Arush..."
The name wasn't a call; it was a scratch against the inside of his skull. A small, jagged whisper that clawed through the chemical fog of the sedatives he had taken to bury his sins. Outside, the world was screaming. The sky wasn't black; it was a bruised purple, choked by the rolling obsidian smoke of the NSEA's tactical thermobarics. The rhythm of the night was set by the thunder of 5.56mm rounds shredding the wooden walls of the village and the wet, rhythmic thud of bodies hitting the mud.
Arush lay on the stone floor of the temple, his mind a graveyard. He had convinced himself they didn't need him. He had swallowed the bitter medicine to numb the phantom heat of the lives he'd taken, but the universe was done letting him sleep.
A hand, cold as a mountain stream in mid-winter, pressed against his cheek. It wasn't a gentle touch. Something wet and viscous dripped onto his forehead—thick, metallic, and warm.
"Aush... aush, wake up."
He opened his eyes and the world became a horror film. Sanvi. The girl who had brought him tea only hours ago was unrecognizable. The left side of her face had been sloughed off by a shrapnel burst, exposing the white of her jawbone and the twitching red fibers of her cheek. Her left eyeball hung by a single, pulsing optic nerve, swinging like a pendulum against her shattered nose. Her tongue, partially severed, flopped in mid-air as she tried to form his name through a mouthful of her own blood.
Slap.
The force of her dying hand against his face broke the chemical seal. Arush bolted upright. His mouth was a desert of salt and copper. He looked at his watch: 12:48 AM. His shirt was so heavy with cold sweat it felt like a second skin of lead. He stepped out onto the temple deck, and the air hit him like a physical blow.
It was the scent of ionized air and calcium—the smell of the atmosphere being torn apart by high-velocity rounds and the pulverized dust of human bone. Below, in the rice fields, the green stalks were being flattened by the weight of the dead. Smoke from phosphorus grenades curled like ghosts over the water. Arush moved, his bare feet treading on old wood that groaned under the weight of his mounting rage. His socks turned black, soaked in the ancient dust of a sanctuary that had never known sin, only absorbed the echoes of it.
He followed the scent of iron to the inner sanctum. The door stood open, a black maw. Inside, the floor was no longer stone; it was a lake. Mr. Yshu lay there, his ribcage opened like a book, his heart a silent, grey lump in the center of the gore.
Arush's knuckles didn't just tighten; the skin split over his bones. His heart pounded with such violence it felt like it would shatter his ribs from the inside. He breathed in, and for the first time in twelve years, his lungs didn't feel heavy. They felt like bellows. He looked out at the chaos, moving through the air with no effort, a shadow returning to the legend that should never have been fulfilled.
The Arrival of the Ancient
In the fields below, the NSEA soldiers moved like machines. Their night-vision monocles glowed a haunting green, cutting through the smog as they hunted for "the sinner." They moved with tactical precision, but the water of the rice fields was betraying them. Every splash was a target.
Except for one set of splashes. They moved too freely. Too fast.
The smoke cleared for a heartbeat, and the soldiers froze. Standing in the center of the carnage was a figure from a nightmare. Mehung. The Old Warrior.
He didn't look human. His armor was a dark, organic metal that seemed to drink the moonlight. He stood over a fallen soldier, his ancient blade buried deep between the man's ribs. The soldier was still alive, frantically emptying his sidearm into Mehung's chest at point-blank range. The "new age" bullets sparked against the pure forged armor like pebbles thrown at a mountain. Nothing pierced.
With a grunt of bored contempt, Mehung twisted the blade. The sound of snapping bone echoed across the field. He stepped forward, his eyes glowing with a dull, murderous gold.
The squad leader screamed an order. A dozen rifles opened up at once. A hail of lead tore through the air, striking Mehung's breastplate in a continuous, deafening metallic rain. He didn't flinch. He didn't slow down. He moved with a precision that defied the laws of inertia. He wasn't running; he was arriving.
The blade was a blur. He moved through the squad like a scythe through wheat. He didn't just kill; he disassembled. A wrist was severed here; a head removed there. He cut through the liver, the intestines, the very cells of their bodies, leaving just enough life in them to feel the cold water of the rice field as they bled out into the mud that had once fed them.
Mehung flicked his sword, clearing the gore. The steel began to glow with golden flakes and a dark, hungry fire. He turned toward the village huts. He gripped the hilt with both hands, his muscles coiling like serpents.
He swung. A sonic wave of golden-black energy tore through the air, a crescent moon of destruction that hit the first line of houses. They didn't just collapse; they vaporized into splinters and dust.
The Clash of Vessels
High above, on a ridge, Mr. Ywu gripped his sniper rifle. His hands were numb, his vision blurring with the agony of seeing his neighbors slaughtered. He tracked Mehung through his scope, his finger white on the trigger. He knew the wind was against him. He knew the moment he fired, Mehung would find him.
"Everyone do you copy? I am taking the target down."
The voice on the radio was cold. Ywu shifted his scope. Standing in the middle of the street, illuminated by a flickering, bullet-scarred streetlight, was Vaidere.
Mehung stopped. He tilted his head, his dark armor shifting like scales. "Are you the vessel of my lord?"
Vaidere chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. He reached behind his back, drawing two jagged blades that hummed with blue electricity. "Bastard. I don't care about your master. Prepare to die."
They moved. It was a flash of speed so absolute that for a microsecond, the falling rain and the drifting smoke stopped in mid-air. Atoms stood still. Vaidere struck, his blades screaming as they bit into Mehung's armor, severing the veins of the dead metal. A shockwave of blue lightning detonated, blinding Ywu through his scope.
"Did he... did he kill him?" Ywu whispered.
The smoke parted. Vaidere stood panting, his blades buried in Mehung's shoulder. Mehung hadn't moved. Slowly, the Old Warrior reached up with one hand and gripped Vaidere's blades. He pulled them out of his own body as if they were toothpicks. Behind the gashes, the armor began to stitch and forge itself back together in a sickening display of supernatural alchemy.
Vaidere's face went pale. He felt the cold water at his feet and realized he was looking at his own death. Mehung took a single step forward. "You're strong. But not enough."
Mehung's blade moved. It wasn't a swing; it was a streak of black lightning aimed directly at Vaidere's throat. Vaidere closed his eyes. In that final millisecond, he saw his sister, Maya. He accepted the painless end.
But the strike never landed.
The Savior of Balance
A hand caught Vaidere by the back of his tactical vest, wrenching him backward with such violent force that the black blade missed his eyes by less than an inch.
Red flames, deep and visceral as arterial blood, washed over the field. Mehung pulled back his strike, his golden eyes narrowing. Standing before him was a man with dark crimson eyes that burned like dying stars.
"Who are you?" Mehung asked, his voice a low vibration.
"A vessel," Arush whispered, his voice echoing with the weight of a thousand years. "A failed savior sent by God to maintain the balance."
Arush held Vaidere by the collar, his grip like iron. "Can I have a few minutes to talk with my soldier? So we can fight freely after this?"
Mehung looked at the flames dancing around Arush's feet. He sensed the shift in gravity. He slowly sheathed his sword halfway. "Do it fast."
Arush dropped Vaidere. His face was a mask of flickering red fire. From the base of his spine, a tail of dark energy erupted, lashing out like a whip. "Help Sanvi and the others. I will handle him."
"You'll die, Arush!" Vaidere spat, clutching his chest.
Arush roared, the sound vibrating in the very marrow of Vaidere's bones. The red flames turned darker, more violent. "You are under one condition to follow my orders! DO YOU GET IT? NOW MOVE!"
Vaidere recoiled, his pride breaking under the weight of Arush's aura. He turned and ran into the smoke, his boots splashing through the blood-stained water.
Arush turned back to Mehung. The world narrowed until there was nothing but the two of them. "Shall we begin?"
The Gravity of Death
Mehung disappeared. He didn't run; he simply ceased to be in one place and appeared in another.
Arush didn't wait. He thrust his hand forward, and the gravity in a ten-foot radius inverted. The water of the rice fields rose into the air in shimmering globes. A splash came from three feet away—an invisible footprint. Arush threw up a hand to defend, but he was too slow.
A gash appeared across his palm. Blood sprayed, mixing with the floating water. Arush retreated, watching as steam hissed from his wound. New flesh wove itself together in seconds, the cells screaming in agony as they reproduced at impossible speeds. He could fix the body, but he couldn't kill the pain.
"Enough," Arush hissed.
He focused his mind, reaching out with his invisible grip and crushing the gravity around Mehung's body. The Old Warrior stopped mid-stride, his feet sinking inches into the mud as the weight of a mountain settled on his shoulders.
The sound was horrific. Mehung began to move his limbs, and the sound of his ligaments tearing and bones snapping under the pressure was loud enough to be heard for kilometers. But he didn't stop. He was breaking his own body just to reach his enemy.
Arush realized close combat was a death sentence. He relaxed his right hand, letting his energy pool in his palm until it solidified into a jagged blade of pure crimson light. "This will be fun."
He released the gravity. The two warriors collided.
The air itself evaporated as the energy blade met the ancient steel. Every strike from Mehung was a mountain falling; every parry from Arush was a desperate gambit of speed. The ground beneath them turned to a slurry of mud and pulverized rock.
Mehung shifted. It was a movement of mere inches—a tactical feint that drew Arush's blade downward. In the opening, Mehung drove his sword upward in a brutal, rising slash.
The steel tore through Arush's chest. The shirt was instantly soaked. Arush fell back, steam rising from the massive wound as his body tried to stitch his lungs back together. His vision flickered. The flames around him weakened.
Mehung showed no mercy. He stepped in for the killing blow, his sword aimed squarely at the center of Arush's heart.
"Sweet spot, hah?" Arush whispered through a mouthful of blood.
At the final microsecond, Arush didn't parry—he ducked. He allowed the black blade to pass through the space where his head had been, and in that moment of overextension, he saw Mehung's exposed waist.
Arush plunged the energy blade into the gap in Mehung's armor. He felt the resistance of ancient flesh, then the wet give as the blade sank deep. He wrenched it out and leaped back, gasping for air that tasted like his own destruction.
Mehung dropped to one knee. The dark fire on his sword flickered. Then, incredibly, he began to laugh. A deep, hollow sound that filled the empty field.
"You think this is fun, bastard?" Arush spat, clutching his leaking chest.
"Yes," Mehung replied, his golden eyes meeting Arush's crimson ones. "It is to feel free... but still stay a slave."
-ARUSH SALUNKE