stupid-looking.
But he was talking.
And they were close enough to hear it.
"—that relic's active now," the brute said. "The one that beastman wearin'."
Shiro's body tensed.
One of the suits replied, "You're sure it bonded?"
"Yeah. Got full resonance when we scanned the last pulse. He don't even know what it really does yet."
Dez's face paled. "Shit…"
Another suit spoke. "And the tech? The inventor—Dez Mccoo?"
"Got his data before he fried the phone. Pulled more than enough. We trackin' both now."
Shiro's gold eyes cut sideways to Dez, slow.
Dez froze. "…Bro. I can explain."
Shiro didn't say anything. Just kept listening.
The brute chuckled. "We keep feedin' 'em crumbs. Watch how the relic evolves. If it mutates again… we move."
"And if the beastman figures it out?"
"We wipe him. Fast."
Dez swallowed hard.
Shiro didn't blink.
The relic on his gauntlet sparked faintly under his sleeve—like it heard its name and didn't like it.
And Shiro?
His grin was gone.
Only teeth now.
Shiro's jaw flexed, his gold eyes burning.
Below, Big Ugly kept talking.
"…One of 'em was a dark elf witch. Fine as hell. The orc too—thick. Should've bagged 'em both when we had the chance. Next time I see either of 'em…"
He made a crude gesture with his hands and laughed.
One of the men with him muttered something Shiro didn't catch—but Big Ugly kept going.
"Bet that witch moans classy. All high-nosed till she gaggin'. And the orc? Hah. Bet she like it rough. Might even break somethin' on me. I'd risk it."
Shiro's whole body stilled.
Not a sound.
Not a twitch.
Then—CRACK.
A heavy metal crate hurtled down from the catwalk, spinning like a missile.
It slammed straight into Big Ugly's head with a sickening BOOM, knocking the bastard clean off his feet and through a stack of weapons crates.
Chaos erupted.
"What the—?!"
"ALARM! Sound the—!"
BZZZZZT.
A pulse of static flashed through the air. Dez held up a jamming disk and grinned like a lunatic.
"Not today, bitch!"
Shiro dropped down from the catwalk like a predator.
He landed on one guard—elbow to temple—then spun and clawed another across the throat.
Screams. Footsteps. Metal clattering.
Dez ducked behind a crate, slinging mini-darts from his gauntlet. Each one buzzed with a paralyzing shock, dropping guards like sacks of laundry.
Shiro moved like a demon through the crowd.
Crack—rib broken.
Crunch—jaw shattered.
A guard raised his blade—Shiro caught his wrist, snapped it, and flung him into two others.
Then—
Big Ugly roared, tearing out of the broken crates, blood trickling from his temple.
"You little piece of—!"
He charged.
Shiro met him halfway.
Fist against hammer-sized knuckles.
They collided like titans—shockwaves rippling through the warehouse.
"YOU TALKIN' BOUT MY WOMEN?!" Shiro barked mid-swing, fists flashing like lightning. "YOU THINK THAT SHIT CUTE?!"
Big Ugly swung a heavy crate lid—Shiro ducked, tackled him, and drove him through a stack of enchanted blades.
Dez popped his head up. "We gotta hurry! Jammer's running low!"
Shiro didn't answer.
He grabbed Big Ugly by the tusks and headbutted him twice—snarling in his face.
"She kissed me before leaving, and you think you got a chance?! You droolin' swamp-foot fuck!"
Big Ugly shoved him back, roaring.
"You're dead, freak!"
Shiro grinned, eyes glowing.
"Get in line."
The air rippled with violent tension.
Big Ugly staggered back from Shiro's onslaught—bruised, bleeding—but laughing.
Then he reached behind a broken crate and yanked out a jagged black weapon: a massive hammer laced with glowing red veins and humming with enchantments. Runes pulsed along the handle, and a burst of force cracked the floor beneath his feet.
Shiro's eyes narrowed. "That supposed to scare me?"
Before he could charge again—four cloaked mages emerged from the shadows on the upper walkways. Their hands moved in practiced unison, forming glyphs mid-air.
Dez shouted, "Shiro, wait—those bastards are buffing him!"
Too late.
The mages completed the spell.
BOOM.
Big Ugly's body surged with violent energy—his muscles bulging, skin hardening like stone. Crimson glyphs glowed across his chest and arms. His pupils shrank into pinpoints. The hammer in his hand flared to life, vibrating with destructive force.
He grinned.
"Now I'm mad."
Then he vanished—BLINKED—across the floor in a flash of magic-assisted speed and swung that cursed hammer.
CRACK!
Shiro barely twisted out of the way, the hammer slamming into the ground beside him—sending shockwaves out like a mini-earthquake. The floor split. Crates exploded. Guards were knocked off their feet by pure kinetic backlash.
Dez ducked under flying debris, eyes wide.
"Godsdamn—I didn't know they were rockin' full spell-assist gear!"
He slammed his hand into his tool pouch, pulling out a palm-sized sphere with runes etched in bloodstone.
He whispered to it: "Override sequence—Arc Terminate."
The runes flashed.
Dez threw the sphere hard toward the catwalks.
ZWWWWIP!
The device exploded mid-air—releasing a blue EMP-like pulse that fried the mages' glyphs and knocked out nearby lighting. The mages screamed as their enchantments fizzled and cracked apart.
The buffs on Big Ugly started to fade slightly—his glow dimming.
But he still had the hammer. Still swinging.
And Shiro? He was moving too.
They clashed in the wreckage—Shiro's claws clanging against the cursed metal, dodging wide swings and countering with precise slashes.
A spinning elbow cracked Big Ugly across the chin.
The brute retaliated with a shoulder charge that sent Shiro flying into a crate—splinters everywhere.
"Shiro!" Dez yelled, shooting two more guards with voltage darts.
Shiro coughed blood… then laughed.
The relic embedded in his gauntlet pulsed violently.
THUMP.
Then again.
THUMP.
Shiro stood.
Veins on his arms darkened—his breathing slowed.
His eyes flickered gold-red.
The gauntlets hissed like beasts waking up—claws sharpening, glowing symbols crawling across the surface like they were alive.
Big Ugly raised his hammer with both hands. "You're done."
Shiro stepped forward, cracking his neck.
"No."
A guttural growl rumbled in his throat.
"You are."
He vanished.
This time—it was his turn to blitz.