Shojiro slammed the hatch shut behind the mother and child. The metallic clang reverberated like a gunshot, echoing up the concrete stairwell and into the chaos above. He didn't pause. Every nerve in his body screamed, blood and sweat dripping from torn clothes and raw skin, his muscles taut and ready. His father's voice—gruff, commanding—still burned in his ears:
"Shojiro! Get them to safety! I'll hold it here!"
Adrenaline flooded him. Broken, battered, bruised—and yet ignited by a singular, unyielding purpose—he sprinted back up the stairwell.
The air was thick with dust, acrid smoke sneaking in through cracks above. Shadows twisted across the walls as small demons poured down from the debris-strewn ceiling, leaping and scuttling like swarming insects. Their eyes gleamed with feral hunger; claws scraped the concrete with a metallic shriek. Shojiro's heart hammered. One misstep, one strike to his chest, and he would never reach his father.
The first creature lunged, a wiry thing with jagged teeth glinting. Shojiro sidestepped, grabbing it by the jaw and swinging it hard into the stairwell wall. Bones snapped audibly, a wet crunch that made his stomach twist, and the thing collapsed in a twitching heap. Another vaulted from above—he caught it mid-air, spinning and slamming it down with a sickening, spine-shattering thud. The smell of burning ichor and wet blood filled his nostrils, but he barely registered it, muscles firing on pure instinct.
More demons surged, drawn by the scent of their fallen kin. Shojiro became a storm in human form: a blur of movement, bone-crushing force, and calculated violence.
A claw slashed toward his chest; he ducked, yanking a twisted pipe from the debris and smashing it into a skull. The creature's body convulsed violently, shards of concrete scattering, its jaw crushed flat. Another lunged at his legs—he kicked, heard the femur snap, and shoved the corpse aside.
A fleeting hallucination caught him—a boy, trembling and clinging to him—but it dissolved as he reacted. Shojiro's fists tore through a leaping demon, bones cracking like dry wood, sending the thing tumbling into its companions like a grotesque projectile. Their screams were sharp, high-pitched, and quickly silenced by instinctual cannibalistic frenzy.
Pain began to gnaw at him: cuts on his arms, knuckles raw and split, sweat and blood mixing in a sticky, metallic sheen. His lungs burned, heart thudding like a war drum. Still, he didn't hesitate. Every second wasted was his father's life slipping away. Every strike, every crushing motion, every twisted snap of bone reminded him why he ran—not for glory, not for himself, but for the man holding the line above.
The stairwell seemed endless, a narrow cage of concrete and terror. Demons fell like storm-tossed leaves, black ichor spattering the walls, their bodies piling in grotesque heaps. Shojiro twisted mid-air, catching one that tried to leap over him, driving it down into the concrete until the snapping of vertebrae echoed like a sickening rhythm. Another screeched, clawing desperately at his leg; he stomped down, crushing its skull, ichor spraying like dark rain across the steps.
For a heartbeat, he paused, chest heaving, eyes scanning the swarm. They weren't slowing, and neither could he. Every instinct screamed: move, strike, survive, reach Dad.
And so he ran again, a blur of muscle and blood, a human hurricane cutting through the nightmarish swarm, leaving mangled bodies in his wake. The stairwell cracked beneath his pounding boots, dust and debris dancing in the air like sparks. A final surge, a lunge, a spin—he flung three demons in a coordinated arc, their limbs snapping, their screeches fading into wet silence.
Above, he glimpsed daylight, smoke curling around twisted steel and shattered concrete. One last stretch. One last push. His father waited.
Shojiro's teeth clenched. Every muscle screamed. Every ounce of pain, every shredded nerve, every drop of blood was fuel. And he knew: whatever waited at the top, whatever horrors lurked in that ruined street, he would face them all. Because there was no other choice.
Shojiro burst out of the stairwell. The city above was a nightmare. Smoke choked the horizon, flames licking skeletal ruins of cars and collapsed buildings. The air reeked of scorched metal, blood, and the acrid tang of human panic. Concrete cracked beneath his boots, and shards of glass sparkled like cruel confetti across the street.
His eyes locked onto movement in the distance. There. Among the twisted wreckage of vehicles and toppled streetlights, his father stood—or at least he had moments ago. Tetsuro Momo, unyielding, stalwart, the man who had faced impossible odds before with unshakable resolve, now seemed impossibly fragile.
A low, guttural roar split the air. Shojiro's stomach dropped. His heart slammed against his ribs as the sight registered in sickening clarity:
The Berserker. Massive, muscle-bound, skin like cracked stone, claws that could cleave steel, eyes glowing crimson with molten rage. And it had him.
Tetsuro's hand—pale, mangled, twisted—was clamped around one of the demon's massive teeth. Blood sprayed like a dark fountain into the air, splattering against ruined concrete, igniting smoke in a grotesque flare. His ribs had collapsed under the pressure. His body arched at impossible angles, flesh shredding, organs straining against twisted bones. But he didn't fall. He held the blow with every ounce of will, teeth gritted, veins taut, eyes locked on Shojiro.
Shojiro froze. For the first time in his life, he saw a man he idolized, the one person he thought could never be defeated, utterly overpowered. The impossible weight of the scene slammed into him. His father—broken, shattered, bleeding from every orifice—was clinging to life by sheer, unimaginable will.
A scream tore from Shojiro's throat, raw and ragged. His legs pumped, but every step felt like moving through water. The ground quaked beneath each monstrous step of the Berserker. The smell of blood and burning flesh stung his eyes, made his stomach churn, yet he forced his gaze higher.
Tetsuro rasped, his voice ragged, barely audible over the infernal soundscape:
"Sho…jiro…run…"
Shojiro's chest constricted. Run? His father, the unbreakable, commanding, indomitable Tetsuro Momo, telling him to run? His mind screamed against the words, but his legs obeyed instinct. Every fiber in his being was torn between instinct and loyalty, between the primal urge to protect his father and the cold reality of survival.
The Berserker's molten veins pulsed with fury. Each swipe of its claw sheared through the air with terrifying precision, carving grooves in the asphalt. The entire street shook. Car doors twisted, steel beams groaned, and bodies—human and otherwise—were flung aside like rag dolls. Shojiro could see the shredded remnants of anyone unfortunate enough to linger too close. The smell of iron and charred flesh coated the air.
His father's voice broke through the chaos, commanding and pained:
"Shojiro! Get them to safety!"
Tears of blood and rage welled in Shojiro's eyes. He forced himself to focus, to move, but each step was agony to his chest. He could see the split-second of agony across Tetsuro's face as the Berserker twisted its arm, bending bones, grinding flesh and cartilage. Blood poured in thick torrents from every torn seam of skin, forming small pools in the cracks of the street. Every scream from Tetsuro's mouth was muffled by pain, yet it carried the authority that had always commanded Shojiro's respect.
The Berserker's claw lashed again, missing Tetsuro by mere inches, and Shojiro's stomach lurched. He saw the way his father's spine arched, ribs buckling, flesh tearing where the monstrous hand had grazed. Each second dragged like a lifetime. He had trained to react to impossible strikes, to dominate in tournaments, but nothing had prepared him for this. Not for the sight of a man—his father—being crushed into helplessness by a creature that defied human comprehension.
Shojiro's vision narrowed. The crowd of fleeing civilians, the smoke, the collapsing street—all became peripheral. All that existed was his father and the monster that held him. His pulse roared in his ears. Every instinct screamed to leap, to strike, to tear the Berserker apart with his bare hands, to defy physics and probability just to reach him. But he wasn't fast enough. Not yet.
Tetsuro's hand, twisted and bloodied, still clutched at the monster's jaw. His face was a mask of pain and resolve. Blood streamed from his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and yet the spark of life, the indomitable will that Shojiro had admired his entire life, remained. The father who never surrendered, the man who had fought against impossible odds time and time again—he was… human. Vulnerable.
Shojiro's stomach turned as he processed the utter impossibility: his father could die. Right here. Right now. The thought shattered something deep inside him. Rage, grief, horror, and desperation collided. His fists clenched until the knuckles cracked audibly, raw blood mixing with sweat. Every muscle coiled, every nerve alight with single-minded fury.
A guttural roar from the Berserker cut through the haze, snapping Shojiro back to the moment. Its massive arm reared again, molten ichor dripping from claws like lava. Tetsuro gritted his teeth, veins bulging, holding just long enough for Shojiro to register the unthinkable—the man who could never be defeated was bending, breaking, every strike of the monster chipping away at his life.
Shojiro's mind screamed in disbelief, denial, and fear. But somewhere beneath the chaos, beneath the gut-wrenching terror, something primal ignited. A promise. A vow. He would not allow this. Not his father. Not this. Not here.
With a roar that ripped through his chest, Shojiro surged forward. Every step was a shockwave, every movement precision incarnate, every fiber screaming in wrath and resolve. The world narrowed to the demon, his father, and the singular purpose of surviving what should have been impossible.
Shojiro's vision narrowed. All else fell away—the burning city, the screams of fleeing civilians, the acrid smoke that clawed at his lungs. Only one thing remained: the Berserker. And the image of his father, mangled and broken beneath the impossible weight of its power, seared into his mind.
DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!
The thought repeated, a drumbeat in his skull, echoing louder than the roar of collapsing buildings. Pain, fear, reason, survival instincts—they all fell into shadow. There was only wrath, pure and unadulterated. Every fiber of his being burned with a single purpose: destroy the monster that dared lay a hand on his father.
Shojiro surged forward, boots pounding the cracked asphalt. The air seemed to tear around him, whipping his hair, stinging his eyes, as if the city itself feared his coming. Sparks erupted from fractured power lines as he vaulted over a broken car, the smell of scorched metal mixing with his own adrenaline and blood.
The Berserker pivoted, molten veins pulsing with crimson fury, sensing the new threat. Its head tilted, claws raised. The ground quaked beneath its weight, fragments of concrete shattering with every step. Yet Shojiro was already in motion, a blur of muscle and rage.
He dove under its first swipe, the air screaming past his ears. Claws snapped through the asphalt, leaving deep grooves where they had nearly found flesh. Shojiro twisted mid-roll, using the recoil to spring upward, his knee connecting with the creature's abdomen. The impact sent a black spray of ichor flying, sizzling as it hit the street. The Berserker staggered but remained upright, fury intensifying.
DIE! DIE! DIE!
Every thought, every heartbeat, every drop of blood that coursed through his veins became fuel for his wrath. He didn't hesitate, didn't calculate, didn't breathe. He struck, again and again, fists pounding molten flesh and cracked bone. The sound was sickening: splintering skulls, snapping ribs, tearing ligaments. Shojiro could feel the recoil of each blow travel up his arms, yet he didn't flinch. He welcomed the pain. Pain was proof he was alive. Proof he could still fight. Proof he could still avenge.
The Berserker swung wildly, claws carving arcs of destruction through the street. Cars were flung aside like toys. Streetlights shattered. Chunks of concrete flew through the air. Shojiro ducked under one massive strike, shoulder colliding with a broken beam. Wood splintered. Blood streamed down his temple, mixing with sweat and soot, stinging his eyes. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
He landed a spinning elbow into the side of the demon's neck. The creature's head snapped sideways with a guttural roar, molten ichor spraying in a dark, thick arc. Shojiro's teeth clenched. His fists cracked as he slammed another punch into its jaw, each strike reverberating like a sledgehammer through bone and cartilage.
DIE! DIE! DIE!
Every inhale was a hiss of hatred. Every exhale was a shout of fury. He grabbed the Berserker's massive forearm, wrenching it at an impossible angle. A wet, horrifying pop echoed as joints and tendons tore. Black blood spurted from the socket, sizzling against the scorched asphalt. The monster howled, a sound that could have split mountains, yet Shojiro only roared louder, pushing his fury into every strike.
He leaped, driving both knees into the creature's chest. Ribs cracked like twigs beneath his assault. His fists found the throat, crushing cartilage and tearing the windpipe open. A choking, gurgling scream filled the street, echoing off shattered buildings, bouncing back like a nightmare come alive. Shojiro felt no satisfaction—only fuel. Only rage. Only the need to annihilate the thing that dared destroy what he loved.
The Berserker swung blindly, smashing a car in half. Shojiro was struck mid-air, sent tumbling, bones grinding under the impact, yet he landed on his feet and surged forward again, fists a blur. Sparks flew as he connected punch after punch, driving the creature backward. Every strike tore flesh, snapped bone, shattered tendons, sprayed ichor like molten ink over the ruins of the city.
DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!
He vaulted over debris, spinning mid-air, and landed a flying elbow into the creature's temple. The skull cracked with a wet, horrifying sound. The Berserker staggered but didn't fall. Shojiro pivoted, grabbing its massive jaw, wrenching downwards with all his might. Teeth shattered. Mandible cracked. Black ichor and saliva sprayed across the asphalt. Every second, his mind screamed, every heartbeat pounding the mantra:
DIE!
He slammed a spinning kick across its temple, then followed with a knee to the abdomen, grinding bone, rupturing organs. The creature roared in pain, swinging wildly. Its claws shattered nearby concrete walls, sending shards flying. Shojiro used the momentum to vault onto its knee, shoulder ramming into its chest, pulverizing the joint beneath him. Every movement was fury, every attack an unrelenting hurricane.
The Berserker's molten veins pulsed erratically, each beat sending tremors through the city. It swung with desperation, but Shojiro was everywhere at once. He caught its claw, twisted it, heard the satisfying snap of dislocated bone. He landed a brutal forearm strike into the chest cavity, crushing ribs and exposing dark organs beneath cracked bones. Blood gushed like a river, coating his arms.
He leapt again, fists drawn back, shoulder locked with explosive force. He slammed into the creature's head, splintering the skull like rotten wood. Brain matter and molten ichor sprayed in a terrifying arc, painting the street in horror. The Berserker twitched violently, howling in agony, before collapsing partially, its fury unspent, its life still clinging by a thread.
Shojiro's chest heaved. Blood dripped from every scrape and tear across his body, mixing with soot, sweat, and ichor. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed, but he felt no weakness. Only rage, only wrath, only the singular purpose of avenging the man who had given everything for him.
Father… I will not let this stand. DIE! DIE! DIE!
The Berserker rose, staggering, molten veins pulsing violently. It swung again, and Shojiro dove, rolling under the strike, driving a knee into its solar plexus. A sickening crunch echoed, organs rupturing, the creature spitting blood and ichor. He caught its forearm mid-swing, yanking it backward. Another snap, another scream, another geyser of molten-black blood.
He jumped, spinning high, and delivered a flying knee to the temple. The skull cracked further, a horrifying wet sound echoing through the street. Shojiro twisted mid-air, landing a series of brutal elbow strikes down the creature's spine. Each hit was precise, savage, tearing muscle from bone, snapping vertebrae, rupturing organs, yet still the Berserker clawed at the street, a whirlwind of pain and fury.
Shojiro's thoughts were singular, obsessive:
DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!
No strategy, no hesitation. Only the pure, primal need to annihilate the creature that had defeated his father. Every fiber of his being coiled like a spring, every muscle compressed, every nerve screaming for destruction. He grabbed the monster's jaw again, yanking downward with a force beyond comprehension. Teeth shattered, mandible splintered, ichor spraying like a volcanic eruption.
The Berserker roared, its limbs flailing, crushing concrete beneath its weight. Shojiro's foot caught its leg mid-kick, spinning him into a wall of rubble. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he barely noticed. Every movement was fury incarnate. Every strike unleashed a torrent of violence.
He vaulted over debris, spinning, and landed a flying elbow to the temple. The creature staggered again, head whipping violently. Shojiro landed, fists flying, knees smashing into organs, elbows cracking bones, relentless. Each strike sprayed molten ichor across the ruined street, echoing like a symphony of terror.
Finally, he drew back, fists locked, shoulder braced. A single, unstoppable, concentrated strike—an eruption of rage and muscle—drove directly into the Berserker's skull. The sound was catastrophic, the impact tearing through bone, brain, and sinew. Black ichor and fragmented bone exploded outward, scattering across the street. The Berserker twitched violently, a final, gurgling scream tearing from its throat. Then… silence.
Shojiro staggered, chest heaving, blood streaming from every cut, sweat blinding him, ichor coating his skin. He looked at the monster, now nothing but a shattered husk, and for the first time felt… emptiness. Rage subsided into hollow shock. The world around him—the burning city, the ruined street, the shattered vehicles—reclaimed its weight.
He turned. His father.
Tetsuro lay on the ground, a living nightmare of mangled flesh and shattered bones. Blood pooled around him. His hand twitched faintly. Eyes closed. Every exhale a rasp of pain and defiance. Shojiro's chest tightened. He wanted to scream, to collapse, to break, but the fight within him was not done. The city was still a battlefield, still alive with death and chaos.
Shojiro dropped to his knees beside him, trembling, bloodied, exhausted, yet fueled by a raw, unbreakable will. He pressed a hand to his father's chest, feeling the faint, ragged heartbeat, and whispered through clenched teeth:
"I'm here… I've got you… I won't let this end in vain."
For a heartbeat, the world paused. Pain, fury, and horror still raged outside, but here, kneeling beside the man who had always been his anchor, Shojiro found a moment—fragile, fleeting—of human connection amid the apocalyptic madness.
Then the distant tremor of collapsing buildings and the faint hiss of fire reminded him: there was no time. Survival demanded action. And Shojiro's wrath, now unleashed, would be both shield and sword for what remained of the world.