Rhel Varas was not a man given to haste.

He had seen empires burn. He had walked across planets of glass, waded through oceans made of bone. Of all the Executors in the Kargal war caste, he was the most feared—not for his strength, but for his silence. When Rhel moved, it was not to hunt.

It was to erase.

He stood at the edge of the grove where the readings had vanished. Viora danced along his spine like coiled lightning, reacting to something… old. Something wrong.

His Kruger scouts moved ahead, silent as falling dusk.

Six of them. Each trained in a different Viora discipline—Flame Pulse, Echo Edge, Iron Root, and the forbidden Tempest Form.

They were perfect.

And then the forest died.

A single breath of wind swept through the trees, and in its wake, all things stilled.

Kiro stepped from the underbrush like a ghost pulled from a red-soaked myth. His frame broader now, posture more assured—less man, more something born in crucible. The sigils across his arms pulsed faintly, like a heart trapped beneath his skin.

No weapon drawn.

He didn’t need one yet.

The Kruger Viora Adept at the front snarled. “You are marked for execution by decree of the Kargal Emperor. Surrender now and be given the mercy of obliteration.”

Kiro tilted his head.

“Do you ever get tired of the sound of your own threats?”

Before the words even finished, the scout moved—fast. Too fast for the eye. His Viora ignited in an arc of blue-white plasma, his gauntlets lined with resonant blades meant to slice through tanks.

He struck.

And missed.

Kiro wasn’t there.

He was behind him—hand open, palm glowing with Crimson Genesis energy. He grabbed the man’s neck and crushed.

The sound was brief.

Core Surge: 3% Absorbed
Kruger Scout (Iron Root Variant) eliminated.

The other five moved together—flashes of light and deadly silence.

The air shattered.

Kiro’s eyes widened. Not with fear—but recognition.

They were dancing the Viora Formation Kata, a war-style from the Age of Origin. It bent energy through rhythm, turned bodies into equations of violence.

They struck as one.

And for the first time, Kiro bled.

A clean line down his back. A moment of slowed breath.

But then something strange happened.

The wound didn’t weep red.

It drank.

The blood retracted. Absorbed back into his skin. The sigils along his spine hissed as the System recalibrated.

Core Adaption Triggered.
Viora Signature Detected: Tempest Form.
Mimicry Protocol: Engaged.

Kiro grinned, and then he moved.

Not like a man.

Like Viora reborn in rage.

He mirrored their form—but twisted. Where the Kruger strike team flowed, Kiro struck like fracture and entropy made flesh. He didn’t just respond—he learned. He deconstructed their rhythm mid-combat, broke the harmony of their attacks like dissonant chords being ripped from an instrument.

Blood Venom flashed to life—a whip this time.

It sang through the air, slicing one through the chest. Another fell as it coiled around his ankle and pulled him into a rising knee of divine steel.

Blood Echo Absorbed.
Viora Pattern Assimilated: Echo Edge (30%)
Crimson Pulse Unlocked.

The last two faltered.

Even trained assassins had limits.

Even gods, once, had died.

But Kiro?

Kiro wasn’t a god.

He was what came after.

“Run,” he said.

One did.

The other hesitated—and Blood Venom found his throat.

Far above, Rhel watched from the ridge.

The feed from his team blinked out. One by one. No screams. No static.

Just silence.

He exhaled, drawing the curved blade from his back and pressing two fingers to the seal on his temple.

“Contact made. Apostle confirmed.”

A voice answered from the orbital channel.

“Should we begin bombardment?”

Rhel’s eyes glinted silver. “No. This one… is mine.”

Below, Kiro stood in the remains of the fallen.

The wind whispered.

And somewhere deeper, something ancient laughed.