Deep in the heart of the bunker, in a throne room of black metal and glowing red data-screens, General Adler watched the intruders' progress. His face, a mask of aristocratic disdain, was illuminated by the tactical display. He had seen them bypass his beasts. He had seen them cross the frozen river.
"They are not brutes," he murmured to the empty room, a flicker of professional interest in his cold eyes. "They are disciplined. Awakened. A scalpel, not a sledgehammer." He steepled his fingers. "Very well. A scalpel must be met not with a shield, but with a tool designed to break the blade."
He touched a control on his throne's armrest. "Activate the Siren Corps. Objective: neutralize the enemy commander. His psychological profile suggests a vulnerability to high-frequency sonic disruption. Exploit it."
The Vanguard team moved into a vast, cavernous server hub, the air humming with the quiet, powerful thrum of a million processing units. The silence was unnerving.
"Something's wrong," Jack's voice crackled in their ears. "I'm not picking up any guards, no automated defenses. The entire level is... empty."
It was then that they arrived.
They did not march or run. They drifted into the chamber from a dozen shadowed archways, their movements utterly silent. They were the Siren Corps, six figures clad in stark, bone-white armor that was smooth and seamless, their faces hidden by featureless, white visors. They carried no visible weapons. They were a choir of ghosts, and their performance was about to begin.
They raised their hands to their helmets in perfect, eerie unison.
The sound that came was not a sound. It was a physical violation. A high-frequency, razor-sharp shriek that bypassed the ears and drilled directly into the mind. It was a needle of pure, sonic agony, calibrated to resonate with the unique energy signature of an Awakened nervous system.
The Vanguard team cried out as one. Their symbiotic armor, designed to amplify their own energy, now amplified the pain. Blaze's pyrokinesis sputtered and died. Frost clutched his head, the ice crystals forming on his armor cracking under the sonic strain. Their greatest strength had been turned into a crippling vulnerability.
But the worst effect was on Lin Feng.
He roared, a sound of pure, animal pain, and collapsed to one knee. The controlled, violet energy of the Thunder and Fire Restraint went wild, arcing and snapping across his armor in a chaotic, uncontrolled storm.
"It's the feedback loop!" Jack yelled from Giza, his voice a frantic buzz of static in their comms. "The sonic frequency is destabilizing his core! Commander, you have to disengage!"
"The target is vulnerable," the lead Siren stated, her voice a synthesized, emotionless whisper that cut through their own psychic scream. "Move in. Neutralize."
The six white figures began to advance, their movements calm and deliberate, a circle of silent, white predators closing in on a wounded, thrashing lion.
Lin Feng was on the ground, his body convulsing, the uncontrolled lightning scorching the floor around him. He was the picture of a man being torn apart by his own power. The very picture he had so carefully painted for Dr. Sharma weeks ago.
The Sirens were ten feet away, their hands glowing with a contained, concussive energy, ready for the final, disabling blow.
Lin Feng stopped screaming.
He lifted his head, and through his dark, glowing visor, he looked at them. The chaotic, sputtering lightning around him did not just stop; it was drawn back into his body in a single, silent instant. The pained, defensive posture was gone, replaced by the calm, coiled readiness of a predator.
The lead Siren faltered, her programming struggling to process the sudden, absolute change.
"The performance," Lin Feng's voice echoed in the chamber, no longer a scream of pain, but a low, terrifyingly calm rumble, "is over."
He rose to his feet, not in a rush, but with a deliberate, inexorable certainty. He raised his gauntleted hand.
He did not fire a bolt. He unleashed a wave. A silent, 360-degree electromagnetic pulse of such focused, overwhelming power that it did not just disrupt the Sirens' sonic emitters; it sublimated them. Their white helmets exploded in a shower of ceramic dust. Their armor, and the women inside, were flash-cooked by the sheer, raw power.
Six white-armored statues stood for a single, silent second, before collapsing into piles of superheated, smoldering ruin.
The sonic assault was over. Silence returned to the chamber.
The rest of the Vanguard team stared, their pain forgotten, their minds reeling. They were not just looking at their commander. They were looking at a master strategist, a man who had turned his own perceived weakness into the perfect, fatal lure. The respect they held for him was instantly reforged into something harder, something absolute. They were not just his soldiers. They were his blade. And he had just shown them how sharp he could be.