EIA

The hum of the battle settled into an eerie quiet, the twisted wreckage of City 403 smoking like an open wound. The explosions from the Crimson Triad's final blow still reverberated through the decimated streets, but for now, the street was empty—at least, for a moment.

Jerry stumbled through the chaos, one hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage where his right arm used to be. The bleeding stump had stopped, but the pain was constant. He was pissed—no, more than pissed. He was furious. Xiao was dead, and the Triads were no longer his problem. But the explosion? That was his fault. He wasn't sure what kind of fucked-up power Shaoran wielded, but there was no time for reflection. Not when things were about to get worse.

The faint whine of jet engines began to grow louder. Hovercrafts.

Jerry snapped his head up. A drop squad.

The black-armored silhouettes landed with a thud, their boots crashing into the concrete, kicking up dust. They moved like a pack of wolves—each soldier clad in EIA (Earth Industrial Authority) uniforms, the grim insignia of Earth's military authority proudly displayed on their shoulders. The Earth Industrial Authority—the main government of Earth—didn't care for gang violence. They cared for control. And if you were a gangster, you didn't get to exist on their watch.

Jerry's pulse quickened. "Shit…"

The soldiers were everywhere now. They spread out in perfect formation, weapons aimed with practiced precision. Assault rifles, energy pulse cannons, and shockblades gleamed under the cold city lights. The squad leader, a tall, imposing figure with a carbon-fiber helmet and a deep voice, signaled for them to advance.

Jerry's remaining crew—what was left of his mafia—didn't even flinch. The chaos had rattled them, but they were still his soldiers. They were mafia men, hardened by crime, betrayal, and blood. But this wasn't just a gang war anymore. The Earth Industrial Authority's presence was an entirely different beast.

The squad leader walked up to Jerry. His voice was distorted by his helmet's vocoder, but it was clear. "Jerry… your reign ends tonight."

Jerry narrowed his eyes. "Not if I end yours first."

Without warning, the Earth soldiers lunged, energy weapons charging up. Jerry had no choice but to shout an order, and his mafia responded with frenzied gunfire. But it wasn't enough. The EIA soldiers moved like clockwork, their combat algorithms synced in perfect harmony. Every shot Jerry's men fired was countered with shielding, evasive maneuvers, or precise return fire.

One of Jerry's soldiers was hit first. The pulse beam from an EIA soldier's gun melted his chestplate, reducing him to nothing more than a bloodied mess in seconds. Another soldier was struck by a shockwave pulse, his body writhing before collapsing—dead before hitting the ground.

"Move!" Jerry shouted, but the order came too late. His men were already losing their grip. Some tried to run, others fired aimlessly into the void, but they were cut down.

"You can't run. You can't hide," the squad leader said. "You will die here. The EIA will purge you all."

A few of Jerry's men, panicking, dropped their weapons and threw themselves at the advancing soldiers. They had lost it completely—suicidal, afraid of the wrath of the EIA, a government that would wipe them out without hesitation. Jerry's mafia wasn't prepared for this kind of organized destruction.

Amid the chaos, Shaoran stood alone.

His stance was a stark contrast to the panic around him. His eyes narrowed as he analyzed the approaching soldiers. There was a quiet resolve about him, something primal.

Jerry looked at him, half-expecting him to make a move. "What are you waiting for, Shaoran?" he barked. "We need to get the hell out of here!"

But Shaoran didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward, into the midst of the advancing soldiers, his bare feet making no sound against the cracked concrete.

A flicker of movement—and suddenly, Shaoran was everywhere. He moved faster than anyone could track, faster than even their cybernetic-enhanced eyes could follow. His movements were erratic—impossible, like he was warping between dimensions, flickering in and out of reality.

Shaoran was a blur of black clothing and silver blades. He didn't use weapons, at least not in the traditional sense. His hands and feet were weapons—each strike precise, a blur of raw power and speed. The first soldier fell before anyone even registered what happened. One moment, he was standing—then the next, his throat had been slit.

Jerry watched, unable to process. He had never seen anything like this before. Shaoran's fighting style was beyond human comprehension.

His body moved like water—fluid and unpredictable. He didn't waste motion. When one soldier raised their rifle, aiming for Shaoran's head, Shaoran was already gone, reappearing behind the soldier in an instant. A blade across the back, and the soldier was down, twitching in the dirt.

Another soldier lunged forward, weapon raised. But Shaoran's hand shot out, catching the barrel of the rifle mid-air. He twisted, ripping the weapon from the soldier's hands and sending it flying. Without hesitation, he kicked the soldier's chest—sending him flying through the air, crashing into a pile of debris. That soldier wasn't getting up.

The remaining soldiers reacted in panic, firing their pulse weapons in random directions, but Shaoran was already on the move again. His body was too fast, too unpredictable. He moved like he was part of the air itself, a force of nature, not a human.

Jerry's soldiers—those that remained—watched in a mix of awe and horror. Some were still firing, but it was useless. Their shots couldn't touch Shaoran. He was a ghost, a phantom in the battlefield. He appeared, struck, and vanished—always staying a step ahead.

One of Jerry's men screamed, gripping his gun and running toward Shaoran. The man's terror was palpable, his gun shaking in his hands, his mind losing its grip on reality. He fired at Shaoran's back.

The bullet missed by inches.

Shaoran's hand snaked out, and the next moment, he had the man by the throat. Not a word was spoken. Shaoran twisted. The man dropped to the ground, his neck snapping with a sickening crack.

The battle continued like this. Frenzied, disorganized, and deadly. The EIA soldiers couldn't keep up with Shaoran's unnatural speed. Their advanced weaponry and tactical advantage didn't matter against someone who moved outside of their understanding of combat.

And then Jerry felt it. He watched it happen, his mind spinning. Shaoran wasn't just fighting. He was beyond fighting. This wasn't a human thing. It was as if Shaoran was bending the rules of combat, using something deeper—something almost magical.

The last few remaining soldiers turned and fled, their will to fight completely broken. Shaoran's gaze fell on them, but he didn't chase. He simply stood there, the last soldier standing amidst a massacre.

Jerry was speechless, his head still spinning from the madness. He looked down at the destruction. His mafia was decimated. And Shaoran? Shaoran was something else.

Shaoran finally turned toward Jerry, his expression unreadable. "Are you finished?" he asked, his voice cool.

Jerry opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Then, in the distance, the sound of hovercrafts approached again. More of the Earth Industrial Authority. But this time, Jerry wasn't sure they had enough left to put up a fight.