A low roar tore through the smoky air—a hovercraft descending from the storm-choked heavens, its engines howling like thunder and slicing through the tension like a blade. The metallic beast touched down with bone-jarring weight, settling in a shockwave of dust and rain-slick debris. Along its hull, iridescent blue sigils flickered like veins of trapped lightning, writhing against the dark as if alive.

Then—impact.

A hissing chunk of landing gear slammed into the workshop's reinforced door with a brutal CRACK—wood splintering, iron hinges screeching as they tore loose. The barrier twisted inward, half-hung and groaning, revealing a flickering silhouette within the smoke.

From the shattered threshold, a small Netherling slithered forth—its skin gleaming like wet obsidian, black limbs slick with oil and ash. Eyes like burning coals locked onto Neon, glowing with hunger and ancient malice.

He moved before he thought.

The dagger flew from his hand like a living thing—the rune on its jagged edge flaring cold and blue. It struck with a wet thud, burying itself in the creature's chest. In an instant, the Netherling imploded into a cloud of scorched mist and violet sparks. Flames licked the debris, unnatural and angry.

Neon stepped forward, wrenching the dagger free from the floorboards where it had landed, its cold hum vibrating through his bones.

"Let's go," he said, voice low and steady despite the fire in his lungs.

---

They stood framed in the ruined doorway—three silhouettes cut in jagged relief against a city drowning in red light.

Neon. Calder. And S.A.B.R.E.

Each bore the mark of war—each armed with custom-forged weapons born in desperation.

Neon slung the repeating crossbow across his shoulder, but kept the beast's dagger in hand—its glowing rune pulsing like a heartbeat, alive with the memory of blood.

Calder, worn and blackened by smoke, slung his own mechanical crossbow across his back, bolts rattling in a bandolier strapped across his chest. His beard was matted with soot, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing arms scarred from a lifetime of shaping impossible metal.

Beside them, S.A.B.R.E. crouched low—its eight limbs whispering over the stone, onboard crossbow clicking into a loaded state. One eye flickered blue, the other blood-red from damage sustained earlier.

Calder spat into the dust, eyeing the flames licking up through the cracked cobblestones.

"Thirty bolts each," Neon muttered grimly, loading one with deliberate care. "Not enough mana. No second chances."

Calder grunted. "Aye. Just like the old days. Guts, grit, an' stupid bloody luck."

The wind howled through the breach, hot and bitter, carrying with it the scent of char and mana-spoiled air.

Neon dropped to a knee, slotting a bolt into the chamber. His fingers trembled, not with fear, but fatigue wrapped in urgency. The bolt slid home with a metallic snap, the cold wood biting into his palm.

Click.

---

He rose slowly, feeling the weight of the moment press into his spine. Around them, the firelight played across the ruins, casting them in a glow that danced like memory.

Then, from beneath his collar, Neon flicked the hidden switch.

Pshhht—kzzk.

The metal mask unfolded over his face, gears whispering as they slid into place. The curved steel settled with a final click, twin lenses glowing a dull orange as they locked over his eyes. Breath fogged faintly behind the visor.

He exhaled once. Slow. Certain.

"No mistakes," he said through the mask. "We end this clean."

Calder gave a short nod. "Lad," he rasped, his voice hoarse with soot and storm, "you always were bloody mad. But I'll be damned if I let ye walk into this shite alone."

S.A.B.R.E. gave a series of sharp clicks—affirmation, readiness. The trio stepped into the blasted street.

Hell awaited.

---

Neon's lenses flared—orange lines mapping out residual mana trails. They twisted through the cracked pavement like ghosts, revealing heat signatures beyond the veil of smoke. Ash fell like sick snow, mixing with grime and the smear of blood already staining the stones.

Buildings stood half-devoured by fire. Flames clawed at shattered towers. The sky was a canvas of bruised crimson and violet, torn open like a wound.

They moved in silence—every step measured, every breath drawn shallow and ready.

Then—

A shriek pierced the night. Low. Bone-deep. Not from above… but below.

The ground shifted beneath them.

Cracks spiderwebbed through the street. From the fissure ahead, long, black limbs erupted—spiderlike, unnatural, twitching with inhuman precision. And then the head emerged—gleaming bone warped by tumors of ash and chitin, stitched shadow writhing where flesh should be. Its jaw hung slack, serrated and dripping with black ichor, eyes burning with blind instinct.

Calder staggered a step, jaw slack.
"That's… that's nae scout."
His voice dropped, thick with dread.
"That's a Reaper. That's a bloody Reaper! A real bastard o' the dark."

S.A.B.R.E. let out a sharp, static screech.

And Neon?

He didn't flinch. Didn't speak. He raised his crossbow, eyes locked on the abyss swallowing the street.

The bolt chamber snapped into place.

Click.

He spoke through the modulator embedded in his mask, voice fractured like a dying radio signal—low, broken, and full of steel:

"Let… them… come."