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XGO CHAPTER 44 : Vengeance
🕑 Added 2025-04-21 17:58:30 +0000 UTC( The arc will start from next chapter what lead to this and all the things these is the glimpse of future and alex influence )
In a golden castle with walls that shimmered like the sun itself, a boy lay injured on an ornate bed. The chamber gleamed with ethereal light that danced off the metallic surfaces, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the vaulted ceiling. Dryads with skin like bark and hair woven with leaves moved around him with practiced precision, their ancient hands working healing magic into his broken flesh. Fairies, no larger than sparrows, flitted about, their iridescent wings humming as they sprinkled healing dust over his wounds.
Among the healers was a faun, his cloven hooves shifting nervously against the marble floor as he watched over the injured boy. The faun's curved horns caught the light as he observed the proceedings with worried eyes. His deer-like lower body tensed whenever the boy's injuries were touched, as if feeling the pain himself.
Blood had soaked through the silken sheets, turning the gold to crimson. The boy's chest rose and fell in shallow, pained breaths, each one a battle against the crushing weight of his injuries. His skin was ashen, nearly translucent, revealing a web of blue veins beneath.
When he finally began to regain consciousness, his eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings against the pale canvas of his face. He gasped a deep, desperate breath as though he'd been drowning, his back arching slightly off the bed, causing several of the smaller fairies to dart away in surprise. His eyes opened fully, taking in his surroundings with confusion and pain.
Alex stood just to the side, a towering presence of barely contained fury. His muscular frame was rigid with tension, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. When the boy's eyes opened, Alex moved closer to him. The boy, seeing Alex approach, immediately looked guilt-stricken.
"I am sorry," the boy whispered, his voice cracking from disuse and pain. "I shouldn't have gone out of the shield." Each word seemed to cost him greatly, his chest heaving with the effort of speech.
Alex leaned down and simply said, "Shh," in a low voice. Despite the quietness of his tone, everyone in the room heard him clearly, as if his authority alone carried his words to every corner. The entire chamber fell still, even the constant buzz of fairy wings ceased.
Alex straightened his back, visibly trying to swallow his anger as he prepared to leave. As he began walking toward the door where sunlight streamed in, the faun spoke up from behind him.
"Don't go brute forcing like you're the only powerful one," the faun called after him. "Show them what they're messing with."
Alex paused but didn't turn back. He offered a single, curt nod of acknowledgment before continuing toward the light. At the threshold of the massive doorway, he tilted his head back and bellowed a name that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle.
"GLACIORA!"
The name echoed into the valley beyond, carried by the wind across forests and fields. For a moment, nothing happened. Then came a rumbling from deep below, a tremor that sent ripples across the surface of nearby waters and caused loose pebbles to dance across the ground. The air grew noticeably colder, frost forming on the golden doorframe where Alex stood.
From the depths below the castle rose a creature of legend—a dragon of such magnificent proportions that its shadow alone darkened half the valley. Glaciora's scales were a tapestry of blues and whites, from the palest frost to the deepest ocean depths. They overlapped like armor plates, catching the sunlight and refracting it in dazzling patterns. Spines of crystalline ice ran along its massive back, and its wings—vast membranes of translucent azure—unfurled with a sound like thunder. The dragon's eyes were ancient and knowing, the color of glacial ice, with vertical pupils that narrowed as they focused on Alex.
Steam escaped from its nostrils as it breathed, the hot breath meeting cold air in swirling clouds. The temperature around them dropped precipitously, causing the dryads to huddle together for warmth while frost patterns formed on the nearby windows.
Alex approached the behemoth without fear, sliding his hand against the dragon's massive snout in a gesture of familiarity and respect. The scales were smooth and cold beneath his palm, radiating a chill that would have frozen a lesser man's flesh. Glaciora lowered its head, allowing Alex to climb onto its neck with practiced ease. The dragon's muscles tensed beneath him, coiled power ready to be unleashed.
With a single powerful thrust of its hind legs, Glaciora launched into the sky, its enormous wings catching the air with a crack that echoed across the valley. Higher and higher they climbed, until the castle looked like a child's toy beneath them.
Glaciora flew with majestic power over the United States airspace, its enormous form casting shadows over cities and countryside alike. The temperature dropped wherever they passed, leaving trails of frost in their wake. Military personnel across the nation began to notice the enormous shadow passing overhead, their instruments going haywire from the dragon's electromagnetic field.
Frantic calls flooded command centers as radar operators reported an unidentified object moving at impossible speeds across the country's airspace. Generals and commanders desperately tried to contact their superiors, but their calls went unanswered, adding to the growing sense of dread.
Glaciora descended upon Washington, D.C. with terrifying precision, landing with surprising grace on the White House grounds. The impact sent tremors through the earth, triggering car alarms for blocks around. Secret Service agents poured from the building with weapons drawn, only to freeze in shocked disbelief at the sight before them.
Alex dismounted with fluid grace, sliding down the dragon's shoulder to land softly on the frozen grass. The moment his boots touched the ground, figures emerged from seemingly nowhere—dozens, then hundreds of men and women, all wearing identical white rabbit masks that concealed their features completely.
Some wore civilian clothes, others military uniforms from various branches, suggesting infiltration at every level of government and armed forces. All carried weapons—assault rifles, pistols, combat knives—and moved with the disciplined precision of highly trained operatives.
Alex began walking toward the White House entrance, his stride purposeful and unhurried. A contingent of masked followers formed around him, creating a protective formation. Other rabbit-masked figures fanned out across the grounds, quickly subduing the Secret Service agents. The agents were forced to their knees, weapons confiscated, as gun barrels pressed against their temples.
As Alex approached the entrance, two masked operatives stationed by the doors pulled them open. He entered without breaking stride, moving purposefully through the historic building as more masked followers secured each room they passed.
Alex moved deeper into the building, heading unerringly toward the Situation Room where the President and Joint Chiefs of Staff were gathered for an emergency meeting. When he reached the doors, they were already being opened by more infiltrators who had been positioned within the White House staff.
The long conference table was surrounded by military officials and government leaders, their faces frozen in expressions of shock as Alex entered. The room quickly filled with rabbit-masked figures, weapons trained on everyone present.
The President, a man in his sixties with silver hair, rose to his feet at the head of the table.
"Who dares?" he bellowed, his face flushing with anger. "Do you know where you are?"
"We know exactly where we are," Alex replied coldly. "Stop barking."
Recognition dawned in the eyes of everyone present. The President's legs began to tremble beneath him, though he fought to maintain his composure.
"Alexander," he said, his voice faltering slightly. "Do you know what you're doing? You're making the entire United States your enemy."
Alex didn't respond. Instead, he raised his hand and made a signal to his followers. Immediately, they moved with practiced efficiency, securing each person with guns pressed to their heads.
Alex gestured, and his followers dragged General Ross forward—the man responsible for injuring the faun boy back at the golden castle. Ross was a middle-aged man with the rigid posture of a career military officer, his uniform adorned with medals and ribbons. They forced him to sit at the table directly across from Alex.
Alex reached for a crystal glass from a nearby credenza, setting it on the table. He produced a bottle of deep red wine, uncorking it and pouring a small amount into the glass, the liquid dark as blood in the room's harsh lighting.
With a glance to his right, Alex said simply, "Gun."
The rabbit-masked operative beside him immediately handed over a pistol. Without taking his eyes off Ross, Alex ejected the magazine and removed the bullets one by one with methodical precision. Each round made a metallic clink as he dropped it into the wine glass, disturbing the dark liquid.
When the magazine was empty, Alex slid the glass across the polished table surface until it stopped directly in front of General Ross.
"Drink it," Alex said, his voice soft yet carrying to every corner of the room. "It's your last chance. Or you will cry for death every day." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes boring into Ross's. "You know your sins, General."
Ross swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He glanced desperately around the room, seeking help from his colleagues. But with guns pressed to their heads, none dared meet his gaze.
With trembling hands, Ross reached for the glass. Just before drinking, he lifted his chin in a final gesture of defiance.
"For America," he said, the words barely leaving his lips before igniting something primal in Alex.
Rage contorted Alex's features as he lunged forward with unnatural speed, his fist connecting with Ross's face before the general could finish swallowing. The glass shattered against teeth, driving shards of crystal deep into flesh. Blood and wine sprayed across the polished table, speckling classified documents with crimson droplets.
But Alex didn't stop. The first punch was followed by another, and another, each impact producing sickening sounds of breaking bone and tearing flesh. Ross fell backward from his chair, but Alex followed him down, continuing the assault with relentless fury. His fists rose and fell like pistons, pulverizing what had once been a human face into an unrecognizable mass of tissue and bone.
Blood splattered in wide arcs with each blow, painting the white shirts of nearby officers and the pristine walls of the Situation Room. It coated Alex's hands, face, and clothing, yet he continued his relentless attack with mechanical precision, each punch delivered with the full force of his considerable strength.
The generals and admirals around the table turned away, unable to watch the brutality unfolding before them. Some retched quietly, adding the sour smell of vomit to the metallic tang of blood that now permeated the room. Even the President closed his eyes against the savagery, his face ashen.
Most disturbing was the utter silence from Ross after the first few blows—no screams, no pleas for mercy. There was only the wet impact of fist against ruined flesh and Alex's increasingly labored breathing as he continued his grim work.
Even some of the rabbit-masked operatives began to shift uncomfortably, their body language betraying their discomfort with the extreme violence they were witnessing. Finally, one of them stationed directly beside Alex stepped forward.
"Sir," he said, eyes fixed on a point above the carnage. "He is dead."
Alex's fist paused mid-swing, dripping gore onto the already soaked carpet. He turned his head slowly toward the masked operative.
"He's dead?" Alex repeated, his voice unnervingly calm. "Huh." He looked down at what remained of Ross, then back at the operative. "You were counting?"
The question hung in the air, loaded with menace. The masked figure stood motionless, aware that his life might depend on his next words.
"Sir, at the fifth punch," he replied carefully.
Alex studied him for a long moment, then looked back down at his handiwork. What had once been General Ross was now unrecognizable as human, more a collection of organic matter than a person. Yet Alex had continued delivering blow after blow, long past the point of death, driven by a rage that seemed bottomless.
The message to everyone in the room was clear: this was the price for harming those under Alex's protection. As blood pooled on the expensive carpet and the smell of death filled the historic chamber, not a single person doubted that Alex would do the same to any of them without hesitation or remorse.
The dragon Glaciora waited outside, a physical manifestation of Alex's cold fury—patient, ancient, and utterly deadly. Between the masked army and the ice dragon, Alex had brought the most powerful nation on earth to its knees in a matter of hours. And this, everyone realized with growing horror.
