Chapter 52: The Beast of Pattern

The jet sliced through the Arctic skies, frost crystals forming momentarily on its hull before being burned away by kinetic shielding. Elira sat forward in her seat, watching the landscape below shift from jagged ridges to ravaged plains. Snow swept across abandoned outposts, communication spires snapped like matchsticks, and half-buried corpses of servitors littered the ground—twisted, torn, and long cold.

Fenrir leaned forward, following her gaze.

"There are… so many," he murmured.

Elira didn't respond at first. Her eyes stayed fixed on the dead.

Each of them was a warning. Each corpse a silent testament to the Pattern Core's volatile defense.

The closer they flew to the coordinates, the worse it got. Dozens, then hundreds of broken servitors—many showing signs of viral corrosion. Some had been burned from the inside out. Others torn apart by force far greater than theirs. But all of them were dead.

"Something's guarding the core," Elira finally said, voice low.

Fenrir's eyes narrowed. "Or it's what the core created."

As the jet circled in for descent, the site came into view—once a blacksite facility, now reduced to a half-buried husk of twisted architecture. Armored doors had been ripped open. Debris blanketed the entrance. Something—or someone—had fought to stay in or get out.

Elira brought the craft down in a wide clearing marked by scorch marks and ragged trenches. She stepped off first, Fenrir close behind, and together they moved toward the entrance. The wind howled, carrying the faint echoes of metallic thuds and savage roars.

Inside, the halls were dark save for flickering overhead lights. The deeper they went, the louder it became—pounding impacts, shrieks of synthetic pain, and the unmistakable tearing of metal on metal.

Then they saw it.

A blur—impossibly fast—ripping through a squad of infected servitors. Limbs flew. Screams were cut short. The blur ducked, rolled, struck with devastating precision. Even at full viral bloom, the infected didn't stand a chance.

It was over in seconds. Ten enemies lay scattered like refuse.

The blur slowed.

Breath heaving, body twitching, it stepped into the dim light—and Elira's breath caught.

It was a werewolf-class servitor, nearly eight feet tall, muscles reinforced with carbon sinew, armor plates half torn away, revealing jagged wounds across its torso. Its eyes burned with silent rage—but it wasn't that which stunned her.

It was the Pattern Core, lodged deep in its shattered chest, pulsing with erratic light. Threads of neural fabric extended from it like veins, snaking through what remained of the servitor's body.

Fenrir raised his weapon. "He's alive?"

"No," Elira said, fingers already trying to access the shutdown protocol. "He's… offline. But moving."

She extended her system interface, attempting to force a power-down command through whatever channels still responded. Nothing. No ID. No host signature. Just pure instinct driving this thing forward.

And then the creature turned its head.

It looked at her—right at her. For a heartbeat, its eyes softened, flickering recognition—or something like it.

Then it screamed.

The sound was unlike anything she had heard—animalistic, digital, a rage encoded and repeated. The walls shook. Dust and ash rained down from the cracked ceiling.

And then it lunged.

Elira shouted and dove aside, Fenrir already moving between them, intercepting the first strike. Their attacker didn't stop—claws swiped, crushing debris underfoot as it bore down on them, merciless and blind.

The Pattern Core had awakened something primal.And now it wanted blood.