Everyone was restrained, their hands bound behind their backs with strange-looking handcuffs.
Unlike the usual carbon stainless steel, mixed with aluminum, these particular cuffs were crafted from ten-inch cubic blocks of titanium steel, somehow capable of generating a calculated 785,000 volts of electricity. These volts powered the straps that bound their hands.
Any wrong move, and they would be shocked with enough voltage to power a powerplant.
As expected, a particular individual refused to comply and resisted the restraints.
However, the moment his skin touched the straps, they exploded in a violent discharge of electricity.
His body convulsed uncontrollably before erupting in a gruesome display of raw energy, the cross-wiring shorting him out instantly.
The horrific scene left everyone speechless, gripped by an icy fear.
The electrical charge had been so powerful that even the man's blood evaporated into nothingness.
That incident forced the rest to submit without question, offering no resistance to the Ops officers' commands.
Commander Elysan smirked. To her, they were nothing more than animals—ones that would not obey unless an example was made, an example that could only be set by the threat of death.
Once everyone was securely cuffed, they were herded outside through the ruptured door into the dark, desolate desert.
Their eyes squinted at the endless gloom before them, where the harsh wind whipped across the landscape, carrying sand with a vengeance that seemed to burn with hatred.
The Ops suits automatically activated glass shields to protect their eyes from the storm.
Not too far from their position, a massive cargo truck rolled in, a behemoth of a vehicle with a large container that stretched for meters.
It was constructed from the same impenetrable steel as the slum's gate, with walls as thick as a bank vault.
The back door, which must have weighed at least a ton, was pushed open effortlessly by one of the Ops officers.
Though they weren't Curseweavers, the suits they wore granted them strength, agility, and stamina far beyond that of a regular human.
These Overpowering Suits (Ops) were a creation exclusively for the military, designed to subdue Curseweavers who had gone rogue.
In a world where anyone could awaken powers—dangerous, destructive powers—criminals and maniacs could gain unimaginable abilities and wreak havoc with impunity.
The suits had been developed to restore order, ensuring that even the most dangerous individuals could not escape justice.
People thrown into the slums were always regarded as criminals, whether innocent or guilty.
Human rights had been cast aside when the war began, and now the rich dictated the rules.
One after another, they were shoved into the truck with brutal force. Anyone who couldn't withstand the push tumbled inside like rag dolls, landing painfully on the cold metal floor.
Michael, still battered and bruised from the earlier beating, received no mercy.
"Fuck you!" he spat, but it did him no good.
Once all the "scum" were loaded into the truck, the engine roared to life, and the vehicle began its slow crawl into the raging sandstorm.
"Where the hell are they taking us?" Michael grunted, struggling to sit upright while cautiously avoiding contact with the fatal handcuffs.
"She mentioned a transfer," Kenny said, his voice low. "So, they must be moving us to a new location."
But there was something unsettling about the situation.
The truck could accommodate two hundred people—the exact number that had tried to escape. Yet, there were many more still left in the slums. And there was only one truck.
"This isn't a transfer," Kenny murmured, his eyes narrowing with realization. "We're being hunted."
"Hunted for what?" Michael asked, his voice tight with tension.
"Cannon fodder for the front lines of the war," Kenny replied grimly, his words laced with a bitter edge.
..
In the front compartment of the truck, separated from the container and just before the driver's cockpit, a makeshift command station had been set up.
It was currently crowded with Ops officers, with various pieces of equipment hanging from the walls.
Monitors flickered in the corner, displaying live footage from the container, where watchful eyes closely monitored the captives.
Commander Elysan's gaze lingered on three particular individuals, Curseweavers—prizes rare enough to secure her a coveted promotion if she managed to deliver them to the base.
Capturing even one would have been an achievement, but with three under her control, her reputation and status were about to skyrocket.
"Commander, the General is on the line," an officer announced, his eyes fixed on the monitors.
He handed her the communication device with a respectful salute.
"Report?" The voice on the other end asked calmly.
"The alert we received about a possible escape attempt was accurate, sir," Elysan said. "We've captured those who tried to flee, and a few Ops soldiers have been stationed to guard the entrance."
The voice grunted in displeasure. "Forget the Ops soldiers. Set up a TE Boom and end everyone in the slums—they're no longer needed. Bring the Curseweavers to me immediately."
"Yes, General!" Elysan responded sharply.
Meanwhile, inside the container, a decisive plan was being formed among the three Curseweavers.
Their heads were bent together, intent on escape. As the only ones with any real power, they knew they had a chance to break free—and they were determined to take it.
Damon listened quietly, absorbing every detail as Kenny and Michael discussed their next move.
They were fortunate that the cameras weren't equipped with microphones, or else the Ops soldiers would have stormed in already.
Not only that, the officers had severely underestimated their potential, convinced that the Curseweavers couldn't escape from such heavily fortified confinement.
'Fools!!, We're no to be underestimated,' Damon thought as the dimly lit room was suddenly illuminated by a glowing object that pulsed in Michael's hands.
"Go!" Kenny shouted.
In a blur, Michael dashed forward, lightning-fast, knocking people aside and even shattering a few people's bones in his wake.
He held a black, inky orb pulsating with raw, unstable power—a bomb.
Without a second thought, Michael hurled the unstable orb toward the door and ignited it.
He moved too fast for Commander Elysan and the Ops soldiers to react in time.
**BOOM!!!**
The door, said to be nearly impenetrable, burst open under the sheer force of the Curseweaver's power.
However, the rebounding shockwave hit Michael hard, throwing him violently backward from the explosion's impact.
****