Northbook Court Mall,
Northbook, Illinois,
Terra, Gaea Solar system,
Neutral Free zone,
March 27th 2019
Sam didn't feel right leaving Rosa alone, but she knew she had no choice. Rosa had given her an opening—an opportunity to reach Stella. With eyes burning with adamantium resolve, Sam's footsteps reverberated through the empty court as she approached the spot where Stella was held captive. From the shadows, a snarling horde of humanoid, beast-like Abominations emerged, their weapons gleaming with malice and their armor reflecting the dim light. The tension in the air crackled, heavy with the promise of violence. Callum's focus sharpened as he drew his blade—Emily's work, a Mythical-grade longsword forged with care and precision. As he gripped the hilt, the air around him seemed to hum with anticipation, and the blade shimmered with an ethereal glow. He swung it with devastating grace, the sword's arc slicing through the Abominations with deadly precision. Each slash was a dance, a flow of power that left behind a trail of silver light, cutting through bone and armor as if they were paper. His combat style was fluid, fluid enough to weave between attacks with agile footwork, making him both a wall of defense and a force of carnage. Every movement was designed to maximize efficiency—quick, calculated, and deadly.
Beside him, Trini stood firm, her eyes blazing with a focus that mirrored his. She twirled her Magic Staff, a conduit for her magical potential, and channeled the power of her Magic Crest. Her staff crackled with energy, amplifying the flow of magic coursing through her veins. With a flick of her wrist, she unleashed torrents of lightning that arced across the battlefield. The raw power of the bolts danced like serpents in the air, striking multiple targets at once and blasting through the Abominations with destructive force. Her spells were a symphony of controlled chaos, each one tailored to strike at the Abominations' weaknesses. She wasn't just a spellcaster—she was a maestro, conducting an orchestra of elemental fury.
Callum and Trini were an unyielding duo as the Abominations closed in, moving with a shared understanding of timing and technique. While Callum's sword cleaved through the ranks with brutal efficiency, Trini's magic struck from a distance, creating openings for him to exploit. Their synergy was flawless, a testament to their years of combat together. Callum would create the space, clearing the path with calculated strikes, while Trini would incapacitate or disorient enemies with her spells, softening them for the final blow. Their combined assault was unstoppable, a perfect balance of physical prowess and elemental power. Each move was deliberate, and every strike was measured for maximum impact. And as the Abominations fell before them, it became clear—nothing would stand in their way.
Sam froze for a moment, stunned by the scene unfolding before her. This was her first time seeing what each of them was capable of. The aftermath of their handiwork left her speechless—fallen Abominations littered the court, their broken weapons and armor scattered like discarded scraps. It was the first time she truly understood what they were capable of. These Mid-rank Abominations weren't particularly strong; their strength lay in their overwhelming numbers. Yet, even that advantage was meaningless in the face of Callum's precise strikes and Trini's relentless magic. Together, they were a force of nature, an unshakable storm that obliterated everything in their path. Watching them, Sam felt a wave of confidence wash over her. She knew the remaining enemies didn't stand a chance against them.
"I'll leave them to you," Sam said, her voice steady despite the chaos. "Henry and I will go ahead."
Callum gave her a sharp nod, his focus unwavering. In one swift motion, he sidestepped a charging pig-like Abomination, his sword slicing cleanly through its neck. The creature's grotesque head hit the ground with a dull thud, its lifeless body crumpling a moment later. He didn't even look back as he prepared for the next enemy. Sam turned to Henry, who had been silently waiting for her cue, and the two of them darted forward. Their path led them through the eerie, dimly lit halls of the facility, past the twisted remnants of what had once been a place of order and control. The former security office was no longer recognizable, having been consumed by the Infernal encroachment. Its sterile walls and metal doors were now grotesque, pulsating with a dark, otherworldly energy. Organic tendrils of black and crimson crawled along the surfaces, as though the building itself were alive and hostile.
Sam's stomach churned at the sight, but she pushed the unease aside. She couldn't afford to falter now. Somewhere in this grotesque maze, Stella was waiting for them—waiting to be rescued.
"Stay sharp," she whispered to Henry, her voice barely audible over the faint, ominous hum that filled the air. The oppressive atmosphere pressed down on them like a weight, but Sam's resolve burned even brighter. She wouldn't stop until Stella was free. Sam and Henry rounded a corner, their breaths shallow as the oppressive atmosphere grew heavier with every step. Turning to their right, they found themselves face-to-face with a prison cell. Thick iron bars loomed before them, twisted and jagged in places, as though warped by some unholy force. The air was damp and suffused with the metallic tang of blood, the stench clinging to their senses. The ground beneath their feet was smeared with dark, dried crimson, telling tales of violence and suffering that had occurred within these walls.
Sam's gaze darted to the far corner of the cell, where a frail figure huddled in the shadows. Draped in what looked like tattered rags, Stella McCoy barely resembled the vibrant, fearless woman Sam remembered. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her thin arms wrapped around them as though shielding herself from the cold—or the horrors she had endured. Strands of disheveled hair obscured her face, but there was no mistaking the faint rise and fall of her frame. She was alive, but only barely.
"Stella…" Sam whispered, her voice trembling as the weight of the scene hit her like a punch to the gut. This wasn't just a prison—it was a monument to cruelty. Her hands gripped the bars instinctively, her knuckles whitening as she felt the icy chill of the iron against her skin.
Henry stepped forward, scanning the cell and its surroundings. His jaw clenched, the faint flicker of disgust crossing his face as he took in the dried blood and filth that coated the floor. "We need to get her out—now," he said, his voice low but firm. Sam nodded, forcing her emotions to the back of her mind. This wasn't the time to hesitate.
"Stella," she called gently, hoping to reach her. The figure in the corner didn't move at first, as if the words were too distant to register. Slowly, Stella's head turned toward them, her movements sluggish and weak. Her eyes, hollow and rimmed with exhaustion, met Sam's. Tears hung in her eyes as she looked at Sam.
"Selena...is that you...I'm so sorry...I should have listened to Sophia...I...I should have done better towards Sam..."
"Aunt Stella, it's me—Sam," Sam said, her voice trembling but resolute. She gripped the cold iron bars tightly, as though willing her words to reach the broken woman inside. Her gaze lingered on Stella, her heart twisting at the sight of what had become of her aunt.
Stella stirred slightly, her frail body shifting in the dim light. Her lips parted as though to speak, but the words didn't come at first. Instead, a single name escaped her cracked lips, barely more than a whisper. "Selena…"
Sam's breath caught. Selena? The name meant nothing to her, nor did she care to unravel the mystery behind it. Right now, there was only room for one thought in her mind: the fury burning within her at the sight of Stella like this—broken, hollow, reduced to a shadow of the woman she had been.
"Aunt Stella," Sam said again, louder this time, her voice firm yet tinged with raw emotion. "It's me—Sam." She knelt closer to the bars, her eyes searching Stella's for any trace of recognition, any sign that her words were breaking through the haze of pain and despair.
For a fleeting moment, there it was. Recognition. Faint, like a flicker of light in a suffocating darkness, but undeniable. Stella's weary, hollow eyes softened ever so slightly, and her lips trembled as though trying to form words.
"Sam…" she rasped the sound barely audible but carrying a weight that struck Sam to her core. Sam's grip on the bars tightened as a wave of emotion surged through her. Anger. Anger at whoever or whatever had reduced her once-proud aunt to this. Anger at herself for not getting here sooner. And beneath it all, a desperate hope that there was still enough of Stella left to save.
"You're safe now," Sam said, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions within her. "We're going to get you out of here. Just hold on."
"Sam…?" Stella's voice was hoarse, barely more than a croak, but it carried a mixture of disbelief and hope that cut through the suffocating tension like a blade.
"Yes, it's me," Sam said, her resolve hardening. "I'm going to get you out of here. I promise."
Henry began inspecting the bars for weaknesses, his fingers tracing over them as he muttered under his breath, "If this place is anything like the rest of this nightmare, there's bound to be a mechanism nearby—or a trick."
Sam stood up slowly, her movements deliberate as she wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes burned with renewed determination. She stepped closer to the cell, her gaze locked on the iron bars that stood between her and her aunt. Reaching out, Sam wrapped her fingers around one of the cold, unyielding bars. The chill bit into her skin, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she closed her eyes and focused, drawing deep within herself to tap into the reservoir of strength that had always been there, waiting. Her Odic force surged to life, a steady pulse of energy that flowed through her body like a second heartbeat.
Her mind sharpened, each thought bolstered by the clarity the Odic force brought. With a deep breath, she summoned her mana, feeling its warm, vibrant energy intertwine with her vitality. The two forces mixed and coalesced, harmonizing within her as she activated her ability factor. The air around her seemed to hum faintly as her resonance began to take shape. Sam pressed her palm against the iron bar, her Unique technique coming to life. She focused on the subtle vibrations emanating from the bar—the natural, imperceptible frequency that held its structure together. Her ability attuned her to these vibrations, allowing her to feel their rhythm as if it were a melody only she could hear.
Her eyes snapped open, glowing faintly with power as she unleashed her resonance. A counter vibration rippled outward from her palm, perfectly matched to disrupt the bar's frequency. The effect was immediate and visceral. The bar quivered violently under her touch, a faint ringing sound filling the air as its structure destabilized. In a heartbeat, the iron disintegrated, crumbling into a fine powder that scattered across the bloodstained floor. The air grew still again, the only sound the faint hum of residual energy dissipating around her.
Sam stepped back, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths as she took in what she had done. A small gap now existed where the bar had been, wide enough to slip through. She glanced back at Henry, who had been watching silently, his expression a mix of awe and urgency.
"Let's move," she said firmly, her voice resolute despite the lingering ache in her body from the exertion. She turned her attention to Stella, who watched from the corner of the cell with wide, hollow eyes. "C'mon Aunt Stella. It's time to leave."
Stella's eyes locked onto Sam's, and in that moment, it felt as if an entire storm of emotions surged between them. Sam, an Empath, usually prided herself on her ability to read others with clarity. But this time, the torrent of feelings emanating from her aunt was so overwhelming, so tangled, that it left her reeling. She sensed love, a deep, unyielding love that wrapped itself around her like a faint echo of the woman Stella had once been. But alongside it came confusion, regret, sadness, and a weight of guilt so heavy it nearly suffocated Sam. She had to force herself to shut it out, to build a mental wall against the tide. And yet, one emotion pierced through her defenses like a blade: fear. It wasn't fear for herself. No, it radiated outward, sharp and targeted—aimed squarely at Sam. Sam froze, her breath catching in her throat as the realization struck her. Stella was afraid for her.
"Aunt Stella?" Sam whispered, her voice soft but trembling.
Stella's lips quivered, and for a moment, it seemed as though she wouldn't speak. Then, in a voice so faint it was almost swallowed by the oppressive silence, she said, "Sam, you shouldn't be here."
Sam felt her stomach tighten, but before she could respond, Stella continued, her voice cracking under the weight of the words. "He… He wants you here. That beast of a king… that Accursed being…" Sam's heart dropped, the name alone sending a chill down her spine.
"Aunt Stella," Sam said firmly, cutting through the growing tension. She moved quickly, kneeling beside her aunt and placing her hands gently but firmly on Stella's trembling shoulders. Her touch was meant to anchor them both, to pull Stella back from the brink of whatever terror held her captive. As Sam gripped her, she couldn't help but notice how frail her aunt had become. Stella, once vibrant and full of life, was now a shadow of herself. Her strawberry-blonde hair, once neatly kept, was tangled and matted with dirt and grime. Her skin was pale and stretched tight over her frame, her clothes hanging loosely on her gaunt form. She had lost so much weight that Sam's hands could almost feel the sharp edges of bone beneath the rags. Sam's chest tightened, anger flaring within her again—not at Stella, but at whatever had done this to her. Whatever had reduced her to this state.
"Aunt Stella," Sam said again, her voice softer now, though no less determined. "You don't need to worry about me. I came here to get you out, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."
Stella's eyes glistened with unshed tears, her lips trembling as she tried to form words. But the fear lingered, tangible in the air between them.
"He'll find you," Stella whispered, her voice breaking. "No matter where you go, he'll find you…" Sam squeezed her aunt's shoulders gently, trying to will some of her strength into her. And for a moment, it seemed like it was working. Color seemed to be returning to Stella's face, and the bruises and abrasions seemed to be healing. Sam had no idea how she had done that but she didn't care, hoping to make Stella feel better.
"Let him try," she said, her tone unwavering. "We're not staying long enough for him to find us. I'm taking you home, Aunt Stella. No one—no Beast King, no Infernal being—will stop me. Do you hear me?" For a moment, Stella's expression softened, a glimmer of hope breaking through the fear. Sam felt it too, and she held onto it tightly.
"Now," Sam said, her voice taking on a warmth, "let's get you out of here."
"Okay," Aunt Stella whispered, her voice fragile but carrying a spark of determination that hadn't been there moments ago. Sam could feel the subtle shift in her aunt, a faint flicker of the woman she used to know. Once deprived of her mana and severed from her connection to the Odyllic within this cursed dimension, Stella had been reduced to this frail state. But now, Sam's vitality and mana, transferred unknowingly through their bond, had begun to rekindle Stella's strength. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Stella to push herself to her feet, unsteady but standing nonetheless.
With trembling hands, Stella reached out and grabbed hold of her niece's hand. Her grip was weak, but the gesture was deliberate and purposeful. Sam's brow furrowed in concern as Stella pressed something into her palm. Sam glanced down and saw it: a crumpled piece of paper, worn and smudged with dirt and sweat. Before Sam could ask what it was, Stella's fingers closed over hers, forcing her to hold onto it.
"If I don't make it," Stella said, her voice barely above a whisper but firm with conviction, "you need to have it." Sam's heart clenched at the words, and she opened her mouth to argue, to tell her aunt that she would make it out, that there was no "if." But something in Stella's eyes stopped her. The mix of fear, love, and urgency radiating from her aunt left no room for protest. Swallowing her objections, Sam gave a small, reluctant nod.
"Alright," she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning inside her.
She slipped the crumpled paper into her dimensional band, the enchanted storage device that shimmered faintly on her wrist. It disappeared into its pocket dimension, safe from prying eyes and the dangers of their surroundings. Turning her attention back to Stella, Sam tightened her grip on her aunt's hand.
"Let's get out of here," she said firmly, her resolve shining through.
Stella gave a faint nod, and together they moved, Sam pulling her away from the cell and into the dimly lit hallway. Every step was deliberate, the oppressive air of the Infernal dimension weighing on them both. But Sam's determination burned brighter with each passing moment. Whatever was on that piece of paper, whatever secrets it held, could wait. Right now, all that mattered was getting her aunt to safety. Stella froze in her tracks the moment her eyes landed on Henry, who stood waiting for them in the hallway. The dim, flickering light cast shadows across his face, but his calm demeanor was unmistakable.
"Goldsman, you're here," Stella said, her voice a mix of surprise and uncertainty. Henry gave her a respectful nod, his tone warm but steady.
"It's good to see you, Miss McCoy," he replied, his words carrying a weight of sincerity that seemed to settle the tension in the air. But Stella's sharp senses honed even in her weakened state picked up something new about him—something that hadn't been there before. She paused, narrowing her eyes slightly as she studied him. It was subtle but undeniable. Henry had changed. Stella's connection to the Odyllic, though still fragile within this damned dimension, was enough to sense the shift in him. Somehow, during her captivity, Henry had reached a state of enlightenment about the existence of the Odyllic. She could feel it radiating from him, faint but steady—a mark of a Regular Mystic. Her gaze flicked briefly to Sam, standing protectively beside her, the unmistakable aura of an Ascendant emanating from her. Compared to Sam's overwhelming presence, Henry's was much quieter, like a seed just beginning to sprout. But to Stella's sharp senses, the signs were clear. The sign of Awakening.
He's more likely to be a Mage than a Mystic artist, Stella thought to herself, her analytical mind instinctively categorizing his potential. She could sense the budding alignment of what his cultivation would be.
"You've come a long way, Goldsman," Stella said softly, her tone carrying a mixture of acknowledgment and curiosity. Henry offered a faint smile, the kind that hinted at unspoken thoughts.
"I've had a good teacher," he said, thinking of Emily while Sam was already scanning their surroundings for potential threats.
"We need to keep moving," Sam said firmly. They all moved quickly, Stella doing her best to keep pace despite her weakened state. Her breathing was labored, and her steps were unsteady, a stark reminder of the toll her captivity had taken on her. Even as an Awakened, her stamina was far from what it should have been, but she pushed herself forward, spurred on by Sam's unwavering determination and Henry's silent support. The air in the corridor felt heavy, and oppressive, as if the Beast King's presence loomed over every shadowed corner. Sam's senses were on high alert, every instinct screaming at her to watch for danger.
Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched buzzing sound ripped through the air, cutting through the tense silence like a blade. Sam's reflexes kicked in instantly. She raised her arm, and her vambrace shield extended with a shimmering, metallic glow. The impact of the projectile was forceful, the sound of metal striking metal echoing through the corridor. The blade, a jagged throwing knife, clattered to the ground at Stella's feet. Sam stepped protectively in front of her aunt, her gaze snapping upward to the source of the attack. Perched on the upper floor, balanced impossibly on the narrow railing, was a hulking figure. The Beastman's presence was imposing, a blend of predatory grace and raw power. Clad in cold, silver armor that gleamed faintly in the dim light, he was a living monument to menace. Sam's eyes narrowed as she took in his features. He was massive, a towering mass of fur and muscle, yet his balance on the thin railing was so precise it seemed almost unnatural.
Rhyka, the Beastman of the Wolf Tribe.
The name surfaced in Sam's mind like a distant echo, dredged up from the many briefings and warnings Freya had given them about the Beast King's Generals. This wasn't just any foe—they were facing a Fallen Beast of the Greater Realm.
Rhyka straightened his posture, his movements fluid despite his size. He seemed almost casual as he stood on the railing, as though the precarious position was no more challenging than standing on solid ground.
Sam's breath caught when her eyes met his.
Unlike the primal, guttural savagery that had marked the Fallen Beasts around the presence of the Beast King, Rhyka's features were strikingly human, almost disturbingly so. His face was sharp and angular, the features of a young man. His hair was a striking silver-black, wild yet elegant, and his piercing yellow-green eyes gleamed like those of a wolf—a predator sizing up its prey. Despite his human-like appearance, Sam could feel the animalistic energy radiating off him, a primal aura that made her every nerve scream danger. Rhyka's lips curved into a faint smirk, revealing a hint of sharp canines. His voice, when he finally spoke, was smooth, almost mocking, yet laced with an undercurrent of menace.
"Well, well," he drawled, his tone dripping with a dark amusement. "The prodigal niece comes to rescue her fallen aunt. How noble." Sam stepped forward, her shield still raised, her body tense and ready for a fight.
"If you want her," she said coldly, her voice steady, "you'll have to go through me."
Rhyka tilted his head, as though considering her words. Then, with a low chuckle, he crouched slightly, his massive claws scraping against the railing as he prepared to leap.
"I was hoping you'd say that Asha'yee," he said, his voice a low growl.
The tension in the corridor thickened as Sam tightened her grip on her vambrace, ready to face the monstrous foe before her. Behind her, Henry and Stella stood their ground, both prepared to fight but knowing that Sam would take the lead. Rhyka leaped, his massive form a blur of silver and black, descending upon them with the speed and ferocity of a wolf closing in on its prey. Twin sets of daggers appeared in Rhyka's clawed hands, their blackened steel edges glinting ominously in the dim light. With a feral growl, he descended upon Sam, his blades slashing downward with such ferocity that the impact echoed through the corridor like a thunderclap.
Sam raised her vambrace shield just in time, bracing herself as the daggers clashed against her defense. The force of the blow sent a jarring shock up her arm, but she held firm, her feet planted solidly on the ground. Rhyka didn't relent. He launched a relentless flurry of strikes, his movements a blur of speed and precision. Each dagger slash came with such fluidity and aggression that it was like fighting a storm of blades. His feral grace was mesmerizing and deadly, his attacks designed to overwhelm and break through any defense.
But Sam didn't falter. Her mastery of the Adamantium Fist style, a combat art built upon unyielding strength and impenetrable defense, was the perfect counter to Rhyka's speed and agility. Where his strikes came swift and sharp, her responses were solid and immovable.
With each clash of steel against her vambrace or the gauntlets she wore, Sam absorbed the force, redirecting it back into the ground through her powerful stance. The style's principles—rooted in strength, endurance, and unshakable resolve—had turned her body into a fortress.
"Is that all you've got?" Sam taunted, her voice steady despite the barrage of attacks.
Rhyka's yellow-green eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "Impressive," he growled, his tone laced with grudging respect. "But let's see how long you can hold out."
He shifted his approach, his movements becoming even more erratic and unpredictable. One moment, he slashed downward with both daggers; the next, he spun to the side, aiming for an opening in her defense. But Sam's training had prepared her for precisely this kind of fight. When he came low, aiming for her legs, she shifted her stance and brought her vambrace down, blocking the strike with a loud clang. When he leaped into the air, spinning with his daggers aimed at her neck, she raised her gauntlet-covered arm to intercept, the sparks flying as their weapons met.
Each time Rhyka tried to exploit an opening, Sam closed it off with unwavering precision. Her Adamantium Fist style wasn't about speed or flashy movements—it was about resilience, about standing firm against even the most ferocious of assaults. But Sam wasn't just defending. As Rhyka's strikes grew more aggressive, Sam began to counter. With every blocked attack, she shifted her weight and threw powerful, controlled punches at his midsection, her gauntlets gleaming as they connected with his silver armor. The force of her blows sent shockwaves rippling through the air, forcing Rhyka to backpedal slightly to maintain his balance.
"You're not as untouchable as you think," Sam said, her lips curling into a determined smirk.
Rhyka's eyes flashed with irritation, but there was something else there too—excitement. He was a predator, and Sam's defiance only seemed to fuel his desire to take her down.
"Good," he growled, his voice thick with anticipation. "A real challenge."
He lunged again, faster this time, his daggers striking like twin vipers. But Sam met him head-on, her shield raised, her punches following each parry. The clash of their combat echoed through the corridor, the sheer intensity of their fight casting an almost tangible energy into the air. Behind her, Henry and Stella watched in awe, their breaths caught in their throats. Sam wasn't just holding her own against a Greater Realm Fallen Beast—she was matching him blow for blow.