The strike team arrived at dawn.
Jack felt them before he saw them—not through Hell, not through fear, but through intent. Human intent was different. Sharper. Messier. It came with doubt layered over resolve, orders stacked on top of personal survival.
Sixteen heartbeats.
Trained.
Equipped.
Afraid.
Jack stood on the ridge above the mountain pass, snow crunching softly beneath his boots. The Nether Core pulsed steadily in his chest, quiet, controlled. He hadn't moved from this place in two days. He hadn't needed to.
"They finally sent you," he murmured.
No demons this time.
No Hell.
Just people.
THE HUMAN STRIKE TEAM
They came in silence.
Stealth suits muted heat signatures. Resonance dampeners hummed low, attempting to blur Jack's presence from sensors that had no business tracking something like him. Rail rifles were cradled carefully, barrels etched with suppression glyphs and human-made sigils.
The team leader raised a fist.
They stopped.
Jack stepped out of the fog.
Weapons snapped up instantly.
"Jack Storm," the leader called, voice steady but tight. "By order of—"
Jack raised one hand.
"Don't finish that sentence," he said calmly.
The red glow in his eyes brightened just enough to be unmistakable.
The leader swallowed.
"Stand down," he ordered anyway. "Hands visible. Now."
Jack complied.
That scared them more than resistance.
FIRST SHOTS
Someone fired.
Not the leader.
A backliner—nervous, young, finger too tight on the trigger.
The round hit Jack square in the chest.
The impact echoed like thunder across the pass.
Jack didn't move.
The bullet flattened, then fell to the snow with a soft plink.
Silence.
Jack exhaled slowly.
"…You really shouldn't do that."
The team opened fire.
RESTRAINT
Jack moved—but not like before.
No explosions.
No erasure.
No city-ending force.
He redirected.
Force manipulation bent trajectories mid-flight, rail rounds curving harmlessly into the mountainside. Gravity shifted subtly beneath the soldiers' feet, throwing off balance without breaking bones.
Jack closed the distance in a blink.
He struck surgically.
A precise blow to a shoulder—dislocated, not shattered.
A kick to a knee—collapsed, not destroyed.
A twist of gravity around a rifle—metal bent uselessly inward.
He moved through them like a storm that had learned where to stop.
The leader charged him with a suppression blade crackling with inverted energy.
Jack caught the blade barehanded.
The energy screamed—and died.
Jack leaned close.
"You don't want this," he said quietly.
The leader's hands trembled. "We were told you'd kill us."
Jack released the blade and stepped back.
"Then someone lied."
AFTERMATH — HUMANS BLEED
The strike team lay scattered across the snow.
All alive.
None uninjured.
Jack stood among them, breathing slow, controlled.
The Nether Core pulsed—satisfied, but restrained.
He looked down at the leader.
"Go back," Jack said. "Tell them this."
The leader met his gaze.
"What?"
"That I could have ended you," Jack replied. "And chose not to."
Jack stepped back into the fog and vanished.
THE CITY SCREAMS
The sirens reached him hours later.
Different tone.
Different urgency.
Jack stood on a cliff overlooking a distant city as the sky darkened unnaturally, pressure rippling across the skyline. His eyes narrowed.
"…B-ranks," he muttered.
Not one.
Not two.
Five.
Coordinated.
Organized.
And hungry.
Buildings buckled as gravity and force anomalies tore through the outer districts. Fires erupted. Power grids failed. People ran.
Jack didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward—
And the world folded.
THE ARRIVAL
Jack appeared at the city's edge in a controlled distortion—no crater, no blast. The street cracked beneath his boots, but nothing more.
The first B-rank noticed him instantly.
A massive, armored creature with multiple jointed limbs and a core of compressed heat embedded in its chest.
"You," it rumbled. "The error."
Jack's eyes glowed brighter.
"You picked the wrong city."
CONTROLLED WAR
Jack moved fast—but not wild.
He isolated targets.
Force manipulation pinned one demon against a building, pressure crushing inward until its armor fractured and its core destabilized. Jack erased it cleanly—no explosion, no collateral.
Another B-rank lunged from above.
Jack caught it mid-air, redirected its momentum downward, and drove it into an empty intersection. Absolute transmission collapsed its form inward, annihilating it beneath the pavement.
Two more attacked together.
Jack split them.
A gravity wall separated their approach paths, forcing them into single combat. Jack dismantled the first with a precise core strike, then pivoted and shattered the second's limbs before erasing it.
The fifth hesitated.
Jack appeared in front of it.
"No running," he said.
He drove his fist into its chest.
The demon ceased to exist.
NO CITY LOST
The battle ended in under four minutes.
Buildings stood.
Fires burned—but contained.
Civilians emerged slowly, staring at the ruined streets that should have been worse.
And at him.
Jack stood alone at the center of the intersection, coat torn, eyes glowing red.
People filmed him.
People whispered.
Some clapped.
Others backed away.
A man shouted, "He saved us!"
A woman screamed, "He's the reason this keeps happening!"
Jack felt it all wash over him without reaction.
That worried him.
MIXED FEELINGS
News feeds exploded within minutes.
B-RANK DEMON ATTACK STOPPED — CITY STANDS
STORM SAVES THOUSANDS WITHOUT COLLATERAL DAMAGE
IS HE LEARNING… OR HIDING HIS TRUE POWER?
Commentators argued.
Experts debated.
Religious leaders condemned and praised him in the same breath.
Jack watched from a rooftop as emergency crews moved in.
He didn't stay.
CROWE'S REPORT
Crowe listened to the strike team leader in silence.
"He didn't kill anyone," the leader said. "He could have."
Crowe nodded slowly.
"And the city?"
"Minimal damage. He controlled it."
Crowe leaned back, conflicted.
"…That's worse," he murmured.
"Sir?"
Crowe met the man's gaze.
"Because now no one knows whether to fear him—or hope."
JACK ALONE AGAIN
Jack stood at the edge of the city as night fell, watching lights flicker back on.
He'd won.
Cleanly.
Efficiently.
Without crossing the line.
And yet—
He felt further from humanity than ever.
No cheers reached him.
No thanks felt real.
Just eyes.
Watching.
Measuring.
Deciding.
Jack turned away.
"If you're going to hunt me," he said softly to the night, "at least be honest about it."
The Nether Core pulsed—steady, patient, waiting.
The world had made its move.
And Jack Storm was done pretending he didn't notice.