| Fractured Horizon

༺ The Fractured City VI ༻

The rain pounded against the rooftops, a relentless downpour drowning the city in mist. Footsteps echoed through the darkness—light, precise, measured. Rowan ran.

He moved across the rooftops, leaping between buildings with practiced ease. The city blurred beneath him—cracked streets, flickering lamps, shadows moving in the alleys below.

Then he saw it.

The port gleamed in the distance, lanterns casting long, fractured reflections on the wet wooden docks. The ship was there. The old man was there.

Rowan adjusted his pace, nearing the edge of a sloped roof. Without hesitation, he leaped, grabbing onto a rusted downspout. The corroded iron groaned under his weight as he slid down, landing in a narrow alleyway.

He placed a hand on a nearby dumpster, catching his breath. His mind was racing. Something wasn't right.

Then it struck him.

This is a trap.

The organization wasn't sloppy. They had anticipated resistance. There would be countermeasures—an ambush, hidden enforcers, something waiting beyond what he could immediately see.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the alley. Rowan exhaled sharply. He needed a plan.

He scouted the area quickly. The dock was lined with barrels—many marked with oil, gunpowder, and volatile chemicals. Nearby, an old cart lay overturned, broken lanterns scattered among its debris.

Rowan moved fast. He found scraps of metal, discarded rags, and a leaking oil canister. His hands worked swiftly, piecing together an improvised incendiary device.

He set the fuse.

Then—

Boom.

The explosion ripped through the docks. Fire erupted, smoke billowing in thick plumes. The blast sent crates tumbling into the water, and startled shouts filled the air.

It was chaos.

Rowan moved.

From the smoke, a blade flashed.

Rowan barely dodged as a machete slashed toward his ribs. He countered with his Keris, deflecting the strike and cutting across the attacker's forearm. Blood spattered against the rain-slicked wood.

Another enemy closed in—a dagger-wielding fighter, fast and precise. The man lunged, aiming for Rowan's throat.

Rowan twisted aside, but not fast enough. The dagger grazed his shoulder, tearing through fabric and flesh. Pain burned through him, but he forced himself to ignore it.

The next strike came low. Rowan leaped back, using the crates behind him for cover.

The first attacker recovered, swinging the machete in a brutal arc. Rowan ducked, the blade slicing clean through a wooden post instead of his skull. Using the opening, he stepped in—

His Keris plunged deep into the man's side.

The attacker stiffened, choking on his own breath. Rowan ripped the blade free and shoved him aside.

Another came—a swordfighter.

This one was disciplined, his stance controlled. Not a thug. A trained combatant.

Rowan's grip on his Keris tightened.

The swordsman struck first. A sharp, clean thrust—Rowan barely deflected it, his Keris scraping against steel. The force sent him stumbling back.

A second strike. Rowan sidestepped, twisting his body just in time.

But he was too slow to block the third.

The sword sliced across his ribs, shallow but deep enough to send pain flaring through his body. He bit back a gasp.

He was losing too much blood.

Desperate, Rowan scanned his surroundings. His eyes flicked to a low-hanging rope attached to a wooden beam.

He acted on instinct.

Ducking under the next swing, Rowan kicked a loose crate toward the swordsman. The man flinched. That second was all Rowan needed—he lunged for the rope, grabbed it, and yanked.

The wooden beam swung down.

Crack.

It slammed into the swordsman's head. He crumpled, unconscious.

Rowan staggered, gripping his bleeding side. He could barely stand. His coat was torn, blood soaked through his sleeve, and his breaths came in shallow gasps.

The docks were **littered with bodies—**some still moving, some not.

Rowan checked his watch. 11:46 PM.

No time to recover.

Then came the voice.

"You're persistent."

Rowan turned.

Standing beneath the flickering glow of a lantern was the boss.

Beside him stood masked mercenaries. Their movements were disciplined, their posture rigid. Not common thugs—hardened professionals.

The old man was bound between them, his head lowered, his breathing unsteady.

Rowan tightened his grip on his Keris. "Let him go."

The boss smirked. "You don't even know who he is."

Rowan stayed silent.

"You just met him. You have no idea what you're involving yourself in." The boss exhaled. "Take him."

The masked mercenaries moved in sync, dragging the old man toward the ship.

Rowan stepped forward—but the remaining foot soldiers blocked his path.

They came at him.

Rowan fought through them, but he was slower now, weaker. His injuries were taking their toll. A short sword cut into his ribs, deepening the wound from earlier. A strike to his gut sent him staggering back.

He barely dodged a dagger aiming for his throat. He twisted, slamming his elbow into the attacker's jaw, then followed with a downward stab into the man's leg.

The fighter collapsed.

Another came from behind. Rowan ducked just in time, feeling the rush of air as a blade nearly grazed his neck. He turned, driving his Keris upward.

A gurgled breath. Blood. Silence.

One by one, they fell—not easily, not cleanly, but they fell.

By the time the last one dropped, Rowan could barely stand. Blood dripped from his wounds.

The ship was already moving.

Rowan forced himself forward. He ran, ignoring the burning pain, and with a final burst of strength—he leaped.

His boots hit the deck.

The boss was waiting.

BANG.

Rowan barely saw the gun rise before the shot rang out.

The bullet cut through the air, aimed straight for his head.

His body refused to move. There was no time to dodge, no way to react. Death was only a breath away—

Then, everything stopped.

The rain, once hammering against the ship's deck, hung frozen in midair. Droplets were suspended like shattered glass, reflecting the dim lantern light. The flames from the explosion in the distance no longer flickered. Even the waves around the ship stood still, their white crests locked in place like frozen sculptures.

And the bullet—

It was right there.

Just inches away. A breath away. A moment away from piercing his skull.

Rowan's pulse pounded in his ears. He exhaled slowly, his breath curling in the unmoving air.

He lifted a trembling hand, his fingers reaching out.

As soon as his fingertip brushed the bullet—

The world stretched.

Not slow motion. Not time freezing. Something far worse.

The ship, the ocean, the air itself elongated as if space was being torn apart. The lantern lights warped into endless streaks, stretching impossibly into the void. The wooden deck beneath Rowan's feet twisted and unraveled like strands of fabric being pulled from reality.

A horrible force yanked him backward.

Then—

CRACK.

Rowan slammed into something unseen. A deafening shatter rang out as the world fractured like brittle glass.

Before he could process the pain—another pull.

Another impact.

CRACK.

The world split again.

Then again.

Each time, Rowan was hurled backward with greater force, his body slamming into invisible barriers that broke reality apart.

Through the cracks, he saw it.

Beyond the shattered fragments of the world—the cosmos.

An endless void of swirling galaxies, nebulae expanding and collapsing, planets forming and dying within moments. Light and shadow danced across the infinite abyss.

Rowan had no time to comprehend it.

AGAIN.

CRACK.

The pain was unbearable. His ribs screamed, his bones felt like they were crumbling under the force. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. His body wasn't his own anymore—just something being torn apart and thrown into the unknown.

Faster. Harder.

His vision blurred. His thoughts dissolved.

And then—

Nothing.