Chapter 17- Soiree Incident Pt.8

The sleek, obsidian vehicle hummed at the entrance to the parking lot – a military-grade marvel of engineering, bristling with barely concealed weaponry.

Its lines were sharp, aggressive, a predator poised to strike.

This wasn't just a car; it was a mobile fortress, a testament to technological prowess.

Jermaine, surveying the devastation that had overtaken the city, let out a low whistle.

"Sheesh," he breathed.

The car door slid open, revealing a figure in tactical gear, his face hidden by a white ski mask.

A red coat over a white vest stood out against the chaotic parking lot.

"Come on in, boys," he said calmly, his sharp eyes scanning the scene.

"Where's the Inspector?" he inquired, his gaze sweeping for the familiar figures amid the disorder.

Fabian stepped forward, his expression grim. "He stayed to fight Brooks."

The agent let out a short, humorless chuckle. "That dude's as good as dead."

Jermaine chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Brooks is kinda strong, though."

"Well," the agent replied, his tone laced with a grudging respect, "the Inspector's stronger."

Malachi, gripping the car's reinforced bar, leaned in. "How's Deon doing?"

The agent's expression clouded with concern.

"I'm working on healing him," he said, voice tinged with uncertainty. "He's messed up pretty bad, but he's going to be alright."

Malachi turned from the jeep, gazing at the chaotic cityscape. "What the heck is going on?" he wondered aloud.

Suddenly, a sharp thwack echoed as Vance's combat machete struck the bulletproof window, sending cracks spidering through the glass.

Blood bloomed against the pane, a stark reminder of the unfolding chaos.

Malachi turned and saw Brooks standing at a broken window way up high in the hotel, and it hit him all at once—Vance is dead.

His mind reeled, barely grasping the truth that Brooks had killed his godfather.

Disbelief and red-hot fury mixed within him, but one thought burned brightest: revenge.

Pushed by its fierce urgency, he advanced toward Brooks, the man who had destroyed everything.

Noah narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on Brooks.

"Hold on... if he's here, does that mean you killed the inspector?"

Suddenly, Malachi's eyes lit up with a bright blue glow, and he could feel the energy surging through him, almost too much to hold back.

A red glow pulsed within his body, adding another layer to the intensity.

With a powerful leap, he unleashed a shockwave that rocked the jeep nearby, sending it skidding as the guys around him shielded their faces from the flying debris.

Jermaine, standing nearby, shook his head in disbelief and said, "Did you see that? Malachi's on a whole other level right now."

At that moment, they all watched as Malachi began dragging Brooks down the walls of the hotel, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

Fabian and Noah stood there, wide-eyed and amazed at the sheer power Malachi was wielding.

It was a sight they'd never forget, seeing their friend unleash such raw force.

As the dust settled, an agent shouted, "Yo, where's Miguel?

He's the only one who can handle Malachi right now!"

Just then, a pillar of flames erupted in the distance, lighting up the parking lot with a fierce glow.

Jermaine chimed in, saying, "Well, there he is. What do you mean Miguel's the only one who can handle him?"

The agent nodded, acknowledging his point.

"You're right, but listen—when Malachi taps into this much raw karmic energy all at once, it drains him fast.

If he keeps this up, he could hurt himself—or worse, lose control completely."

Fabian and Noah looked totally confused. Jermaine turned to the agent and asked, "The heck is Karmic Energy?"

The agent remarked, "You guys must've just awakened."

At the same time, a fiery streak shot across the sky, racing toward the hotel's entrance, capturing everyone's attention.

The agent quickly explained, "Okay, here's the deal—with Karmic Energy, or KE, everything's tied to karma: our actions, feelings, and experiences.

People who can tap into this are called Awakened Ones, and it often runs in families, though everyone's powers are unique.

You awaken through key moments—like clarity, enlightenment, or even trauma."

Jermaine raised an eyebrow. "So, it's like using your soul?"

"Exactly," the agent said. "But it's also about balance and understanding how everything's connected. It's a wild ride, but worth it."

The impact of Malachi and Brooks' collision sent a deafening *boom* through the parking lot, shattering glass and rattling nearby buildings.

A shockwave rippled outwards.

Dust and debris swirled around them as they landed in a chaotic heap of twisted metal and broken concrete.

Brooks, amidst the wreckage, let out a harsh laugh, the sound oddly defiant considering the circumstances.

Shadowy tendrils, thick as pythons, uncoiled from his body, rising like dark smoke from a smoldering pyre.

He shook his head, a dazed grin twisting his lips.

"Too damn fast," he gasped, his voice ragged with pain and exertion. "You need to slow down, damn it!"

Malachi, ignoring the throbbing in his own bruised knuckles, stood, his eyes narrowed. "After you're dead," he replied, his voice low and dangerous.

Brooks, a strange cocktail of fear and amusement flickering in his eyes, held out both palms in a gesture that was almost pleading.

"Whoa there, violent much? I thought *you* were the calm one," he said, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm.

The tendrils writhed around him, a restless, malevolent energy.

Malachi, without a word, began to form his karmic energy blade.

The air shimmered around his hands as the energy coalesced, a vibrant, pulsating blue light that intensified with each passing second.

Brooks clenched his fist at Malachi. "What do you think you're doing?" he taunted.

A pool of darkness spread beneath Malachi, ensnaring him just as he tried to escape.

"Damn it, I can't move," he thought, straining against the grip.

His eyes flicked to Brooks, who stood with one arm extended as though drawing an invisible bow.

"Don't move," Brooks warned, a sinister grin creeping across his face as he pulled back the other arm.

A shadowy arrow materialized, crackling with dark energy, and shot toward Malachi.

Without hesitation, Malachi thrust his hand forward, releasing a karmic blast.

He felt a surge of raw energy from deep within, like a pulse of warmth and lightning sharpening his senses.

The blast shot outward as a brilliant stream of light, a vibrant spectrum of colors streaking through the air.

Upon collision with the opposing force, the explosion erupted into swirling smoke, a storm of light and shadow enveloping the battlefield.

Through the haze, Brooks could be seen peering, fanning away the smog.

"Damn, this youth ain't no novice," he muttered, a hint of respect tinging his voice.

Malachi, his eyes blazing with a cold fury, held up his hand.

He squinted, his vision blurred, and saw a fleeting shadow.

With a desperate lunge, he thrust his arm forward, launching more tendrils.

Brooks launched a swarm of dark orbs toward Malachi, each humming with dark energy. In a heartbeat, Malachi's form blurred into motion, faster than an eye could track.

He could almost feel the explosive pressure at his heels as he darted away, instincts honed razor-sharp.

"Gotta keep moving, can't let up now," he thought, ignoring the sweat stinging his eyes.

Skidding to a halt, he caught his breath, aware of the weight of fatigue creeping through his limbs.

Brooks, surprisingly calm, tapped a finger against his chest, a chilling smile playing on his lips.

"I know you're wondering why this Negro just keeps coming after me," he said.

His voice was low, laced with a chilling amusement. "My benefactor wants something *you* have.

Brooks chuckled and said, "Just consider yourself special, boy."

A dark, shadowy blade materialized on Brooks' fist, shimmering with an unnatural light.

"Come at me," Malachi challenged, his own karmic blade held high, the blue light a stark contrast to the ominous darkness of Brooks' weapon.

"Say less, my boy," Brooks sneered, launching himself at Malachi with surprising speed and ferocity.

Malachi hurled his energy blade, and Brooks deflected it with his own blade, the impact resonating with a sharp *crack* as energy collided with energy in midair.

Malachi leaped forward, thrusting his palm outward with determination.

An invisible force struck Brooks with brutal intensity, sending him tumbling across the shattered ground.

Each impact wrung a spatter of black blood from his lips, staining the earth beneath him.

Malachi scanned the scene, calculating his next move. He dismissed the idea of brute force and settled on a plan.

He rarely used this ability, but now was the time.

Opening his palm, he channeled karmic pressure. Instantly, Brooks, prone on the ground, was pinned by an invisible force.

The earth cracked around him as suffocating pressure held him fast, prompting a scream from his throat that echoed with desperation.

A nearby explosion sent a shockwave through the ground.

Flames erupted, engulfing nearby cars in a fiery blast before spreading rapidly.

Miguel emerged from the fire, his fiery hair now subdued, his expression grim.

"Hey, take it easy," Miguel urged.

"This bum killed Vance," Malachi shot back, rage simmering beneath his words.

"The only other father figure we had left. And you expect to take it easy?"

Miguel held his gaze steady. "That's not how we do things.

Besides, didn't God say vengeance is His? You don't want that blood on your hands."

Malachi paused, a flicker of conflict crossing his features. "Karma flows through me, right? Maybe I am his karma."

Before the conversation could deepen, they both looked up, stunned by flashes and blasts echoing from the city.

Helicopters and gunfire filled the air. Miguel shook his head and asked, "Okay, what in God's name is going on now?"

A fierce wind erupted from Brooks, enveloping the brothers in its icy embrace.

A gut-wrenching scream shattered the air—a sound of pure, unbridled agony. Brooks crumpled to the ground, his body seized by violent spasms.

"Please, just end it!" he gasped, desperation dripping from every word.

Clutching his chest, he struggled for each excruciating breath.

"I'm begging you, Malachi, make it stop!"

Miguel turned to Malachi, urgency sharpening his voice. "Yo Mal, Stop the man is begging!"

Malachi looked at Miguel, his eyes filled with confusion and dread.

"I'm not doing this," he whispered, a hint of fear in his voice.

Brooks held his face, yelling in agony as an unsettling transformation took hold.

Malachi felt an evil presence ripple through the air, its dark energy pressing heavily on his senses.

The sound of bones cracking echoed ominously, causing Miguel to wince and make a face, his instinct to help clashing with caution.

Turning to Malachi, Miguel asked hesitantly, "Should we help him?" Malachi, shaken by the aura of malevolence emanating from Brooks, shook his head.

"I don't know about that," he replied, uncertainty lacing his words.

As they watched, Brooks morphed into a towering figure with ominous grace.

His skin turned an ashen grey, and his bones twisted to accommodate the change.

One horn curled menacingly around his head while the other curved downward, framing his new visage.

His hair grew out rapidly into long, straight locks that cascaded over his shoulders like a dark, silken waterfall.

His limbs hardened, bulging with unnatural strength, ending in sharp claws capable of inflicting severe damage.

Behind him, a long tail unfurled, its tip shaped into a deadly spike, completing his terrifying transformation.

He looked down at his clawed hands, flexing them with a chilling grace.

"Freedom," a voice whispered, a chilling breath on the listener's neck, a sound that seemed to slither into their minds.

It was a voice that promised power and control, a seductive lure to damnation.

"At last," it hissed, the word dripping with malicious intent.

The creature's gaze was sharp, analytical.

He studied the brothers, weighing their strengths and weaknesses with cold precision.

"So, *this* is the pinnacle of human evolution?" he mused, his voice a low growl. "Mhmm. Intrigued," he said, the word betraying none of his true intentions.

His mind was already calculating strategies, plotting their demise or their potential use as tools.

To be continued...