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Chapter 63: Attack!
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 15:00:05 +0000 UTC
The world was a muffled, distant roar. Ethan stood over the cooling bodies, his own ragged breathing the only sound he could truly hear. The coppery smell of blood and the sharp, acrid scent of ozone from Aurora's final attack filled his lungs, thick and sickening. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. He could still feel the phantom sensation of tearing flesh and bone, a horrifying, tactile memory that made his stomach churn.
I killed them. That wasn't a monster. That was a person.
The thought wasn't a clean, rational justification. It was a jumble of splintered images: the surprised look in Cheetah's eyes, the way Aurora's body had collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, the final, wet crunch of the last man's skull.
He felt a wave of nausea so powerful his knees buckled. He needed to be calm. He needed to think. Lily had said they were a cult. The government said to kill them on sight. It was right. It was… a contribution. But the words were hollow, a flimsy shield against the gut-wrenching reality. This wasn't The Gauntlet. There was no referee to declare a winner. There was only the silence and the dead.
The wail of approaching sirens finally cut through his daze. When the first police cruiser skidded to a halt, Ethan was still just standing there, a statue of shock amidst the carnage.
A middle-aged man with a weary, professional face and the sharp eyes of a hawk stepped out. He took in the scene—the five bodies, the craters, the lone, trembling teenager—and his expression hardened. "Kid. You alive? Can you tell me what happened here?" His voice was calm, but carried an authority that demanded an answer.
Ethan tried to speak, but his throat was dry. He swallowed, the sound clicking in his ears. "They… cult," he managed to stammer. "Came for me."
The man's eyes narrowed. "What cult?"
"Evolution… Cult," Ethan whispered, the name feeling like poison on his tongue.
A ripple of tension went through the assembled officers. The Director's face became a mask of grim understanding. He knew this boy. Ethan Atherton. The kid from the tournament. The one with the unconfirmed Earth-rank talent. For the Cult to send a kill-team of this caliber after a high school student… He keyed his comms. "All units, we have a Code Black situation. Confirmed Evolution Cult activity. Secure the perimeter. I need Forensics and a Psionic Investigation Unit here, now." He turned back to Ethan. "You did well to survive, son. But you'll have to come with us, give a full statement."
Just as Ethan nodded, a new sound split the night. It wasn't the sharp wail of a police siren. It was a deep, guttural, city-wide roar, a sound that every citizen of New Veridia had been trained to dread. A Code Crimson.
The Director's head snapped up, his face paling. "No… it can't be. Not now."
"What is that?" Ethan asked, the new sound jarring him further.
"Beastfall," the Director said, his voice grim. "A full-scale beast tide is attacking the city." He looked from the wailing sirens to the sky, then back at the corpses, a sudden, terrible understanding dawning on him. The timing was too perfect. "This attack… it's a diversion." He turned to Ethan, his tone urgent, professional. "There's no time for a statement. Go home. Now. Get off the streets. Some of them might already be inside the walls."
He didn't need to be told twice. Ethan nodded, and in a flash of green light, XLR8 was a blue-and-black blur, streaking through the panicked, screaming streets of his home city. The high-level alert meant chaos. He had to get home. He had to make sure they were safe.
He was flying down his own street, the lights of his apartment building in sight, when the world turned to sticky, white threads. A massive, almost invisible web dropped from the sky, blanketing him completely. He crashed to the ground, tangled in impossibly strong, adhesive fibers. He tried to vibrate his limbs, to phase through them, but the material seemed to deaden psionic energy.
"So much effort. So much running." The voice was calm, cold, and descended from the rooftop above. The Deacon landed softly on the street before him, his black robes undisturbed. "All for nothing."
Ethan, struggling in the web, switched to his most powerful form. "Four Arms!" he roared, trying to tear the web with brute force. The fibers strained but didn't break.
"Don't bother," the Deacon said with an air of detached boredom. "That's refined Iron Spider silk. A Rank Three would struggle to break it. You'll only exhaust yourself." He took a slow step forward. "We were prepared to retrieve your genetic progenitors from your home, but the unexpected presence of high-rank psionicists complicated the acquisition. A contingency," he gestured to the web, "was necessary."
The cold, clinical words—"genetic progenitors"—sent a spike of pure rage through Ethan's fear. "What did you do to my parents?!" he bellowed.
"They are perfectly safe," the Deacon replied, his tone unchanging. "For now. My agents are merely observing them. Your complete and immediate cooperation ensures their continued well-being. It is a simple transaction."
"What do you want from me?" Ethan growled, ceasing his struggles, his mind racing.
The Deacon stopped just a few feet away, looking down at him not as a person, but as a prize. "I want to take you to a place where your potential can be fully realized. Where your flawed human shell can be shed for something… perfect." His voice dropped, and for the first time, a sliver of fervent, unhinged fanaticism bled through his calm demeanor. "You are a key to humanity's true ascension. The Evolution Cult requires you."
I have no choice, Ethan thought, the rage turning to ice in his veins. I have to play along. I have to make sure they're safe.
Comments
Raphael Espinoza Angulo
That's why Ben didn't want his identity to be public.
