"Whoosh—whoosh—"
The terrifying stillness of the war-torn night was abruptly broken by the eerie, almost silent hiss of something impossibly fast, something burning, tearing through the sky like a phantom flame. It was faint, nearly silent to the untrained ear, a sound that promised unseen death. Then, without warning, a streak of invisible force descended from the dark heavens.
A dark object, cloaked in shadow and nearly indistinguishable from the inky blackness of the sky above, pierced through the thick head of a burly armed man standing guard. He was a sentinel, vigilant one moment, a lifeless husk the next.
His body stiffened—then collapsed, crumpling to the earth without a sound, his eyes staring blankly at the indifferent stars.
"Fuck! The boss is de—"
Another soldier barely got the words out, his voice choked with terror, before his skull exploded in a grotesque spray, his body crumpling with a wet, sickening thud, eyes wide in disbelief at the sudden, impossible end.
"Da-da-da—!"
The others panicked, their disciplined formation dissolving into chaos. The rhythmic, desperate rattle of gunfire erupted as they scrambled for whatever cover they could find behind broken walls and burnt-out, skeletal vehicles, firing their weapons in wild, uncertain directions, at an enemy they couldn't see.
But it didn't matter. Whatever this invisible force was, it wasn't stopped by concrete or steel. The phantom force punched straight through the flimsy barricades, finding its targets with horrifying, chilling precision.
"Oh my god!!"
Inside a shattered storefront, glass still crunching underfoot, a young woman clutched her chest, her breath shallow and ragged. Elistia Anastasia's face was pale, a stark canvas of terror. Outside, chaos reigned, a symphony of screams and desperate gunfire. One by one, the attackers dropped like flies, felled by an unseen hand. It wasn't just death—it was execution.
Silent.
Unseen.
Unstoppable.
She hadn't heard gunshots from an enemy, hadn't seen any visible foes. Yet, men were dying, their lives extinguished in an instant. It was as if Death itself, cloaked in shadow, had descended upon them, exacting a terrible, invisible toll.
"Buzz—buzz—"
Her frantic thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a soft, almost imperceptible vibration, followed by an eerily casual, calm voice, cutting through the din of chaos like a knife.
"Hello, Miss Anastasia. Can we talk, please?"
Her heart froze in her chest, a block of ice.
She spun around instinctively, every muscle taut, ready to spring, to fight. A boy stood before her—young, impossibly composed in the midst of a massacre, far too close for comfort. He wasn't panting, not a single ragged breath. He wasn't even armed.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling, betraying the practiced calm of her noble upbringing, as her fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of her small, concealed dagger.
The boy offered a faint, unsettling smile.
Where had he come from? What did he want? Was he the one responsible for the silent slaughter outside?
He had undeniably saved her, but that didn't mean he was an ally. He might be worse, far more dangerous than the ones who wanted her dead.
Anastasia's heart pounded, a frantic rhythm in her ears, but her gaze, honed by years of quiet resilience, remained steady, unwavering. Her mind raced with a thousand questions: Was this about the Anastasia family's inheritance? Their hidden assets? Their ancient title?
But if he possessed such terrifying power, a power that could dispatch armed men without a sound… why would he need something as trivial as wealth or land?
Confusion. Fear. Intrigue. They warred within her, a tempest of conflicting emotions.
The boy extended a hand casually, a gesture of almost innocent invitation.
"My name is Elric. We can discuss the details at another place."
Then, without another word, he turned.
And vanished.
"W-What the... Where did he go?" Anastasia muttered, stunned, her voice a disbelieving whisper into the empty air.
She rushed to where he had disappeared. At first glance, the space was empty, nothing but shattered glass and dust.
But then, she saw it. Something shimmered faintly in the air—a distortion. Like looking through a heatwave, or light bending through water. Then she saw it clearly.
A void.
A rift.
A swirling, inky darkness that seemed to swallow the light.
A portal.
Her rigorous training in theoretical physics, an unexpected passion cultivated during her time at Oxford, kicked in. As a distinguished graduate, she knew this was no mere illusion. This was a real anomaly in spacetime, a tear in the fabric of reality itself. But the crucial question was: How?
Was it advanced tech, beyond anything she'd ever seen?
Was he a mutant? Hadn't mutants gone extinct decades ago, wiped from the face of the Earth?
Whatever the answer, this was no ordinary situation. This was something entirely new, entirely terrifying.
She hesitated, her body poised on the brink. A million internal warnings screamed at her to stay put, to flee, to hide. But… her brother was still missing. Her last family, a vital piece of her fragmented world. And if there was even a sliver of hope, a microscopic chance, she had to take it.
"A once-in-a-lifetime chance," she whispered, the words a silent prayer, or perhaps a reckless vow.
Before stepping into the swirling darkness of the portal, she dashed outside. Among the fallen attackers, she scavenged a rifle and a few magazines, checking them with practiced, efficient ease, her hands moving with a fluid precision born of necessity. She slung the weapon over her shoulder, the familiar weight a small comfort against her back.
Trust was good.
Caution was better.
The portal spat her out with a dizzying lurch, depositing her into the pale, nascent light of dawn. A cold, damp wind struck her face, chilling her to the bone, as she looked up at a structure that could barely be called a building.
A dilapidated house stood crooked against the grey pre-dawn sky, a skeletal silhouette. Its wood was rotting, its roof sagging precariously. Only two upright pillars remained to support what looked like a miracle of balance, a testament to sheer stubbornness rather than sound construction.
Elric stood ahead, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, his ocean-blue eyes calm as they surveyed her.
"Not bad," he said, a faint, almost approving glint in his gaze as he glanced at the rifle still clutched in her hand. "Quite cautious."
He gestured upward with a flick of his chin.
"Miss Anastasia, climb up. We'll talk there."
His tone was polite, even inviting, but underneath it, a whisper of cold calculation passed through his eyes, a flicker of assessment that Anastasia felt deep in her bones.
Let's see just how useful you'll be, he thought silently, his gaze analytical.
Anastasia stared at the frayed safety rope hanging loosely from the second floor, swaying gently in the wind. Her brows furrowed, a slight line of worry appearing between them.
It wasn't high. She had trained extensively in climbing and rappelling; this particular ascent would be easy, almost trivial.
But that wasn't the issue.
Climbing meant turning her back on him.
It meant putting herself in a completely vulnerable position.
No weapons at the ready. No solid footing. No immediate escape route.
But… she had no better choice. No safer alternative. The portal was gone.
Anastasia took a breath, steeling herself. Then, with a clear clang, she tossed her rifle to the ground, letting it fall against the damp earth.
"Bang—"
Quite decisive when needed
The sound echoed slightly in the open space, a final, definitive period to her decision.
Without another word, she grabbed the rope, her fingers curling tightly around the rough fibers. One pull. Two. Then she began to ascend, her movements smooth and swift, a testament to her training. She was still wary, still acutely aware of the danger that permeated the very air around Elric—but now, for better or worse, her fate was squarely in his hands.
Whether I survive or not... depends on what happens next.