"To survive is not merely to live. It is to balance between chaos and calm, to fight without hatred, to fall and rise until even fear grows silent." —Yu Wo
Before the block could plunge into the ground, a Trophy Hunter caught sight of Thomas and Aria.
They sensed him before they saw him—an instinctive shiver running through their bodies. Both spoke at once, their voices low and sharp.
"There's one headed this way."
Aria's eyes met Thomas's. "Let's lead him away from here," she said firmly.
They took off without another word, leaping from the rooftop. Wind tore past their faces as they descended. Halfway down, the Hunter launched after them—an arc of shadow and motion. He bounced straight at them, after leaping off several buildings in an instant, claws sinking into the wall near Aria. With terrifying grace, it crouched and swung its axe.
Aria saw the strike coming. Her instincts flared. She shifted her weight upward, catching the flat of the axe with both palms. In the same motion, she planted a kick into the Hunter's neck, forcing it backward.
Using the embedded axe as leverage, she flipped away, twisting midair until her back scraped the wall. She slid down its surface, guiding her descent, sparks flying from where her boots met stone. The instant her feet hit the next floor, she dove through a hole and skidded several feet before stopping, dust curling around her.
Before the invasion, Aria had been a parkour practitioner. Under Malik's training, that skill had evolved into art—a survival art. Every movement was fluid, purposeful, honed by countless near-deaths.
Thomas landed moments later, redirecting his fall with practiced control. He hit the ground running and reached her side.
They sprinted together, the alien closing in fast.
"You've gotten a lot better since the last hunt," Thomas said between breaths. "Your training's paying off. It won't be long before you don't need my help."
Aria smirked despite the pounding of her heart. "Don't flatter yourself, Thomas. You're still my shield when things get ugly."
He huffed a laugh as they vaulted over a collapsed floor. "A shield? That's all I am to you?"
She landed lightly beside him. "A very reliable one," she shot back. Then, eyes glinting, she added, "But one day, I'll be the one shielding you."
Thomas cracked a rare grin, even mid-sprint. "Then I'll hold you to that, Aria."
Behind them, the Hunter roared. Its tentacles flared open, pulsing crimson, and the edge of its axe shimmered with Zark energy.
Aria's breath came ragged. "But right now," she said, eyes narrowing, "we survive."
Dust billowed with each step, floors crumbling beneath their boots as if the city itself had surrendered.
Aria Venn, a woman in her mid to late twenties, about five feet nine, lean and athletic, her body built for speed and agility rather than brute strength. Her frame was all wiry muscle and precision: slim shoulders, powerful legs, joints that flowed like liquid through motion.
Her hair was dark chestnut, nearly black, usually tied in a short, practical braid so it wouldn't hinder her movement. Loose strands clung to her face with sweat and dust.
Before the invasion, she had been a software engineer in Rio de Janeiro. Her life was code, logic, and the thrill of parkour—until the sky tore open.
Her brother, her only family, had died in those first chaotic days. She never forgave herself for not being able to save him.
In her grief, she joined a resistance cell in São Paulo, fighting the Vexari invasion one day at a time. She watched comrades die by the dozens. When their hideout was overrun, she was one of the few captured alive.
Since awakening on the ranch—confused, covered in mist—she had carried her brother's memory like a brand. She saw him in every silence and every heartbeat. His laughter on the cracked balcony of their apartment. The last moment she held his hand as the sky burned red.
His memory drove her. If she died now, every person she'd loved—her brother, her team—would vanish with her. No one would remember them. That was something she refused to allow.
Thomas Ried stood at five feet eleven, a man in his early thirties with the build of a soldier carved from discipline and endurance. His skin, light tan. Steel-gray eyes, sharp and cold, reflected both precision and pain, framed by short black hair with streaks of silver. His movements carried quiet strength—controlled, deliberate, the weight of a man who had seen too much and endured it all. Even in stillness, Thomas radiated a calm intensity
Thomas Ried's life had begun far away, in a quiet town outside Montréal. His mother died young, leaving his father to raise him alone. Discipline and resilience became his inheritance. By seventeen, Thomas was already built like a soldier.
He enlisted in the Canadian military the moment he graduated from High school. Training broke most recruits. It forged him. His strength and endurance set him apart, and by twenty-five, he was handpicked to train and join the Joint Task Force 2 (JTF2)—Canada's elite special forces.
Soon after, he was recruited into a covert division that operated off the books. Soldiers there were trained in secret martial arts—fifteen classified techniques that enhanced physical performance beyond normal human limits.
Thomas's nature was strength. Under that trait, he mastered four techniques that amplified his body's power, endurance, and destructive precision. His fists became weapons sharper than steel.
At twenty-six, his father—the only family he had left—died suddenly of a heart attack. Alone, Thomas buried his grief in service.
Years later, he met a woman who made him believe he could have a normal life again. They were shopping together when the invasion began.
The first blast destroyed the building. Thomas reacted instantly, shielding her with his enhanced body. He tore through rubble, leading her toward the light.
He saved a boy from a blast, but when he turned back to reach his girlfriend, a second explosion consumed her.
She was gone.
Rage burned through him, but discipline held it in chains and carried the boy to safety.
In the midst of the chaos, he was called back to the task force, where he joined his comrades. Together, they mounted a desperate defense.
Outnumbered and against all odds, he fought until his strength gave out. Until every comrade was either dead or captured. Until even his fury turned to silence.
Captured, restrained, but before blacking out, he finally faced the truth: for all his training and control, he had lived obeying orders that destroyed others. For the first time, he wondered if the people he'd killed had felt what he felt now—helpless, hopeless, terrified.
He wondered what a waste for him to die without atoning for his sins.
Back at the hunt.
The Hunter leapt—an avalanche of shadow and steel.
"Down!" Thomas barked.
Both rolled aside. The axe struck where they'd stood, stone shattering, sparks scattering like embers.
Aria was already moving, body flowing like water. She sprinted up a fractured pillar, launched off its side, twisted midair, and drove her heel into the Hunter's jaw. Bone—or whatever passed for it—cracked. The alien staggered.
Tentacles lashed back like snakes. Aria flipped, planted her hand on a falling slab, and vaulted clear—its lashes grazing the tip of her braid.
"Keep it up!" Thomas roared.
He dropped into a stance, muscles tightening, breath controlled. In an instant, he dashed forward, stepping on the flat side of the alien's axe. His strike was pure precision—aimed at the dominant arm that held the weapon.
The technique was the seventh form: Safe Point.
A pinnacle of control. The user condenses all explosive energy into a single point and releases it in a single strike. The impact can shatter even enemy defences. It's not a technique of repetition, but of finality—one perfect moment.
The Hunter's arm burst apart at the elbow, glycerin green spraying the air.
Thomas kicked the Hunter's shin, forcing it to kneel. He swung a follow-up kick toward its head, but the alien blocked with its remaining arm. Even so, the force drove it several feet back.
The Hunter lunged again, feinting low before grabbing its axe. The blade cleaved downward with a scream that split the air.
Thomas and Aria didn't try to block. They couldn't.
They moved in perfect sync—two shadows twisting past death. The axe split the ground, carving a trench through stone.
"Keep moving!" Thomas said.
Aria darted low, kicking the creature's knee joint. It staggered. Malik's voice echoed in her mind—Don't waste energy where they're strongest. Strike where they're weakest.
The alien roared, tentacles whipping.
Thomas pressed in. His fists became blurs, striking toward the Hunter's head in rapid succession. The alien weaved between blows in swift movements.
The axe came again—sideways, humming with Zark energy. Thomas ducked, rolled, and rose in the same motion, his movements mechanical yet fluid.
Fatigue clawed at their muscles, but focus burned hotter. This wasn't a test of endurance—it was survival on a razor's edge.
Aria sprinted up a tilted wall, flipped sideways, and kicked the Hunter's skull with another bone-cracking blow. The creature reeled.
"Now!" she shouted.
Thomas didn't hesitate. His body sank into a stance, breath locking in perfect rhythm.
He surged forward, hands clamping onto the alien's other arm. With a roar, he tore it free. The sound was wet and brutal.
He combined Safe Point with Third Form: Indestructible—a mastery that hardened his body into living steel.
Muscle fibers tightened, bones aligned. Every strike became unbreakable. Every step immovable.
The alien's tentacles whipped in agony.
Thomas struck once more, his fist driving into its neck.
The impact was instant. The head exploded free, a shockwave rippling through the air. The body convulsed once—then fell, lifeless, on the ground.
Silence returned.
Aria leaned against a cracked pillar, dust and sweat streaking her face. "You always go for the dramatic finish, don't you?" she said, breathless but smiling.
Thomas exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Clean. Efficient. That's all it was."
Aria laughed softly. "Efficient? You tore his arms off and then his head. That's not efficient, Thomas—that's terrifying."
He gave her a faint smirk. "Terrifying works. It's why we're alive."
She limped toward him, refusing to show the pain. "Don't think I didn't notice—you waited for me to set him up. You could've gone in earlier."
"I could have," Thomas admitted. "But you needed to see it. Needed to know you're not just surviving—you're getting better too."
Her gaze softened, her smirk fading into something steadier. "Then I'll make you a promise, Thomas. One day, I'll be the one saving you."
His sternness cracked. He smiled faintly. "Then I'll hold you to that."
The silence that followed was fragile.
From beyond the ruins, more roars echoed—low, guttural, multiplying. The hunt was far from over.
Aria's jaw tightened. "More of them. Of course. It's never just one."
She turned to him, eyes flicking over his arm. "You're bleeding. It's covered in dust."
He glanced down. "It's nothing. Can't even feel it. Look at you—you're worse." He stepped closer, brushing dust from her cheek. "You've got a scrape on your forehead."
His thumb lingered there for a heartbeat before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. "You did great," he said softly. "You're getting stronger."
Aria's breath trembled as she rested her hands lightly on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath the chaos. For that fleeting moment, the ruins fell silent.
Thomas held her close, his hand cradling the back of her head.
Then—movement. The sounds of approach.
"They're closing in," Thomas whispered.
Aria nodded. "Then let's go."
They leapt together—down through a hole in the floor, crashing into the level below, then dove out a shattered window. They landed in the rubble outside and sprinted toward the next building, slipping into its shadows just as the hunters arrived.
Their hearts pounded in unison. They had survived—barely.
But the hunt was far from over.