Zorahm stepped out into the sunlight, and for the first time, he felt it—not through calculations or downloaded data, but physically, fully, like a pulse of energy that had been dormant for too long. The heat of the sun pressed down on him, the dry wind carrying sand and dust that tickled his skin beneath the cloak. His silver eyes scanned the ruined city. Buildings stood like jagged teeth, glass shards glinting like forgotten stars. Rubble crunched underfoot, twisted metal groaned in the wind, and the air smelled of ash, rot, and the faint tang of gasoline.
No humans were in sight. Small animals skittered across broken streets; insects buzzed in swarms around stagnant puddles. The world was quiet in its chaos, but Zorahm sensed life—not just the obvious, but the subtle currents, the vibrations of the city, of the creatures still surviving. He tugged his black cloak tighter and lowered his wide-brimmed hat, letting the shadow hide his glowing eyes as he began walking, each step deliberate, silent, almost ceremonial.
The walk was long. Hours—maybe days—the concept of time blurred. His senses guided him, not random chance. He smelled smoke before he saw it, the acrid sting of burning wood cutting through the desert heat. Ahead, a thin wisp rose into the sky.
"Something alive," G.A.I.D.E. said, calm, analyzing. "Human signatures detected. Four adult male targets. One minor female. Weapons: pistols, rifles, machetes. Probability of hostile intent: high."
Zorahm slowed, his boots scuffing sand quietly. Shadows of the figures moved around the fire. His eyes adjusted; he saw them surrounding a young girl. She was small, trembling, naked, face wet with tears, clutching nothing. The men laughed harshly, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence of the wasteland.
And then he noticed the horses. Strong, healthy, black stallions. Their muscles flexed in the dim smoke, manes rippling with the wind. The power in them was raw, alive. Zorahm's pulse quickened. This… he needed.
The four men noticed him before he approached, standing and laughing. One spat onto the sand, wiping his hand on his torn pants.
"Well, lookie here!" a large man shouted. "The gods must love us today. Fresh meat… just wandered into our camp!"
Another laughed.
"Put down your weapons, boy. Turn back. You don't want trouble."
Zorahm's stride did not falter. His cloak billowed behind him as he moved closer, each step measured.
"I am interested in your horses," Zorahm said calmly, his voice monotone yet carrying an edge that made the men glance at one another uneasily.
One man's grin widened, his rifle raised without hesitation.
"You'll learn to respect us first, kid," he sneered.
The gun fired. The crack split the air like lightning. Sand and heat shimmered from the barrel's discharge. But Zorahm was not there.
In the blink of an eye, he was behind the shooter. His silver eyes glimmered beneath the hat. The knife in his hand gleamed faintly. Without hesitation, he drove it into the back of the man's skull. A wet, sickening sound. The body crumpled, motionless.
"Target eliminated. Remaining threats: three," G.A.I.D.E. reported in Zorahm's mind.
The remaining three drew their pistols simultaneously, moving with the chaotic coordination of desperate men. One lunged forward—too slow. Zorahm's knife plunged into his throat. Blood spurted, and the man collapsed, gurgling once before silence claimed him.
The final two aimed carefully, eyes wide, sweating under the desert sun. Time seemed to stretch. Zorahm's nanocytes accelerated his reflexes, muscles coiling like springs, perception sharpened. In one motion, bullets flashed from his compact pistol, striking precisely between their eyebrows. Both men fell, expressions frozen in surprise.
The girl, frozen in terror, scrambled for her discarded clothes. Zorahm did not look at her, did not speak. His attention was already on the animals.
"Horses detected. Optimal choice: largest black stallion. Strength and stamina sufficient for tactical mobility," G.A.I.D.E. advised.
Zorahm stepped toward the animals, hand reaching out. The black stallion snorted, nostrils flaring. Its coat shimmered in the sunlight, rippling with muscle under sleek fur. Zorahm ran his hand along its neck, feeling heat and life for the first time. A smile tugged at his lips—a small, rare human moment.
"Animal compatible with rider. Probability of full control: high," G.A.I.D.E. noted.
He swung himself onto the stallion's back, feeling the raw power beneath him, the thrum of living strength beneath his hands. The city, the fire, the smoke, the chaos—they all stretched out before him like a canvas waiting for his actions.
"Horse secured. Mobility optimized," G.A.I.D.E. said. "Mission adaptation: live reconnaissance of surrounding area recommended."
Zorahm adjusted his cloak, straightened the black cowboy hat, and felt the sun warm on his face. For the first time, the world above ground was no longer a series of calculations—it was alive. And he was ready.
The black stallion shifted beneath him, hooves kicking up sand. Zorahm leaned forward, feeling the rhythm, the strength, the heartbeat of the animal. With a soft whisper, almost to himself, he said:
"Let's move."
The ruined city waited. The Gates waited. Humanity waited. And Zorahm rode forward, the first true predator of the new world.