Chapter Eight: Ghostkiller

Pxis residence

Maggot's crown

Outer Pit

Pitland AKA "The Pit"

Continent of Zenithan

I was already moving before my mind fully processed the explosion. The air shuddered, the distant sound of impact reverberating through the alley like a war drum.

No.

The neon lights overhead flickered violently as I sprinted forward, my heart slamming against my ribs in time with the pulse of security alarms. This wasn't just an attack on Maggot Crown. This was an attack on my home. And Pxis was inside. Alone. Rowena followed without hesitation, her presence shifting, sharpening—her earlier control discarded for something colder, more instinctive. As we rounded the corner, smoke met us first, curling thick and acrid against the air. Then, the wreckage came into view.

The reinforced security walls were gone, punched through as if they had been made of paper. The once impenetrable haven had been gutted, debris and broken steel scattered across the pavement. Sparks from severed circuits flickered like dying fireflies, the drones that had once guarded this place were now reduced to smoldering wrecks. But I wasn't looking at the destruction, I was looking at the figures moving inside—shadowed outlines against the smoke.

The air crackled with tension as Rowena and I rushed toward Pxis's home's ruined entrance. The once fortified sanctuary was now a battleground—alarms blared, walls fractured, and the scent of burning circuits and shattered drones filled the air.

And inside?

Death was waiting. Through the smoke and broken barriers, six figures moved with silent precision, their Astral-Tech armor gleaming, weapons humming with refined psychic energy.

Ghostkillers. Elite executioners. Silent eliminators. Killers that left no traces behind. The leader was already inside, moving toward Pxis, who stood at the heart of the battlefield—frail, sick, yet still radiating defiance.

The first wave came like a storm.

Three Ghostkillers moved toward Rowena, their weapons sparking with psychic-laced plasma rounds, telekinetic blades, and gravity-augmented strikes. The other two came straight for me, their speed inhuman, blurring through the space between us before I had time to react.

I barely dodged the first strike—a shockwave punch aimed at my ribs—before twisting just in time to block a follow-up blade strike, my arm numb from the force.

They're faster than me. Stronger than me. More equipped than me.

The realization hit hard, but I didn't stop moving.

I threw my weight forward, catching one of the Ghostkillers off balance, and landing a brutal hook to his side. He staggered, but before I could press the advantage, the second one grabbed me by the neck and slammed me into the ground.

My vision blurred. Pain exploded down my back. Before I could recover, the first one was already bringing his vibro-blade down, aiming straight for my throat. I twisted at the last second—the blade skimming my skin, drawing blood, before I drove my foot into his chest, forcing him backward.

I rolled onto my feet—just in time to catch a brutal kick to my gut. I gasped, my body flying backward, slamming into a cracked wall. My bones screamed, but I forced myself to move.

They're not going to give me time to breathe.

The Ghostkillers pressed forward, their synchronized assault overwhelming me. I blocked, dodged, countered—but every time I landed a hit, they retaliated twice as hard. The Ghostkillers moved like twin phantoms, their forms flickering in and out of my blind spots, their speed almost too much for my eyes to track.

My breathing was already labored—not from exhaustion, but from sheer tension. These two weren't just high-tier assassins outfitted with Astral-Tech gear. They were a perfectly synchronized unit. They fought with precision, strategy, and ruthless efficiency, attacking at angles that forced me into defensive reactions. One baited, the other struck. One pressured, the other countered. They were reading me. And for the first time in a while—I was the one struggling to keep up.

The first one lunged with a kinetic-assisted strike, his armored fist aimed straight for my ribs. I barely twisted away in time—but the second one was already waiting, slamming his foot into the side of my knee. Pain shot up my leg. I staggered—but even before I could regain balance, the first assassin caught my wrist, twisting it in a lock before slamming his elbow toward my face. I barely blocked, but the impact sent shockwaves through my arm, making my bones rattle. Then the second one capitalized again—

His vibro-dagger sliced toward my gut. I had no time to fully dodge. Instead, I twisted at the last second, letting the blade graze past my side, feeling the burn of my skin split open again. Blood dripped. A second injury thanks to their perfect teamwork. That dagger had been close to stabbing me. If my body hadn't reacted as quickly as it did, I would have been bleeding more than I was. I forced myself to keep moving, to adapt.

They're testing me.

I wasn't just fighting two skilled enemies. I was fighting two minds acting as one.

They know exactly where I'll move. How I'll react. If I kept playing defense, I was dead. I have to change my approach.

I exhaled, clearing my mind as the two assassins circled again. I stopped reacting. Instead, I watched. I started picking apart the flow of their attacks. The first one was faster, the baiter—he forced openings. The second was the finisher—the true danger, the one who landed the decisive strikes. They always attacked in a three-beat rhythm.

One to force movement. One to disrupt. One to kill.

That was their pattern. I could use that. They came at me again. The first faked a high kick—but I saw through it, knowing the second would go low. Instead of dodging, I did something unexpected. I charged forward. The second hadn't anticipated my aggression. His dagger was still mid-swing when I clamped my hand over his wrist, locking it. His eyes widened—but his partner was already moving to punish me.

I had only one second to act. Instead of blocking—I pivoted. I spun, dragging the second assassin with me, using his body as a shield. The first froze, barely stopping his attack in time to avoid hitting his partner. That moment of hesitation was all I needed. I ripped the dagger from the second assassin's grip, flipped it in my hand, and jammed it straight into his exposed shoulder joint. He grunted in pain, staggering back. But I didn't stop. I had already calculated my next move.

I used the injured assassin as a launching point, kicking off his chest, and propelling myself toward the first one. His reaction was delayed. I was already inside his guard before he could reset his stance. My fist snapped forward—a brutal jab to the throat. He choked, stumbling—his reflexes momentarily failing. I followed up with a knee to his ribs, and a crushing elbow to the temple. His balance shattered. And in that instant—I had won. I grabbed the vibro-dagger from the wounded assassin and, with one clean motion, slashed it across the first Ghostkiller's throat. A gurgled gasp. A stumble. Then—he dropped.

The remaining assassin clutched his bleeding shoulder, his stance wavering.

I was bleeding too from my sides. My leg still throbbed from his earlier kick, my ribs aching from every breath. But I stared him down, my grip tightening on the stolen dagger.

The second Ghostkiller didn't run. He stood there, blood trickling from his wounded shoulder, his breath controlled, his stance still impeccable. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't desperate. He was waiting.

He's not just stalling.

He was analyzing—just like I was. His eyes flicked over me, taking in the damage I'd sustained, the shift in my weight, the way my chest rose and fell. He was looking for a weakness. And he wasn't going to stop until one of us was dead.

Fine.

I wasn't done either. The air snapped as the Ghostkiller lunged, his movements sharper this time. His previous plan—team-based combat—was gone. Now he fought like a solo butcher, each strike calculated to carve me apart. His telekinetic force surged behind his blows, adding invisible weight to every motion. He wasn't just punching or kicking—he was crushing.

Adapt. Move faster. Strike first.

I ducked under a sweeping high kick, feeling the air distort above my head from the sheer force behind it. Before I could counter, he stepped forward, grabbed my arm—and yanked me forward into a telekinetically-boosted knee strike.

Bone met flesh. I felt something crack inside me. My ribs screamed—but I ignored it. I twisted with the impact, letting the force carry me into a spinning elbow aimed at his jaw. He blocked—but not well enough. The impact made his head snap to the side. His footing wavered. Opening. I went in low—my fist burying into his side, aiming for his kidney. He grunted but countered brutally—a telekinetic shockwave detonating from his palm, blasting me back. I barely had time to twist in the air before I slammed against the ground. Pain bloomed down my back—but I was already moving. The Ghostkiller was relentless.

He's pushing harder. He's trying to break me.

His palm surged, sending invisible force waves that ripped chunks from the ground, forcing me to weave between them. I had to anticipate, read, and counter. His pattern had shifted—his movements were now slower but heavier, trading speed for sheer overwhelming force.

That meant—I could bait him. I let him close the distance again, let him believe he had me on the defensive. His right fist came forward— At the last second, I feigned a stumble. He overcommitted, his weight shifting just slightly forward.

Got you.

I whipped my head forward, smashing my skull into his nose. Cartilage crunched. Blood splattered across both of us. His body jerked backward—but I was already following up. I didn't give him space. I clawed my fingers into his fractured nose, twisting his head violently to the side, and drove a brutal knee into his stomach. He choked, his balance breaking for the first time. I slammed my elbow into the side of his head. Then again. Then again.

His armor was dented. His face split open. Blood splashed against my knuckles. He wasn't dead yet. His instincts kicked in—a desperate telekinetic burst erupted, trying to shove me away. I tanked it. My body screamed, and my insides felt like they were being torn apart—but I didn't stop.

The pain was irrelevant. I grabbed his wrist before he could pull back— And with every ounce of my strength, I wrenched his arm from its socket. The Ghostkiller screamed. The sound was raw, jagged, and filled with panic for the first time.

His severed arm dangled in my grip. His breathing turned erratic—his body fighting to stay standing even as blood gushed from the ruined socket. I let his arm drop. Then I grabbed him by the jaw, forcing his bloody face to meet my eyes.

"You should've run," I said. I drove my fingers into his eye sockets. He shrieked, thrashing, his body seizing as I forced my thumbs deeper. Then—I crushed his skull between my hands.

The body dropped, limp, twitching once—then silent. I staggered back, breathing hard, feeling his blood soak through my fingers. The faint echoes of battle still rang in my ears—Rowena fighting, Pxis still holding on, the distant sounds of death.

But in this moment, only one thing mattered. I survived. I won. But I wasn't done yet. I turned toward the ruined entrance of Pxis' residence. The Ghostkiller leader was still alive. And Pxis was losing. I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. One last fight. And this time? I wasn't holding back.