Shit!
The moment the thought crossed Commander Ross's mind, a deep sense of dread followed. He immediately attempted to pull back, his instincts kicking in as he tried to evade the deadly claws aimed straight at him. But even though his reaction was fast and his movements swift, he was already too late. The best window for avoiding the strike had passed, and now it was only a matter of minimizing the damage.
As Ross drew back, his body moved with an almost unnatural speed, honed from years of training and the enhancements he had gained from his connection to the Tis Shield. But even as he evaded the worst of it, Wolverine's claws still found their mark. The dark, almost liquid defense of the Tis Shield began to ooze from his body, automatically responding to the threat. Yet this hastily summoned defense was incomplete, a poor imitation of the fully-formed shield Ross normally relied on.
The adamantium claws slashed through the black substance with terrifying ease, as if the so-called invincible shield was nothing more than air. Ross felt a sudden, burning pain as the claws carved through his flesh, blood spraying into the air in fine droplets. His eyes widened in shock, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.
The Tis Shield, the ancient and invulnerable defense passed down from a being of immense power, was failing him. His greatest weapon was utterly useless in the face of these claws—claws that seemed capable of cutting through anything.
Impossible. How could this be? The shield had withstood explosions, fire, even the most powerful energy blasts without faltering. Yet here, now, against this man with claws of steel—no, something more than steel—it was crumbling.
Ross's mind raced, his thoughts a whirl of confusion and disbelief. If these claws could slice through his shield so easily, did that mean they could even harm the body of a great ancient existence, one whose very essence was beyond this world? The idea struck him as absurd—so outrageous, in fact, that for a moment he forgot the pain of his injuries. The shock of it was overwhelming, washing away everything else.
He stared at Wolverine, the man standing before him like a predator ready to strike again, and for the first time in his life, Ross felt as though he were facing a force beyond his comprehension. It was like staring at death itself, embodied in this primal, relentless figure.
And as his thoughts tumbled in a frantic loop, one unsettling certainty took root: This man was not normal.
Ross had landed a deep, precise strike against Wolverine moments before, his own sword—a manifestation of the Tis Shield—cutting through the man's neck with deadly accuracy. He was certain the blade had penetrated deep, slicing into muscle and bone. It should have incapacitated him, if not outright killed him. But as Ross pulled his sword free, something even more shocking occurred.
The wound... was gone.
Ross blinked, trying to make sense of it. He had expected blood to pour out in torrents, for Wolverine to collapse, his body unable to cope with the damage. But instead, the wound had already sealed itself. It was as though the sword had barely left a mark. The deep gash, which had surely cut to the bone, had vanished almost as soon as the blade was removed. Only for the briefest of moments had Ross glimpsed the faintest trace of a scar—and even that was gone before he could fully register it.
What kind of healing ability was this?
Ross's heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to grasp what he was seeing. Wolverine's healing wasn't just rapid—it was monstrous. The man had been practically decapitated, yet here he stood, completely unharmed. In mere seconds, his body had repaired itself, regenerating with a speed that defied reason.
For a moment, Ross's mind flashed through all the enemies he had fought, all the strange beings and creatures he had faced. He had encountered many with enhanced regeneration, but none like this. Not even the most advanced biological experiments or infected could match this level of recovery. Wolverine was something else—a being who could laugh in the face of death.
And then there was his sheer physicality.
Wolverine didn't just possess an extraordinary healing factor. His strength was beyond that of any human, any normal man. Ross realized this with unsettling clarity. A body forged with an indestructible metal—adamantium—wasn't something an ordinary person could bear. Yet Wolverine carried this weight effortlessly, moving with a grace and agility that seemed impossible for someone with such a heavy, reinforced skeleton.
Even more unsettling was Wolverine's animal-like instinct—his "beast sense." It was as if the man could anticipate Ross's every move, dodging and countering attacks before they even landed. Wolverine's heightened reflexes and senses gave him an edge that few could match. He moved like a predator, his body constantly reacting to the environment and to Ross's attacks.
Ross gritted his teeth, frustration and fear gnawing at him. His Tis Shield was proving useless against the adamantium claws. Every time he tried to strike back, Wolverine either evaded the blow or absorbed it, knowing that his wounds would heal almost instantly. And the longer the fight dragged on, the more Ross realized that he was being outmatched. Wolverine's relentless attacks, his refusal to fall, his monstrous healing—it was all too much.
And then there was the issue of Wolverine's combat strategy.
Wolverine fought like a berserker, using his own body as a weapon, not caring about the damage he sustained as long as he inflicted more on his opponent. It was reckless, brutal, and utterly effective. Ross had never faced someone who fought with such disregard for their own safety. It was unnerving, watching Wolverine charge at him again and again, ignoring the cuts and bruises he sustained, knowing that in a few moments, his body would be whole again.
For Ross, it was like fighting a demon—an unkillable, unstoppable force.
Another slash of Wolverine's claws tore through Ross's side, sending blood splattering across the ground. Ross's breath came in ragged gasps, his once-perfect composure cracking under the relentless assault. His face, usually calm and calculating, now showed signs of strain.
He had been too arrogant.
The power he had gained from the ancient being, the invulnerability of the Tis Shield, had filled him with confidence—too much confidence. He had believed that no one could challenge him. But now, standing face-to-face with Wolverine, he realized how wrong he had been.
The organization behind these heroes, these so-called superheroes, was far more dangerous than he had anticipated. Their abilities were strange, unpredictable, and powerful in ways he couldn't have imagined. And if Wolverine was any indication, there were more like him—more beings with abilities that defied logic and reason.
Ross narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. He had no choice. The plan had to move forward, faster than he had intended. They hadn't yet reached the critical point in his timeline, but if he didn't act now, this man—this beast—would tear him apart.
It was time to initiate the final stage.
Wolverine lunged at him again, claws outstretched, aiming for his throat. But this time, something was different. Just as Wolverine leapt, his body suddenly jerked to a halt, his legs frozen in place. His eyes widened in surprise, looking down to see a black, clawed hand emerging from the ground, gripping his ankle with an ironclad hold.
Ross smirked. It was time to turn the tide.
Before Wolverine could react, another projection of the Tis Shield materialized—a spear this time. It shot forward with deadly precision, piercing straight through Wolverine's chest and lifting him off the ground. The force of the blow sent Wolverine flying, slamming him into the wall behind him. The spear pinned him there, blood pooling beneath his feet.
For a moment, Ross allowed himself to breathe, his heart pounding in his chest. Any normal person would be dead after such an attack. The spear had torn through Wolverine's heart, the damage catastrophic. But then Ross's expression tightened.
Wolverine didn't die.
He let out a low, guttural grunt, then swung his claws. With a brutal slash, Wolverine severed the spear that had impaled him. He fell to the ground with a thud, his body slumping for only a moment before he rose to his feet once more. The hole in his chest—where the spear had pierced him—began to heal immediately. The flesh mended itself with terrifying speed, the wound closing as if it had never been there at all.
In the blink of an eye, Wolverine was back on his feet, as though nothing had happened. The spear, the impalement—it had been nothing more than an inconvenience to him.
Through Wolverine's perspective, Charlie could see the enemy that had halted Wolverine's movement. A black, withered hand protruded from the ground—gnarled and clawed, its very appearance reeking of malevolence. The earth cracked and loosened around it, as if something was clawing its way up from beneath the surface.
The ground trembled, and with a sickening crack, more blackened hands began to emerge. Dark figures crawled from the depths, their forms shadowy and twisted—Ghouls.
They were the same grotesque, rotting creatures Charlie had encountered before in the underground ruins—ancient, mindless entities animated by some dark force. The ghouls clawed their way out of the ground, their bony fingers scraping the pavement as they rose, their eyeless faces turned toward Wolverine with malevolent intent.
The entire square was soon overrun with them. Dozens of ghouls, each more decrepit and horrifying than the last, began crawling toward Wolverine, their broken bodies shuffling with unnatural jerks. Their mouths gaped open, emitting hollow, raspy moans that echoed through the square like the whispers of the dead.
Charlie understood instantly.
Ross had entered the second phase of his attack—classic boss tactics. Summoning minions to overwhelm the opponent, using their sheer numbers to control the battlefield and distract from the main fight. It was a strategy Charlie had seen countless times before in games, but this was no simulation. These ghouls were real, and their danger was just as tangible.
The ghouls were slow and clumsy, but their numbers made up for their lack of agility. They began to surround Wolverine, their hands reaching out to grab at him, to slow him down, to drag him under.
But Wolverine was not one to be taken down so easily.
With a feral growl, Wolverine swung his claws in wide arcs, slicing through the ghouls with brutal efficiency. Their rotting bodies were no match for his adamantium claws. Limbs were severed, torsos were cleaved in two, and heads were sent flying as Wolverine carved his way through the horde. Each strike was precise, each movement fluid. This was where Wolverine thrived—on the battlefield, surrounded by enemies. He wasn't just a berserker, he was a master of destruction, and the ghouls stood no chance against his fury.
Yet for every ghoul Wolverine cut down, more seemed to rise in their place. The ground continued to crack and tremble, and soon the entire square was teeming with them—hundreds of ghouls now, all moving toward Wolverine like an army of the dead.
Charlie could see the danger building. The sheer number of ghouls would slow Wolverine down, giving Commander Ross the opportunity he needed to strike. The ghouls were a distraction, a way to keep Wolverine off balance and vulnerable. Ross was no fool—he was waiting for the perfect moment to make his move, and the ghouls were his key to that.
But Charlie wasn't about to let that happen.
From the corner of his vision, Charlie noticed movement—a streak of fire cutting across the night sky. He turned just in time to see a rocket launch from a nearby rooftop, its fiery tail blazing as it sped toward the ground. The rocket slammed into the center of the ghoul horde, detonating with a thunderous explosion that shook the very earth.
The blast sent ghouls flying in every direction, their broken bodies tumbling through the air like ragdolls. The shockwave rippled through the square, knocking several of the creatures off their feet and clearing a path through the swarm.
Then came the gunfire.
A hailstorm of bullets rained down from above, tearing through the ghouls with ruthless precision. The sharp crack of automatic rifles filled the air, each burst of gunfire accompanied by the sickening thud of bullets ripping through flesh.
Charlie turned, his eyes narrowing as he spotted two familiar figures descending into the square—Ivan Petrov and Sonar. Both were armed to the teeth, their weapons blazing as they cut a path through the ghouls. Behind them, a heavily armed team from the Ninth Special Service Division followed, their formation tight and disciplined as they unleashed a coordinated assault on the undead horde.
"You always want to steal all the glory for yourself," Ivan called out with a smirk, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he unleashed another barrage of bullets into the crowd of ghouls. "But not this time."