Chapter 10 - WHAT DOESN’T KILL ME

Zenithar – Southern military base

December 7, 1077 – 04:27 AM

Pain.

That was the first thing Raiga felt.

Not sharp, not immediate—no, this was worse. A deep, suffocating agony, spreading through his body like molten iron, making his muscles heavy, his breaths short and ragged.

The second thing he felt was the ground. Cold, rough asphalt against his cheek, the metallic taste of blood pooling in his mouth. His fingers twitched, brushing against something wet.

His own blood.

He wasn't dead.

Not yet.

His vision was blurred, his ears ringing. Somewhere in the distance, gunfire echoed—muffled, distant. His mind was sluggish, fragments of memory flickering back like pieces of shattered glass.

What… happened?

Then—he saw it.

The rooftop. The sniper's shot.

Boom.

The force had slammed into his back like a battering ram, tearing through flesh and bone, sending him plummeting into the void. The fall had been long—too long. He should have died. But something broke the impact. A ledge? A metal beam? It didn't matter.

He was still alive.

Barely.

Raiga exhaled through gritted teeth, his breath shaky. His left arm was useless, twisted at an unnatural angle, hot pain radiating from the wound in his shoulder. His ribs ached—probably cracked, maybe worse.

He tried to push himself up.

Nothing.

His body refused. Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony lancing through him, turning his vision black at the edges.

Move.

His fingers dug into the asphalt. His heartbeat pounded in his skull.

Move, damn it.

Then—flashes of memory.

Kael. Allen. Their squad.

Dead.

Their bodies collapsing in a storm of bullets, the sheer brutality of the ambush. The blood, the screams, the sheer helplessness of it all.

His breath hitched.

Then—Liara.

Her voice, clear over the comms.

"Convoy in position. Awaiting the signal."

The sound of Garret's sudden panic.

"Liara! DON'T GET OUT—"

A scream. The comms went dead.

Raiga's eyes snapped open.

A cold, electric fury shot through his veins. His breath turned sharp. His heart slammed against his ribs.

Liara.

MOVE!

With a guttural roar, he forced his right hand beneath him, pushing himself off the ground. Pain tore through his body like knives, his broken ribs grinding against each other, his shoulder screaming in protest.

He didn't care.

A violent shudder wracked his body, but his legs obeyed.

He stood.

Breath ragged. Vision blurred.

But he stood.

Then—voices.

"…Raiga!"

His head snapped up.

Garret.

The voice was distant, but getting closer.

Raiga's senses sharpened, his pulse thrumming with raw adrenaline. He forced himself forward, staggering toward the sound, each step a battle against the pain.

Then—footsteps.

Not Garret's.

His instincts screamed.

He threw himself into the shadows just as figures emerged from the ruined streets, rifles raised.

Thirty men. Cult soldiers.

He gritted his teeth. They planned this.

Garret reached him, eyes wide. "We need to move. Now."

No argument. No hesitation.

Garret's breath was still ragged as he pushed Raiga through the half-collapsed doorway of a ruined warehouse.

The cold air inside smelled of rust, gunpowder, and old oil. Broken machinery and shattered crates littered the space, offering little cover but enough to disappear for a few precious seconds.

Raiga barely took two steps before stumbling forward, hands bracing against the cold metal of an overturned truck. He was breathing hard, his good arm trembling from exertion, his body barely holding together.

But his eyes—

His eyes were wild.

Garret had seen that look before.

Not fear. Not pain.

Pure, unfiltered desperation.

Raiga's hand moved to his earpiece. Static. Nothing. The connection was dead.

His jaw clenched.

He needed a way out. Now.

His gaze darted around the warehouse, scanning. Vehicles. He needed a vehicle. Something.

There.

A transport truck, half-covered in debris, its reinforced plating still intact. Maybe it worked. Maybe not. He didn't care.

He moved.

Garret cursed under his breath and grabbed his arm. "Raiga—stop."

Raiga didn't even look at him. He shoved Garret's hand away, stumbling forward toward the truck, his left arm still limp at his side. His breathing was sharp, erratic, not thinking—

Garret followed, gritting his teeth. "Raiga, LISTEN TO ME."

No response.

Raiga reached the truck, his right hand fumbling against the door handle. Locked. He swore under his breath and slammed his fist against the metal.

Garret grabbed him again, harder this time, his patience thinning. "You can't just—"

Raiga spun on him, voice hoarse and broken. "I don't have time for this!"

His expression was twisted, a mess of fury and panic. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing sharp, and Garret knew—he was barely holding himself together.

Garret's chest tightened.

"Raiga—" His voice lowered, steadier. "We don't even know what happened."

Raiga's fists clenched. "She's in trouble."

"We're ALL in trouble."

Raiga turned back toward the truck, his fingers curling around the edge of the shattered window, trying to pry it open. His hands were slick with blood—his blood—but he didn't stop.

Garret exhaled sharply.

"Raiga—THINK!"

Garret stepped closer, voice sharp, cutting through the haze. "You run out there like this, you're dead before you even get close."

Raiga's breathing was shallow. He wasn't looking at him.

Garret pressed on.

"You're injured. You're barely standing. And whatever the hell just happened back there—" his voice dropped, "—was planned."

Raiga's fingers twitched against the truck door.

Garret's voice hardened. "You think they didn't account for you? You think they just let this happen? They knew. They knew we'd split up. They knew we'd fall for it. And now they're waiting."

Silence.

Then—

A sound.

Raiga froze.

A faint crunch outside.

Not footsteps. Something heavier.

Garret's eyes snapped to Raiga's.

They weren't alone.

A soft crunch of boots on gravel. A shift in the shadows. A presence so heavy that Raiga felt it coil around his throat like a noose.

Garret exhaled sharply. "Shit."

Then the door to the warehouse burst open.

Five figures stepped inside.

They moved with cold precision, their advanced armor reflecting the dim light. Their rifles—sleek, compact assault weapons, top-of-the-line military tech—were raised and ready, barrels trained directly on Raiga and Garret.

No hesitation. No words.

They were here to kill.

Raiga's grip tightened around the hilt of his short blade, still sheathed at his side. His left arm was useless, pain burning through his shoulder with every breath, but his right hand was steady.

Garret shifted beside him, rolling his shoulders. His right hand hovered near the grip of his Desert Eagle, while his left curled into a loose fist.

A silent beat.

Then—

Fire.

The warehouse exploded with gunfire.

A wall of bullets tore through the space, shredding through metal, crates, and walls. Sparks flew in all directions as lead ricocheted wildly. The air turned into a storm of destruction.

But Raiga and Garret were already moving.

Raiga lunged left, boots skidding across the ground as he dove behind a rusted machine frame. Sparks showered over him as rounds ripped into the steel. He pressed himself low, fingers gripping the handle of his sword.

Garret veered right, dodging between cover like a specter, his Desert Eagle flashing as he fired mid-dash.

BOOM!

A single .50 caliber round tore through the air. One of the attackers staggered as the bullet ripped through his shoulder, sending a mist of blood spraying across the wall.

But he didn't fall.

Their armor was too strong.

Raiga's eyes flicked to Garret, both of them coming to the same conclusion.

Close range.

They had to take them close.

Another storm of bullets shredded their cover.

Then—Raiga moved.

A burst of inhuman speed.

He vaulted over the wreckage, his injured body screaming in protest. The warriors barely had time to adjust their aim before—

Slash.

Raiga's blade flashed.

A clean, surgical cut—straight across the throat.

The first soldier gurgled, blood spraying as he staggered back.

Raiga didn't stop.

He twisted mid-air, pivoting on one foot as he slammed his knee into the second soldier's stomach. The impact cracked armor plates, sending the man skidding backward.

Gunfire roared behind him.

Garret had closed the distance, moving like a blur.

A third soldier swung his rifle—Garret caught the barrel mid-motion, twisting it aside before slamming his fist into the man's face.

Crack.

The helmet dented inward from sheer force.

Before the soldier could recover, Garret pressed the Desert Eagle to his chin.

BOOM.

Blood splattered against the walls.

Raiga landed lightly, twisting to dodge a blade strike. The fourth soldier had drawn his knife, his movements sharp and practiced.

But Raiga was faster.

He sidestepped, blade flashing upward—

A single, perfect cut across the wrist.

The soldier's fingers went limp, the knife clattering to the ground.

Raiga stepped in—

A gun barrel pressed to his ribs.

His eyes widened.

The fifth soldier had anticipated him.

Click.

A split-second before the trigger pulled—

Garret tackled him.

They crashed through a pile of crates, Garret's fists hammering down. The soldier fought back, grappling for control, but Garret was stronger. He pinned the man down and drove an elbow into his jaw, knocking his helmet clean off.

No hesitation.

Garret grabbed the soldier's own knife—

And plunged it into his throat.

Silence.

The last body slumped to the ground.

Raiga exhaled heavily, blade dripping with fresh blood. His injured arm throbbed, his vision swimming for a second, but he forced himself to focus.

Only two eft.

But then—

A distant sound.

Raiga's breath hitched.

Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Too many.

He turned to Garret.

Garret was already listening to his earpiece. His face went pale.

"We need to MOVE."

Raiga's chest tightened. "How many?"

Garret met his gaze.

"All of them."

Raiga clenched his jaw.

Thirty soldiers.

They had taken the bait.

And now—the hammer was coming down.

Garret's eyes flicked to the wreckage. Then—to the truck.

Raiga followed his gaze.

An idea clicked.

No words needed.

They moved.

Garret sprinted to the truck's front, slamming the butt of his gun against the door handle. The glass shattered, sending shards flying, but the lock—held.

Raiga grabbed the edge of the passenger door, fingers curling—

And ripped.

The metal groaned before giving way, the door tearing off its hinges.

Garret didn't hesitate—he jumped into the driver's seat.

Raiga climbed in beside him, barely pulling the door closed before—

Gunfire.

The remaining two warriors had recovered, their rifles snapping up.

Too slow.

Garret slammed the ignition.

The truck roared to life.

"HOLD ON!"

Raiga gritted his teeth, bracing—

BOOM.

Garret floored it.

The vehicle screeched forward, slamming through the half-collapsed loading doors. The shockwave threw debris in all directions, steel beams crashing to the ground behind them.

Then—

They were out.

The truck ripped through the base, leaving dust and chaos in its wake. The soldiers behind them scrambled to give chase, gunfire rattling against the reinforced plating.

But they weren't stopping.

Raiga's grip tightened.

His mind was already ahead, past the chase—to the only thing that mattered.

Liara.

Garret's knuckles went white against the wheel. His voice was a growl.

"Hold on, kid."

His eyes locked onto the road ahead.

"We're getting her back."