Chapter 53: The Pattern Hunts Purpose

The beast was a blur again, barreling through broken corridors with inhuman speed. Its claws skittered across steel walls as it lunged toward Elira, ignoring everything else.

Fenrir intercepted—again—and was sent flying into a collapsed stanchion, the sound of crunching metal echoing like a cannon blast.

"Fenrir!" Elira screamed, but he was already pushing himself up.

"I'm fine!" he snarled, but blood trickled from his mouth.

The werewolf servitor twisted toward her. She activated her shoulder thrusters and launched herself down the corridor, barely dodging the devastating slash that carved a trench in the floor where she'd stood. The creature howled again, the sound tearing through her auditory sensors.

"Purpose… is here…"

It wasn't a battle—it was a hunt. And she was the prey.

Fenrir charged in again, blades drawn, swiping with furious speed. But each time, the beast slid away, almost graceful in its evasion. It wanted no part of him.

Only her.

Elira's breath came ragged. She moved fast, reflexes enhanced by the Shadow Mask, slipping just out of reach with each lunge. But she could feel it adapting, its attacks narrowing, closing her escape windows.

"Why is it ignoring me?" Fenrir growled.

"It's fixated!" she replied, diving beneath an overhead swipe that dented the corridor ceiling. "It's locked onto Purpose Core!"

Another scream. The words again, more strained this time:

"Purpose… must not… BE…"

Her mind raced. She couldn't overpower it—not alone. Fenrir couldn't even land a hit.

But they could still outthink it.

"Fenrir!" she shouted over the chaos, drawing the beast's gaze away. "Follow my lead. I'll give you the opening!"

Fenrir's eyes narrowed. "Don't be reckless!"

But she was already moving.

She darted back down the corridor, weaving through debris and jagged floorplates. The beast pursued, howling, metal tearing underfoot. She made sure to stay visible, always just out of reach—dragging it behind her like bait.

She hit a dead end. Deliberately.

The space was tight, hemmed in by collapsed walls and dangling pipes. A trap.

The beast cornered her, breathing in distorted gasps, circuits exposed through broken armor. The Pattern Core pulsed wildly in its chest.

It lunged.

And she didn't run.

She caught its arms, using every ounce of servitor strength she had to hold it. It thrashed, and she screamed as its claws raked across her back—but she held.

"Now, Fenrir!"

A blur of silver and red tore into the chamber. Fenrir slammed into the beast from the side with a savage growl, driving both blades into its thigh. It buckled. Elira tightened her grip, pinning one arm. Fenrir struck again—cutting deep into the other shoulder.

The beast roared and twisted—but it was too late.

Fenrir climbed onto its back and, with a final scream of effort, ripped its right arm clean off. Elira was flung back as it convulsed, but she saw the damage—core exposed, systems sparking.

Fenrir didn't stop.

He drove his claws into the creature's chest and tore open the housing of the Pattern Core.

The beast gave one final screech—more digital than organic now—and fell still.

Steam hissed from its joints. The eyes dimmed.

It was over.

But before Elira could breathe, the Pattern Core pulsed again—then shot forward like a magnet, latching onto Fenrir's chest.

"Wait—!" she cried.