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The forest was eerily still, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the aftermath of Serpe’s explosive retreat. Sir Cedric Lionheart stood firm, his shield raised and glowing faintly with divine energy, while Kenshiro Takamura knelt nearby, eyes closed, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his katana.
“Do you know where she went, Keni?” Sir Cedric asked, his voice low but urgent.
Kenshiro didn’t open his eyes. “Yes,” he replied, his tone calm, almost meditative. “She’s moving… extremely quickly. Bouncing tree to tree. But the trees… the leaves… they aren’t even trembling.” His brow furrowed slightly, a rare sign of concentration. “Like a shadow without weight.”
For a heartbeat, the forest seemed to hold its breath. Then—
Smoke began to curl from between Kenshiro’s clenched teeth. His muscles coiled like a spring. “Tenken Battō: Iai.”
In a motion faster than the eye could follow, his blade left its sheath. The air itself seemed to split, a silver flash cutting through the dim light. Sentient Serpe materialized mid-leap between two trees, her serpentine eyes widening in shock as the blade’s edge found her. The force of the strike sent her crashing to the forest floor, her twin blades clattering uselessly beside her.
Kenshiro landed in a crouch, his katana already sheathed. He rose slowly, his gaze cold as he approached the fallen enforcer. “Loud mouths tell everything,” he said quietly. “Only the quiet ones are strong.”
Serpe snarled, her body already twisting to rise—until an invisible force slammed into her, snapping her head back. Blood sprayed from a gash that seemed to appear out of thin air.
“Fūjin Geki,” Kenshiro murmured, his voice as sharp as his blade. “My master’s ultimate technique. A slice so swift, even the wind cannot see it.”
Sir Cedric didn’t hesitate. With a roar, he leapt into the air, his hammer glowing with golden light. “Holy Smite!”
A pillar of divine fire erupted from the heavens, engulfing Serpe in searing radiance. Her scream echoed through the trees—a sound less of pain than of dissolution, as if her very essence were being unraveled. When the light faded, only ash remained, scattered by a sudden gust of wind.
Sir Cedric landed heavily, his breathing steady but his eyes wary. “Let’s hurry,” he said, turning to Kenshiro. “Before the others reach the castle without us.”
Kenshiro nodded once, his gaze lingering on the ashes. Without another word, the two warriors turned and vanished into the shadows of the forest, leaving only the whisper of leaves in their wake.
Deep within the Labyrinthine Laboratory on the remote continent of Xaneron, walls lined with pulsating containment units and holographic screens flickering with data, Dr. Kalmaris Vorst slammed his fist onto a control panel. The monitors before him displayed a flatline signal where Sentient Serpe Veyne’s vitals had once blazed.
“NO!” he roared, his voice echoing off the cold steel walls. “This cannot be happening!”
He whirled toward his four Assistant Head Researchers—Dr. Veyra, Dr. Kaelos, Dr. Myrin, and Dr. Thalor—their faces illuminated by the sterile blue glow of the lab. “Veyra!” he barked, jabbing a finger at the eldest of the four. “Assemble a recovery team. Retrieve the Sentient’s body immediately. I want it on my dissection table within the hour!”
Dr. Veyra nodded, her fingers already flying across a holographic interface to mobilize operatives. “Understood, Doctor.”
Dr. Kaelos, a gaunt man with a perpetually furrowed brow, adjusted his spectacles. “How could her vitals vanish entirely? Even in failure, the core should have preserved diagnostic data—”
“It’s a First Generation model,” interrupted Dr. Myrin, her tone clipped as she reviewed Serpe’s schematics on a floating screen. “We knew there were risks of undetected systemic collapses. Once Veyra’s team retrieves the vessel, we’ll isolate the flaw.”
Nearby, a junior researcher—Liran—hesitantly raised a hand. “What if… what if it wasn’t a failure?” All eyes turned to him as he swallowed hard. “What if someone killed it?”
The lab fell silent. Dr. Vorst stalked toward Liran, his polished boots clicking sharply against the floor. “Killed it?” he repeated, his voice a venomous whisper. He leaned in until his face was inches from the trembling researcher’s. “Do you question my work, boy? Shall I strap you into a conversion chamber and let you test that theory against one of these ‘rulers’ yourself?”
Liran paled. “N-no, Doctor Vorst! I-I only meant—”
“You meant nothing,” Vorst hissed. “The First Gens are flawed, not feeble. Even obsolete, they could tear apart a battalion. The idea that some wandering brute could dismantle one is ludicrous.” He straightened, smoothing his lab coat with a sneer. “But by all means—volunteer, and we’ll see how long you last.”
Liran shrank back, muttering apologies.
Dr. Thalor, the youngest of the assistants, cleared his throat. “The Third Generation prototypes are nearing completion, Doctor. Once they’re operational, even the rulers of the universes won’t stand a chance.”
Vorst’s rage softened into a cold smile. “Precisely.” He turned to gaze at the row of towering, dormant Sentient vessels lining the lab’s far wall—sleek, obsidian-shelled titans with cores glowing faintly under layers of restraint fields. “The Third Gens will be indestructible. And when they’re unleashed…”
He didn’t finish the thought..........he didn’t need to.
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