The floor of the server chamber ceased to be metal. It became a churning, lightless ocean of pure shadow, the surface rippling as if stirred by an unseen storm. The monolithic server racks now looked like tombstones rising from an abyssal sea. The only solid ground left was the small patch under Hoshina's feet and the raised dais of the central terminal.
Hoshina was frozen, not by fear, but by a profound, overwhelming sense of awe. This was not the 'Jumper'. This was not 'Numbers Weapon 8'. The raw, cosmic power pouring out of Kafka Hibino was an echo, a perfect, miniature replica of the pressure he'd felt on the rooftop. This was Sovereign's power, channeled through his unwilling human vessel. The Trojan Horse had just opened its gates.
The last Kaiju-Containment Drone, its neural scrambler still smoking, took a hesitant, grinding step back. Its programming screamed at it to engage the hostile, but its every sensor was blaring with warnings about the impossible energy readings. The very laws of physics were being violated around it.
Kafka stood at the center of his summoned abyss, his eyes glowing with a cold, emerald-green light that was now tinged with a deep, unsettling violet. He was a conduit for two titanic forces, and for the first time, they were in perfect, terrifying harmony.
The monster within him, enraged by the psychic attack, provided the raw power. Blackwing, the shard of the Monarch's soul, provided the intelligent, lethal control.
He raised a single hand.
[Shadow's Grasp.] The name of the technique bloomed in his mind, another gift from the abyss.
From the churning sea of darkness at his feet, dozens of colossal, semi-translucent shadow arms, each ending in razor-sharp claws, erupted. They were not clumsy tendrils; they were perfectly formed, powerful limbs, wreathed in the same violet energy as Igris's armor. They shot upwards, a forest of grasping hands, and swarmed the drone.
The machine's plasma cannons fired wildly, but the blasts passed harmlessly through the intangible shadow arms. Its titanium alloy claws lashed out, only to be caught and held by fists made of pure night.
The drone was lifted from its feet, held aloft by the shadow legion, its legs kicking uselessly. It was completely, utterly helpless.
Kafka made a fist.
The shadow arms squeezed.
*SKRRRRRR-CRUUUNCH!*
The sound of reinforced, military-grade armor being crumpled like a tin can echoed through the vast chamber. The drone's red optical light flickered, and then, with a final, pathetic spark, it went dark. The shadow arms contemptuously tossed the compacted, sparking wreck into the corner of the room, and then slowly, silently, sank back into the roiling sea of darkness on the floor.
The battle was over. The silence that followed was heavy and absolute.
"Hibino…" Hoshina's voice was a strained, awed whisper. He had seen Kafka's power before. He had fought against it. But this… this was different. This was not just a man with monster powers. This was a man channeling a force of nature. "What… was that?"
The sea of shadows on the floor receded, flowing back into Kafka, the metal grid of the floor reappearing as if it had never been gone. Kafka stumbled, a hand going to his head, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The exertion, both physical and psychic, had been immense.
"An… overreaction," Kafka panted, his voice returning to normal, the violet tinge in his eyes fading. He looked at the crushed wreck of the drone, a flicker of fear in his own eyes. He had been a passenger for that last attack. Blackwing had taken the wheel, and the power it had unleashed was far beyond anything he thought he was capable of. The upgrade was more potent—and more terrifying—than he could have imagined.
Hoshina slowly walked towards him, his blades still sheathed. His expression was no longer one of awe. It was one of cold, hard calculation. "The Architect tried to hack your Kaiju side," he said, his voice low and analytical. "And in doing so, it seems to have woken up your… sponsor. That was his power, wasn't it?"
Kafka could only nod, too exhausted to formulate another lie.
"I thought so," Hoshina said, a grim line to his lips. He looked at the crushed drone, then at the path to the terminal, now completely clear. "The good news is, I think the Architect just got a very clear message. Stealing our data is one thing. Trying to touch Sovereign's favorite toy is another entirely."
He was right. There were no more traps. No more resistance. It was as if the Architect, the digital serpent infesting the complex, had felt the terrifying, monarch-class power spike and had immediately, logically, decided to retreat, pulling its consciousness back from this node of the network. Messing with the Defense Force was a calculated risk. Pissing off a god was a terminal error in judgment.
They reached the central terminal without further incident. Kafka stood guard while Hoshina, with the practiced speed of an expert, plugged in their custom datastick and initiated the virus upload. Lines of code, a digital war between the Defense Force's finest hackers and the Architect's lingering programs, scrolled across the screen.
"Virus is in," Hoshina reported into his comms. "Beginning system purge. We're scrubbing him from the system."
As the progress bar crept upwards, Hoshina turned to Kafka. "You're changing, Hibino," he said, his voice quiet. "Every day. You're becoming less of a blunt instrument and more of a… surgeon's scalpel. A very, very frightening scalpel that can sometimes turn into a nuclear bomb." He shook his head. "I can't imagine what his training is like."
Kafka didn't answer. The memory of Beru's gleeful torture and Igris's silent, bruising lessons flashed in his mind. He wouldn't wish it on anyone.
"Purge complete," Hoshina announced as the terminal flashed green. He yanked the datastick out. "Objective complete. Let's get the hell out of here before our friend changes his mind and decides to drop another satellite on us."
They made their way back through the dark, silent corridors. The traps were now inert, the turrets dead, the cleaning drones once again dormant. The ghost had been exorcised.
As they passed through the final blast door and into the familiar, well-lit corridors of the active base, a wave of relief washed over Kafka. He was safe. He had survived. He had even, in a strange way, succeeded.
But as he walked, he noticed the other troopers in the hallway giving him a wide berth. They weren't looking at Hoshina. They were looking at him. Whispers followed him. The energy he had just released had been so immense, so alien, that it had been felt through meters of concrete and steel, registering on every sensor on the base.
He had won the battle. He had purged the digital serpent.
But in doing so, he had revealed a terrifying new level of his power. The lie they had so carefully constructed around "Numbers Weapon 8" was beginning to crack. Everyone on this base had just felt a small, terrifying echo of a Monarch's true power, and they all knew exactly where it had come from.
Kafka Hibino, the hero rookie, was a story that was becoming harder and harder to believe. The story of Kafka Hibino, the monster's host, was becoming impossible to deny.