The battlefield was deathly quiet, save for the subtle hiss of breath being stolen.
Sakamoto's body convulsed, limbs jittering like frayed wires. Beside him, Anuman twitched on the ground, his fur stiffened and bristling with static. Above them loomed the monstrous head of Saharan, the sky dimmed behind its glowing purple eyes. The serpent inhaled—not through lungs, but through something older, deeper.
Their souls—transparent and shimmering—floated half-separated from their bodies.
Sakamoto's soul had already reached his shoulders, its edges flickering like a flame caught in wind. It curled and shimmered in hues of pale white and blue, radiant but stretched dangerously thin.
He blinked, pupils contracting as he caught sight of his own soul. "Oh my god my soul is leaving me. And damn, look at it. What a beautiful soul I have."
He coughed once. "And this ugly-ass beast is trying to yank it out like it owns the place. Couldn't even ask nicely?"
Anuman's ghostly monkey form hovered beside his own. "My king," he growled weakly, "do you really want to joke right now?"
"No," Sakamoto wheezed. "I just—I'm panicking."
He stretched both arms upward, hands trembling, and grabbed the ethereal waist of his own soul.
"I'm dragging this thing back in!"
He pulled downward with all his might.
Nothing.
The soul resisted, still pulling skyward toward Saharan's gaping inhale like a moth to a vacuum.
On the ground, Princess Egle stirred.
Her fingers twitched. Her eyes narrowed.
The technique Shen Blocking was wearing off.
She smiled faintly, one side of her mouth curling with amusement. Using her barely recovered left hand, she pressed against the ground, lifting her torso upright. Her hair spilled around her like a golden veil.
Sakamoto's eyes flicked sideways.
"Anuman," he hissed. "Playtime's over."
Anuman groaned, lifting one arm. "I noticed."
Then—above Saharan's head, the air shimmered.
A silhouette emerged from the realm of shadows—silent, unseen by all but Sakamoto.
It lunged.
A black fist formed from pure shade struck downward with precise force, slamming into Saharan's head.
CRACK.
The serpent's head snapped back.
The soul-extraction process shattered like a dropped mirror.
Sakamoto's and Anuman's souls fell slammed back into their bodies like breath returning after a long drowning.
Sakamoto gasped, clutching his chest. "Oh thank god—thank me."
Princess Egle, now kneeling, narrowed her eyes at the dissipating shadow above.
"Tch. That hidden power…" she muttered. "It's trouble."
And then she stood.
————-
Princess Egle rose fully upright, her posture impossibly straight, regal even through the dirt and bruises. Saharan, shaken but coiling protectively nearby, slithered closer, its head lowered to her shoulder.
She raised her arm, hand still stiff with lingering paralysis. Her fingers twisted in a fluid, almost ritualistic pattern.
"I promised Lord Arcade I would turn the tide," she whispered.
Saharan responded.
The serpent's massive coils began to spiral and tighten, surrounding her, not like a shield—but like a partner.
Then her voice rang low and cold.
"Hair Manipulation… Medusa's Hair."
Saharan hissed once, and then its form shimmered, not disappearing—but entering her. Its body sank into her hair strand by strand, its scales dissolving into silk-like threads of radiant gold. Her hair extended, unraveling into a curtain of writhing serpents—each strand twisting, coiling, hissing.
Her head tilted back.
Her eyes changed—irises slitting vertically like a predator's, iridescent and layered with a kaleidoscopic shimmer.
The air around her vibrated.
"Stuttering Snake Movement."
She vanished.
No sound.
No step.
Just absence.
Anuman flinched. "My king—CAREFU—"
BOOM.
A fist embedded in his gut mid-sentence.
The ground cracked beneath him. Anuman's body lifted from the earth, hurled backward by sheer force. Dust exploded outward in a perfect ripple as he flew, crashing through a crooked slab of rock that shattered like glass.
Sakamoto turned just as something cold wrapped around his neck.
A single golden snake—long, thin, and fast as thought—slithered from her hair and bit deep into the side of his throat. Its fangs dug in, pumping a silver, glowing fluid into his bloodstream.
His limbs spasmed.
Muscles locked. Vision blurred.
The snake yanked hard.
Sakamoto's body flew backward, smashing through one, two, three jagged pillars of rock. His form skidded across the ground like a broken puppet.
He landed face-up, twitching, the poison already paralyzing his lungs.
Princess Egle stood still in the center of the field, golden snakes weaving through the air behind her like a living cape.
She was reborn.
And the hunt had just begun.
——
Not far from the chaos of Egle's battlefield, another storm was gathering.
Shiva stood tall, framed by the light of his glowing blue totem, calm and poised as Cain and Dakun faced him down. His cleaver blade rested across one shoulder, its rune-carved edge catching flickers of shattered sunlight. The tribal paint across his chest had begun to glow faintly, pulsing with spirit energy.
He tilted his head. "You call me king?" he said with a small smile. "But I have only one king."
He lifted the totem, voice firm and final.
"Lord Arcade."
The totem flared.
"Totem Deconstruct: Wolf Spirit."
The topmost carving of the totem—an angular wolf's head with jagged teeth—split apart with a crack, releasing a shockwave of blue-white wind. The pressure tore across the field, hurling debris and lifting dust into cyclones.
From within the spiraling aura, a beast stepped out.
A giant wolf, towering like a forgotten deity, its eyes glowing with ancient fury. Its fur was woven from wind and tribal energy, shifting and rippling with every breath.
At its feet—four smaller wolves, each the size of a warhorse, snarling and pacing like seasoned killers.
The lead wolf threw back its head and howled—a sound that cracked stones, splintered trees, and made the air itself seem to buckle.
Shiva pointed forward.
"Devour."
The wolves surged.
The giant wolf launched toward Cain and Dakun like a boulder fired from a divine catapult. Wind warped behind it, howling like jetstreams. The smaller wolves split, circling wide, disappearing into the rubble and fractured terrain.
Dakun reacted instantly.
He leaped forward, raising his shield. "Nijumon: Three-Headed Masquerade Gate!"
A burst of spiritual light shot upward as three enormous masquerade faces materialized from the earth, layered in a semi-circle—each one fanged and grinning grotesquely.
The massive wolf struck.
THOOM.
The masquerade gates held, their forms trembling but unmoved. The impact sent cracks spidering across the ground. Cain raised an eyebrow—surprised, but only slightly.
Then the trap was sprung.
From beneath their feet, the smaller wolves emerged—ambushers, not attackers.
Their jaws snapped upward, targeting ankles and shins, forcing both Cain and Dakun to leap skyward.
Dakun shouted, "Too close!"
Cain's gaze sharpened. "We're exposed."
Above them, the giant wolf spun in the air.
Mouth open.
Jaws descending.
——
The massive wolf's jaws opened wide, each fang a curved dagger of spectral bone. Cain and Dakun, mid-air, had no leverage—no footing, no shield, no chance.
Its roar boomed, hurricane-force breath slamming into their faces.
Then—
CRACK-BOOM.
The sky split.
A jagged tear of green lightning tore through the heavens, arcing downward like the blade of a vengeful god. The air bent with it, sucked into its passage like water into a whirlpool.
From a distance, a red gourd glowed, rotating in midair, suspended by invisible energy. It burst open.
From within it—a beast surged out.
A dragon, long and winding, its head serpentine and crowned with antlered horns. Scales shimmered a deep crimson, and trailing behind it were coils of volatile, sparking red lightning.
It slammed into the wolf's chest, fangs bared.
KA-CHOOOOM.
Electricity tore through the wolf's body, lighting up its massive form in a silhouette of pain and rage. The smaller wolves yelped and scattered. The shockwave disrupted the beast's balance—it stumbled midair, snarling, eyes twitching as it fell sideways.
Cain twisted mid-fall, grabbing Dakun by the wrist, shifting their momentum.
Together, they flipped, landing in a crouch on the fractured terrain.
"Who the hell—?" Dakun muttered.
A shape flickered ahead of them. Green lightning crackled once more—then reformed into a humanoid figure, his cloak flicking with the last remnants of static.
Ravenfeather.
He straightened slowly, dusting his palms as the lightning faded from his silhouette. His expression was calm, but his eyes were cold, scanning the now-reeling wolf before landing on the one who summoned it.
Shiva.
Ravenfeather stepped forward.
"You two good?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Cain and Dakun.
Cain nodded, his breathing hard but steady. "Yeah."
Dakun flexed his wrist. "Close."
Ravenfeather turned back toward Shiva, his voice low and tense.
"Now tell me something… how the hell is he still alive?"
——
The war room of SUHA headquarters trembled—not from impact, but from the silence that had grown too deep.
Screens displayed chaos from all angles—Serpents coiling into hair, wolf spirits rampaging through troops, third warlords cutting down commandos like blades through fog.
Minister Alfred stood in the center of it all, fists clenched at his sides.
"Enough," he said.
His voice didn't rise. It dropped—like an anchor.
He turned to the primary comms technician. "Get me Camp Pendleton. Now."
General Soren, standing by the tactical console, stiffened. "You're really going to pull an order from the Hexagon Authority?"
"Yes," Alfred said, no hesitation. "You suggested it to Tenzy. I'm done waiting."
He moved to the control mic.
"This is Minister Alfred of SUHA's Greenland Sector. Requesting global override. Dead Hand Call authorization. This is not a drill."
The technicians exchanged glances but said nothing.
Static answered.
Then more static.
Then silence.
General Soren sighed. "They don't usually reply. That's the game. The higher-ups don't speak unless they feel threatened directly."
Alfred didn't remove his hand from the mic. "They must answer. They are the governing body of the world. They don't get to hide behind red tape today. We're burning."
The silence returned.
And then—without warning—a voice crackled through the speaker.
Flat. Filtered. Inhuman.
"Dead Hand Call Granted."
Another beat.
"Air Strike On."
Alfred leaned forward. "Thank you. What's the designated—?"
The signal cut.
No confirmation. No channel.
Dead air.
The room chilled. One of the analysts whispered, "That didn't even sound like a person…"
General Soren narrowed his eyes. "It wasn't a voice. It was a system."
Alfred exhaled slowly, his voice like metal on stone.
"Then the system is awake."
——-
Thousands of miles away, beneath the surface of New York's military district, Camp Pendleton pulsed with a stillness that defied reason.
Deep below the reinforced bunkers, beyond locked vaults and sealed blast doors, a black corridor extended into pure void. No lights guided the way. No sound echoed.
But someone walked.
His footsteps were silent, yet the air trembled around him.
He wore no identifiable uniform—just a cloak, long and jagged at the hem, cut from something darker than night. His face was entirely hidden, hood low and heavy. Each step he took seemed to be followed by an invisible pulse, like reality correcting itself in his presence.
He reached the end of the hall.
Before him stood a sealed door—etched not with government insignias or military emblems, but something far older, far darker.
An inverted pentagram.
And within it—a goat's head. Carved deep. Horns flared outward. The eyes, hollow. The symbol pulsed faintly with red light, breathing like something asleep.
The figure didn't hesitate.
He raised one gloved hand and pressed his palm flat against the center of the sigil.
CLAK.
The door slid open.
Inside was not a vault.
It was an altar.
Atop a raised stone plinth, a single weapon sat, cradled in obsidian.
It was not shaped like a gun. Not like a sword. It was both—neither—wrong. Its structure looked woven from fossilized bone and old metal, its surface inscribed with equations and symbols that blurred when viewed too long. A core pulsed within it, slow and deep, like the beat of a slumbering heart.
The cloaked figure stepped forward.
He whispered only one thing: "It's time."
His hand reached down.
And the weapon stirred.
⸻
[End of Chapter: "Medusa's Hair and the Dead Hand Call"]