The impact of the last .50 BMG bullet still reverberated through my bones when the dry click of the empty magazine cut through the air like a period. Slade Wilson—Terminator—was less than five meters from me now, on the same rusty mezzanine, the Barrett M82 still warm in his right hand. The smell of burnt cordite rose to my nostrils even through the helmet filters, mixed with the eternal rancid smell of stale beer and rust that permeated the entire warehouse.
He didn't wait for it to recharge.
With the speed of someone who had done it thousands of times before, Slade spun the rifle as if it were an extension of his own arm and fired point-blank—a .50 BMG caliber, armor-piercing tungsten bullet, straight into my chest.
The sound was deafening. The recoil from the shot made his shoulder recoil half a centimeter, but the projectile came straight in, a spear of superheated metal that tore through the air between us.
I was already moving.
The shield rose in a trained reflex—not perfectly straight, but tilted 23 degrees to the right, exactly the angle Sensei had me repeat 312 times in the last virtual simulations to maximize the reflection of high-speed projectiles. The repulsor field activated with a deep hum, the alchemical runes pulsing in faint orange beneath the surface of the transmuted metal.
The impact was like being hit by a car traveling at 80 km/h.
My entire left arm trembled, right up to the shoulder bone. The force transferred by the shield pushed me back two full steps, my boots scraping against the cracked concrete, but the projectile didn't go through. It ricocheted upward and to the left, tearing a chunk out of the ceiling and raining dust and rust down on both of us.
Slade didn't blink.
He was already advancing, rifle still pointed, finger on the trigger for the next shot.
I wasn't going to let that happen.
I took advantage of the proximity — five meters became three, then one — and got involved.
My right foot stepped forward in a crisscross pattern, my body rotating on the axis of my hips as Sensei taught me: maximum torque, low center of gravity. The shield came first, its lower edge aimed at the rifle barrel. I struck hard—not to block, but to deflect. The metallic impact echoed like a cracked bell. The rifle soared, its barrel pointing toward the ceiling, and the second shot went astray, shattering a steel beam above us and sending more debris raining down.
Slade dropped the weapon instantly.
He didn't try to retrieve it. He didn't waste time. He simply let the Barrett fall, the dead weight hitting the mezzanine with a clang, and drew his sword in a fluid movement that seemed rehearsed for decades. The blade was a modified katana—double-edged, handle reinforced with black alloy, perfect balance for a man who fought with two hands or one. He gripped it with his right, blade down, neutral stance, eyes fixed on mine through the visor of my helmet.
"Good save, kid," he said, his voice hoarse and calm. "But now let's see what you can do without distance."
And it came.
The sword descended in a downward diagonal slash—a 45-degree angle from right to left, a speed that would make any normal human seem slow. I raised the shield at the right angle—top edge meeting the blade. Sparks flew. The impact reverberated through my arm, but the transmuted metal held. I immediately counterattacked: I pushed the shield forward, trying to unbalance him, and delivered a low kick with my right leg—a Muay Thai low kick, aiming for his left knee.
Slade simply spun his body on its axis, the blade rising in a reverse arc that passed inches from my neck. I recoiled, feeling the wind of the cut brush against the collar of my helmet. He didn't stop—he lunged forward with a straight thrust, the tip of his sword aimed at my sternum. I dodged with my shield, twisting my body to the left, and countered with a right hook straight to his chin.
He blocked with his left forearm—muscle against muscle reinforced by Mirakuru. My fist sank slightly into the flesh, but he didn't even flinch. Instead, he counterattacked with a horizontal slash at my neck.
I ducked, feeling the blade pass over my head—so close it cut a strand of hair that peeked out from under the edge of my helmet. I stood up quickly, attempting an uppercut with the shield—the lower edge aimed at his chin.
Slade tilted his head back—a minimal movement, but enough. The edge grazed past. He swung his sword in a flourish and slashed downward, aiming for my left shoulder.
I blocked with my shield—an impact strong enough to make my teeth grind. The blade slid across the surface, leaving a shallow groove in the transmuted metal. He didn't pursue the cut; he seized the moment of contact and kicked—a low front kick, aiming for my right knee.
I jumped back, but he was already on top of me again. The sword came in a brutal sequence: downward slash, straight thrust, reverse horizontal slash, another thrust. I blocked everything with my shield—each impact making my arms ache more, the repulsor buzzing with the effort of dissipating the force. I managed to counterattack twice: a straight punch with my right hand that he deflected with the hilt of his sword, and a high taekwondo kick that he simply ducked to avoid.
He was just playing a joke on me.
I felt it in every movement. He was faster. Stronger. Every combo of mine—straight punch, cross, hook, low kick followed by an uppercut with the shield—was anticipated. He dodged with minimal effort, counter-attacking with cuts I could barely block. His blade found gaps I didn't even know existed: a shallow cut on my left rib that pierced the outer layer of the Cloak and opened a five-centimeter gash in my skin. Warm blood seeped inside my clothes, but the main armor held—the alchemical Kevlar and titanium plates didn't give way.
Another cut—this time on my right thigh. The blade went in about three centimeters before encountering serious resistance. I felt the muscle tear, the warm blood rushing down my leg, but the elemental was already at work: concentrated heat, tissues reconnecting in real time. It hurt like hell, but I didn't fall.
I tried again — the complete sequence that Sensei had made me repeat until I bled in virtual training: quick jab, cross, left hook, low kick to the supporting leg, uppercut with the shield.
Slade dodged the jab with a slight head turn.
He blocked the cross with his left forearm.
He dodged the hook by lowering his torso.
He passed under the low kick with a minimal sideways step.
And he counterattacked with an upward slash that opened another gash in my left armpit — more blood, more pain, but the main armor held again.
He was chuckling softly — a hoarse, almost amused sound.
"You train a lot, kid. It shows. But you're still raw. Very raw."
I growled from behind the visor.
"Then come and teach me, you son of a bitch."
He came.
The sword came down in a perfect vertical slash—I raised my shield, blocked, but he used the impact to spin his body and land a side kick on my right flank. The blow threw me against a pile of old crates. Wood exploded around me. I rolled to the side, stood up quickly, and threw my shield.
It was a perfect throw — 45-degree wrist rotation, hip torque, a calculated curved trajectory to return like a boomerang.
Slade simply extended his left hand and caught the shield in mid-air—fingers closing around the edge as if it were a light frying pan. He stared at the disc for half a second, impressed despite himself, and then hurled it back with brute force.
The shield came flying towards me like an Olympic discus powered by super-strength.
I barely managed to duck. The disc grazed my head, ripped a chunk out of the beam behind me, and ricocheted to the side, landing with a metallic clang on the mezzanine floor.
Distance created.
I took advantage of it.
My right hand reached for my utility belt—compartment number 4. I pulled out a fragmentation grenade—a model I had modified myself: directional explosion, 70% of the projected force forward, 30% backward, with thermal protection on the back for whoever was holding it.
I pulled the pin out with my teeth — a metallic taste in my mouth — and ran towards him.
Slade saw the grenade. His eyes narrowed behind his mask.
I got close — too close.
I threw a cross with my left arm—a straight punch to his sternum. He blocked with his right forearm, sword still in his left hand. The impact made my fist ache, but I was already pressing my body against his, right arm raised, grenade in my palm, protected against my own chest by the Cloak's armor.
The grenade exploded.
The bang was deafening—even with the helmet's filters, my ears rang. The force of the explosion was directed almost entirely forward: shrapnel tore through the air, hitting Slade squarely in the chest and face. The grenade's rear protection—a curved titanium plate with internal Kevlar—absorbed the recoil that would have come at me, but I still felt the impact like a Superboy punch to the sternum.
We were both thrown backward.
The entire mezzanine shook. The guardrail gave way with a scream of torn metal. We fell—five meters high, straight to the main floor of the warehouse.
Slade landed on his feet — knees bent, his body absorbing the impact as if it were a normal training jump. He grunted, but remained standing, sword still in hand, face and chest bleeding from dozens of small cuts.
I fell awkwardly.
I tried to roll—right shoulder first, body twisting to dissipate the energy. The impact was still brutal: spine compressed, air escaping my lungs in a hoarse groan, ribs screaming in pain. I rolled twice, stopped on my knees, shield already back in my left hand—I had retrieved it in mid-air, pure instinct.
I raised my shield in front of my body, crouching, ready to receive the next shot.
Slade was already drawing his pistol — a gold Desert Eagle, .50 AE caliber. He aimed at my chest and fired three times in rapid succession.
The projectiles hit the shield—boom, boom, boom. The repulsor held, but each impact felt like a jackhammer on my arm. I could feel the blood running down the left side of my body—the cut in my armpit still open, the one on my thigh dripping onto the ground.
That's when the arrow came.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
The arrow fell between us—special tip, dense chemical smoke charge + eye irritant. It exploded on impact with the ground, releasing a greyish-green cloud that rose in seconds, covering everything within a ten-meter radius. Zero visibility. A pungent smell of sulfur and pepper in my eyes—even through the filters of my helmet, I felt the burning sensation.
Slade coughed once—a momentary irritation.
I took advantage of it.
I activated Cloak's climbing property — I ran to the nearest concrete pillar — a thick column that supported the upper mezzanine.
My hands and feet clung to the concrete as if it were industrial velcro. I climbed quickly—three, four, five meters in less than two seconds. I reached the top of the pillar, my body glued to the surface, completely still.
Smoke still covered the ground below.
Slade was standing in the middle of it, sword in his right hand, pistol in his left, his head slowly turning, trying to locate me.
I breathed slowly, in a controlled manner.
The elemental pulsed warmly in my chest, healing the most superficial cuts, easing the pain in my ribs.
Artemis was somewhere in the darkness—I couldn't see her, but I knew she was there. Probably already with another arrow nocked, waiting for the right moment.
Slade raised his voice, calm, almost amused.
"Good move, kid. But hiding doesn't win fights. Let's continue this on equal footing?"
I didn't answer.
I just observed.
The smoke was beginning to dissipate slowly.
And I was already planning my next move.
Read the chapters in advance: patreon.com/cw/pararaio