The hall dissolved into chaos.
Bullets screamed, muzzle flashes flaring white against the blackout. But Grant moved faster than the air could catch him. One instant he was there—barefoot, veins of red lightning crawling across his skin. The next, soldiers were hitting walls, rifles twisting into sparking scrap in his hands.
Every round that struck him vanished into light, wounds sealing in an instant.
A soldier raised a blade-staff—Grant's hand flickered, and the man flew backwards, armor sparking as arcs of red lightning danced over him.
Another tried to flank. Grant appeared at his back, whispering in his ear:
"Next time, try knocking. Might keep your bones intact."
Then the man convulsed, armor glowing red before he dropped in a smoking heap.
Outside, the blackout spread—streetlights flickered, radio towers crackled, circuits bending under the static bleeding from him.
Inside, the strike team faltered. Training broke. They weren't fighting a boy anymore. They were fighting a force.
Xylo whistled low, twin ice-blades dripping frost at his sides. "Guess I'm not the flashy one tonight." His smirk was too quick, too sharp.
Nullis didn't move. She'd seen battles, watched powers tear holes in walls and men alike—but nothing like this. Her throat tightened, her body flickering translucent as instinct told her to vanish. She couldn't. Her feet rooted to the floor.
Anna didn't blink. Couldn't. Her glyphs dimmed to embers, her hand pressed to her chest as she whispered to herself, half-relief, half-terror:
It's really him.
Grant turned, his eyes glowing like twin storms. For a heartbeat, he looked at her—just her—and the battlefield seemed to quiet.
Colonel Veynar's voice cut through the din, sharp as a blade.
"Silencers. Now."
From the rear of the formation, six figures stepped forward in perfect unison. Their armor was different—sleeker, darker, etched with pulsing blue lines that hummed against the static. Each carried compact devices strapped to their backs, glowing.
The moment they stepped in, his lightning stuttered, freezing mid-air. Bullets no longer vanished—they cut shallow lines before sluggishly closing. His knees buckled.
Anna's breath caught. "What—what's happening to him?"
Xylo's grin cracked. "They brought dampeners…" He spat the word like venom. "Silencers. They choke powers out of you till you're nothing."
He gasped, muscles trembling, the storm dying in his veins. For a heartbeat, he felt powerless again—helpless, like before. And then—
Never be weak.
The Shadow's voice burned through him, cold and final.
Grant's jaw locked. His trembling stilled. His eyes—still lit red—flared hotter, deeper, until the light seemed to bleed from his very bones.
The Silencers pressed in. For a moment, they had him.
And then he snapped.
His whole body began to vibrate, skin and muscle blurring at impossible frequency. The air rippled, a low hum building into a bone-shaking roar.
The dampening fields shattered. Sparks burst across the Silencers' suits as their devices overloaded. One dropped, smoking. Another screamed as his visor cracked, blue light popping out in bursts.
Grant roared with them—no longer restrained, the storm alive again, louder, wilder.
The mansion walls shook with his pulse.
The red lightning cracked outward spidering up the walls. Support beams groaned. A chandelier sheared loose, crashing into the marble with a thunder that silenced screams.
Children shrieked as the ceiling split. Dust and rubble rained in sheets.
"Grant!"
Anna threw herself forward, glyphs blazing as Xylo wove an ice shield dome over the nearest cluster of younger Ampers. Debris shattered against the barrier, sparks flaring across its surface. Her arms shook from the strain of holding the ice, her voice raw as she screamed again:
"Grant, stop!"
Through the haze, his outline burned—half-man, half-storm, lightning still sparking wild from his skin. His chest heaved, eyes burning red. And then—he saw them.
The children huddled beneath Xylo's shield, eyes wide, sobbing. For an instant he saw himself there—small, powerless, waiting for the world to crush him. His hand faltered.
The roar in his throat died. The lightning faltered, sputtering uneven arcs instead of waves. His hand, still raised, trembled.
For a moment, humanity bled through. Too fragile to hold
Far away, in a command bunker, feeds crackled with static before stabilizing. Colonel Veynar stood over the display, helmet tucked under one arm, watching the carnage unfold frame by frame. The boy in lightning—slowing, hesitating. Almost breaking.
His lips curled into something colder than a smile.
"He's not a weed."
The other officers in the room turned toward him, uncertain.
Veynar didn't blink. His voice dropped like stone:
"He's a weapon."
He keyed the retreat order with a single command. On the battlefield, Taskforce visors flared green—withdrawal protocols. Soldiers disengaged, falling back step by step, their rifles firing only in rhythm to cover.
And all the while, Veynar's wristpad streamed every flicker of data—the blackout, the regeneration, the quake, the surge that had cracked their dampeners.
He saved it. Transmitted it. Straight into Taskforce V's core.
Smoke curled around shattered chandeliers, and the air stung with ozone and scorched glyphs.
Grant stood amid the wreckage, red arcs still crawling over his skin, lightning faintly etching the walls like veins. His chest rose and fell rapidly, muscles taut beneath the storm of his exhaustion. Every inhale shimmered with heat and electricity, every exhale trembling with barely restrained power.
Anna stepped forward, careful. Her boots crunched over debris. Glyphs flickered faintly across her arms, but her hands remained empty. She stopped a few paces from him, hesitant to breach the space around the glowing figure.
"Grant…" Her voice shook, equal parts awe and fear.
Recognition flickered in his eyes—the boy she had known, the young man she had spent years waiting for—but the red storm within him had left something darker in its wake. Anger, power, and a raw, unformed hunger. It lingered just beneath the surface, coiled like a predator waiting to strike.
He lifted a trembling hand, lightning arcing faintly between his fingers. For a heartbeat, it looked like he might reach for her.
His knees buckled. Vision blurred, the storm bleeding out in a hiss of sparks. He collapsed into the rubble, unconscious.
Anna rushed to his side, crouching beside him, hands hovering over his trembling frame. Xylo's frost crept across the shattered floor, forming a protective barrier. Nullis phased in, silent, eyes scanning the hallway for any lingering threats.
Outside, the city remained blackened, sirens wailing faintly through the distance. The Ampers safehouse had survived—but the warning had been delivered.
Far away, over encrypted channels, Colonel Veynar's calm, commanding voice broke through comms:
"Codename Red Tempest confirmed. Prepare Juggernaut Protocol."