The darkness inside the R&D complex was a living, breathing thing. Emergency lights, few and far between, cast long, distorted shadows that writhed like tormented spirits. The silence was absolute, broken only by the drip of unseen condensation and the faint, almost subliminal, hum of a malevolent intelligence at work.
"Stay sharp," Hoshina whispered, his voice a ghost in Kafka's ear comm. "The Architect has had weeks to play in here. Assume everything is hostile."
They moved down a long, metallic corridor, a testament to a bygone era of limitless scientific ambition. Inactive robotic arms hung from the ceiling like sleeping metal spiders. Shattered containment units lined the walls, their contents long since removed or decayed. It was a museum of forgotten progress.
As they passed a junction, a security turret, its design a decade out of date, suddenly whirred to life. Its optical sensor, a single glowing red dot, swiveled and locked onto them with an unnerving, inorganic speed.
"Contact," Hoshina hissed, already blurring into motion.
But Kafka was a step ahead of him. His training with Igris and Beru, the endless nights of dodging and enduring, had honed his senses to a razor's edge. He had felt the spike of energy in the turret before it had even moved.
[Lesser threat. Non-Kaiju. Recommend tactical evasion or precise disabling,] Blackwing's calm, analytical voice echoed in his mind.
He chose the latter.
He didn't draw a weapon. He simply flicked his wrist. A small, perfectly shaped, razor-sharp shard of his Blackwing armor detached from his gauntlet and shot through the air, silent and black as the void. It wasn't the violent shadow-spear. It was a refined, controlled projectile, like a ninja's shuriken.
tink
The shard, barely larger than a fingernail, embedded itself perfectly in the turret's optical lens, shattering the sensor and blinding the machine. The turret spazzed for a moment, firing a wild burst of plasma that harmlessly scorched the ceiling, before powering down, its targeting system crippled.
The entire exchange had taken less than a second. It was an act of surgical, non-lethal precision.
Hoshina came to a sliding halt beside him, his blades half-drawn. He stared at the disabled turret, then back at Kafka's outstretched hand, from which a new shard was already regrowing.
"That," Hoshina said, his voice a low whistle of appreciation, "is new. Remind me to update your file with 'has throwing knives made of nightmares'." He pushed past him. "Impressive. But save your energy. There will be more."
He was right. As they delved deeper, the 'ghost' began to play with them. Doors would slam shut, forcing them to find alternate routes. Industrial cleaning drones, reprogrammed with malicious intent, would charge at them with spinning blades. Corridors would suddenly vent super-cooled nitrogen gas, forcing them to retreat. It was a gauntlet of technological traps, all orchestrated by the disembodied will of the Architect.
Kafka and Hoshina moved through it like a perfectly oiled machine. Hoshina, with his years of experience, would identify the nature of the trap. And Kafka, with his new, impossible skillset, would provide the solution. He'd phase through sealed doors, use Blackwing to create small, perfect shields against plasma bursts, and disable robotic sentinels with his silent, precise shards.
The clumsy brawler was gone, replaced by a nascent special operative whose power gave him a solution to every physical problem. He was becoming the ultimate skeleton key.
Finally, they reached the heart of the R&D wing: a massive, cavernous chamber that housed the primary server core. It was a cathedral of data, with racks of servers reaching up into the darkness like monoliths, all connected by a web of glowing blue data conduits. In the center of the room, on a raised dais, was the primary access terminal—their objective.
And standing between them and it, was the welcome party.
Three massive, quadrupedal machines, the size of pickup trucks, powered on with a heavy, grinding groan. They were obsolete Kaiju-Containment Drones, armed with heavy plasma cannons and titanium alloy claws. In their prime, they had been designed to hold down a rampaging Honju. The Architect had repurposed them as guard dogs. Their single, large, red optical sensors all swiveled and focused on the two intruders.
"Well now," Hoshina said, a thrill of excitement in his voice as he drew his blades. "Those are a bit more serious than turret guns. It seems the Architect has decided to stop playing games."
"What's the plan?" Kafka asked, Blackwing flowing over him, forming his full, sleek combat armor.
"The plan is a classic," Hoshina grinned, his battle-lust flaring. "You go high, I go low. Don't get shot."
He was gone in a flash, a silver streak rushing towards the drone on the left.
Kafka didn't hesitate. He leaped, channeling power to his feet, launching himself onto one of the towering server racks. He began to run vertically up its surface, his Kaiju-talons digging for purchase, aiming to flank the drones from above.
The drones' plasma cannons swiveled and fired. Heavy, incandescent balls of energy screamed through the chamber, exploding against the server racks with concussive force, blowing out showers of sparks and shredded metal.
Kafka was a ghost in the machine, running and leaping from server to server, the explosions nipping at his heels. His evasion training was paying off in spades; he was moving with an agility he'd never possessed before.
Down below, Hoshina was a dervish of silver light, weaving between the drones' clumsy stomps, his blades striking at their armored legs, trying to find a weak point in their joints.
Kafka saw his opening. The drone on the right was swiveling to track him, its cannon charging. As it turned, it exposed the heat radiator fins on its back—a classic design flaw.
[Weak point identified. Recommend precise, high-impact strike,] Blackwing reported coolly in his mind.
Kafka didn't need telling twice. He leaped from the top of a server rack, his body a descending black arrow. He didn't form a blade or a claw. He concentrated all of his power, all of his will, into a single, armored fist.
[Igris Style: Falling Hammer,] a new, instinctive name for a technique learned through endless, painful repetition, echoed in his thoughts.
He came down like a meteor, his glowing green fist aimed directly at the exposed radiator fins.
*CRUUUUNCH!*
The sound was of breaking metal and dying machinery. He punched clean through the drone's armor, his fist embedding itself in its core systems. The drone seized up, its red eye flickering, and then its plasma cannon misfired, discharging its entire energy reserve straight down, blowing its own legs off and cratering the floor. One down.
As Kafka landed, the third drone, seeing its companion fall, turned its full attention to him. But its attention was on the wrong threat.
"Too slow," Hoshina's voice whispered from behind it. He had used Kafka's aerial assault as the perfect diversion. He slid under the drone's chassis, his blades a blur, and systematically severed every single power conduit and hydraulic line connecting its legs to its body.
The massive drone simply collapsed, its legs giving out, crashing to the ground in a helpless, immobile heap. The second was disabled.
The final drone, seeing its two companions neutralized in seconds, did something unexpected. It backed away. Its plasma cannon retracted, and a new, more sinister-looking device emerged from its chassis—a shimmering, multi-pronged emitter.
"What is that?" Kafka asked, getting to his feet.
Hoshina's eyes went wide with alarm. "That's a neural scrambler! An anti-Kaiju pacification weapon! It projects a psychic frequency designed to overload a Kaiju's brain and induce paralysis! Hibino, get back! If that hits you—"
It was too late. The emitter glowed with a sickening, yellow light and unleashed a wave of invisible, silent energy.
Kafka felt it hit him like a physical sledgehammer to the mind.
But it wasn't pain.
The chaotic, feral essence of Kaiju No. 8 at his core, the beast he had learned to live with, to control, screamed in agony. The wave was tailored to its primitive, monstrous frequency. It felt like his own brain was being torn in two. His control wavered. The beast, tortured and enraged, thrashed against its chains.
But then, another presence in his soul intervened.
The cold, intelligent, logical drop of the Monarch's essence, the being he called Blackwing, met the psychic attack with a wall of pure, unassailable, cold will. It was not a Kaiju. It was not a primitive beast. It was a fragment of a Monarch's mind. The neural scrambling wave, designed to break a wild animal, hit the perfect, diamond-hard logic of the shadow and shattered.
The psychic assault lasted only a second, but Kafka saw it all. The attack, the agony of the beast, and the silent, absolute defense of the shadow.
The drone's yellow light faded. The attack was over.
Kafka stood there, completely unharmed. He slowly looked up, his own green eyes now glowing with a colder, more dangerous light. The attack hadn't just failed. It had royally pissed off both the monster and the sentient shadow living in his soul.
"My turn," he growled, his voice a duet of his own rage and Blackwing's cold fury.
He didn't charge. He raised a hand, and the floor of the entire server chamber dissolved into a roiling sea of black shadow. He wasn't just summoning a tendril anymore. He was manifesting a piece of the Monarch's domain.
Hoshina could only stare in abject, horrified awe. The ghost in the machine had met a far older, far more terrifying kind of ghost. The digital serpent had just tried to bite a god.