Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting shifting patterns of gold over the jungle path as Luis, Desmond, and Derek crept behind four cloaked figures. From the way they moved—deliberate, synchronized—it was clear one of them was in charge. The others followed like shadows. He was massive—at least eight feet tall, his broad shoulders and towering frame making him an imposing presence.
Luis Watson stood at 5'11", a silent force of power. His black hair was carefully styled, sleek and sharp, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses—an absolute necessity due to his ocular powers that caused his victims to crumble under their deepest fears. His silver eyes were dangerous, but the world would never see them unless he chose to reveal them. His presence was calm, almost bored, as if he'd seen it all before
Beside him, Desmond Williams moved with quiet leadership. Standing at 6 feet tall with long chestnut hair—some of it tied into a ponytail while the rest flowed loosely down his back—his olive green eyes watched their surroundings with a deep understanding. The straight scar running from his forehead to his cheekbone added to his commanding presence. His build was lean but strong, and the calmness in his demeanor suggested a man who had faced many challenges and led through them. He was always the steady hand, guiding the group with a quiet, heartwarming confidence.
At the rear, Derek McCoy, stood 5'9" with tanned skin and wavy black hair. His posture was always ready, always alert. Derek's light green eyes were full of restless energy, his body lean and athletic, honed for fast reactions. His movements were sharp and fluid, a stark contrast to Desmond's calm demeanor. A mischief always seemed to dance in his gaze, a hint that he enjoyed the fight far too much.
One of the cloaked figures stepped into view, clutching a weathered scroll—its parchment yellowed and curled at the edges, as if it had passed through many hands and many years. The figure's movements were steady and deliberate, every footstep confident, as if drawn by instinct rather than decision. They weren't searching. They were returning. They were going home.
The trio remained hidden within the thick underbrush, the jungle's shadows swallowing them whole. Derek and Desmond pressed their backs against the moss-coated trunk of a gnarled tree to the right, barely daring to breathe. Luis crouched to the left, eyes narrowed behind his tinted glasses, silently surveying the terrain.
Without a word, Desmond tapped twice on Derek's shoulder, then raised two fingers and pointed forward—Target visible, stay low. Derek nodded subtly in response. Luis caught the motion from across the path and responded with an open palm held steady—Hold position. He then drew a slow horizontal slash through the air—Stay on guard.
Despite the tension, Derek's nose twitched involuntarily. He sniffled once, cursing under his breath. A pungent, saccharine scent clung to the air, thick and almost intoxicating. Somewhere nearby, a bright jungle flower had bloomed early, its petals wide and sticky with dew. The humid air made the perfume heavier, wrapping around his senses like syrup.
"Damn thing always hits me," he muttered under his breath, barely audible to Desmond.
Desmond gave him a quick side glance and signed—Focus, one finger pointed to his own temple, then to the path.
Luis remained utterly still, but behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were calculating. They didn't have much time before the figure disappeared beyond the clearing.
"Not now," Desmond muttered, eyes narrowing as he caught the twitch in Derek's expression.
Derek's nose wrinkled. His brows pulled together. He tilted his head back slightly, mouth parting as he sucked in a shallow breath. The telltale pre-sneeze face.
Too late.
ACHOO!
Desmond lunged, clamping a hand over Derek's face and yanking him back into the underbrush. Leaves rustled violently underfoot.
Across the path, the cloaked men halted.
Silence fell like a blade.
One of the figures tilted his head, scanning the treeline.
A breeze whispered through the canopy above, shaking vines and broad leaves in its wake.
"Just the wind," one of the men muttered, though uncertainty edged his voice.
They started to walk again. Then—
A cloaked man stepped into view, less than ten feet from Derek, who still crouched behind a fern.
Eyes locked.
The stranger smiled—slow and deliberate.
Two more figures moved in, silent as smoke. One on either side.
The leader stayed back, watching.
Derek sucked in a sharp breath, then rolled away, leaves scattering in his wake.
Luis stood without hesitation, his silhouette still as stone. Desmond surged forward, blades in hand.
"Split up," Desmond ordered coolly, stepping into position.
Three versus three.
Desmond's Fight
Desmond stepped forward, his boots crunching over damp leaves.
"Who are you?"
The cloaked man smirked beneath his hood. "You're the ones snooping around. Shouldn't I be asking that?"
Desmond cracked his neck and smiled, unbothered. "You'll be answering once we drag you in."
He slid his right foot back, shifting his stance low and grounded. Fingers danced through a quick series of signs, fluid and sharp. Then he slammed his palm against the earth.
"I bend what stands." An aether manipulation technique.
A low gurgle rumbled through the jungle floor.
The ground beneath the cloaked man shivered. Wet soil softened in an instant, darkening to a soupy black as the earth opened with a hungry groan. Muck and vines surged upward like living arms, swallowing the man waist-deep in seconds.
He struggled, gasping, but the swamp held fast. Only his neck remained visible—straining, furious, alive.
Intact.
Just how Desmond wanted it.
Because dead men tell no tales.
Luis's Fight
Luis ducked low and twisted to the side, his movements smooth—almost lazy—as he slipped past a flurry of strikes.
"Been a while since I had to move," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "I'd much rather stretch than stalk people through the jungle."
A fist came flying. It grazed his jaw—CRACK—and shattered his sunglasses in an instant.
Tiny shards scattered across the ground.
Luis exhaled slowly, rubbing the side of his neck with one hand. His voice dropped.
"Bad idea."
He lifted his head.
"Distort the world." an aether illusion technique
His eyes lit up—two pinpoints of burning silver, sharp and unnatural.
The cloaked man stiffened.
Then came the scream. Raw. Human. Uncontrollable.
He stumbled backward, clawing at the air, swiping at things only he could see.
Luis tilted his head, studying the man's convulsing form with detached curiosity. "Seeing spiders? Or something worse?"
The man collapsed to his knees, shaking, lips muttering nonsense. His fingers dug into the dirt like he was trying to escape into it.
Luis walked a slow circle around him, kicking aside loose gravel and snapping a twig beneath his boot.
He wiped the dust from his cheek with the back of his hand. "Always the same."
With practiced ease, Luis untied a thin cloth from his belt and tied it over his eyes.
Then he turned and walked back toward Desmond.
Unbothered. Silent.
Derek's Fight
His opponent was sharp—faster, meaner. A blur of motion, fists like striking vipers. Each blow came too quick to avoid, each one sharp enough to leave a stinging bruise on Derek's skin. The air crackled with tension as he barely dodged, feeling the wind rush past his face.
A sudden, powerful strike connected—CRACK—and Derek was sent sprawling, crashing hard into a nearby tree. The bark splintered on impact, and he slumped to the ground, dazed but not down for long.
"That again," Desmond muttered from the sidelines, his voice steady despite the chaos unfolding.
Luis, arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "Should we?"
Derek growled, pushing himself off the ground, hands trembling with rage. His temper had no leash—an unstoppable force, always ready to lash out when provoked.
"Change what is."
A transformation technique. Green aether surged around Derek's arms, swirling with intense energy. His muscles strained as his claws elongated, sharp and lethal. His breath quickened, a feral grin spreading across his face.
He lunged with the speed of a predator unleashed.
Desmond and Luis moved in, trying to restrain him, but it was too late.
"Derek, stop!" Desmond shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the storm of fury that had taken over Derek.
With a roar, Derek flung them aside as if they were mere shadows in his path. He tore forward, unstoppable.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
Left. Right. Left. Right. Again and again. His claws raked through the air, cutting into his opponent with a vicious rhythm.
Blood sprayed—hot, crimson—staining the ground beneath them. The enemy crumpled, twitching violently as he fell to the dirt, no longer a threat.
Derek's chest heaved with heavy breaths, but his eyes didn't stop searching.
He turned. Another man—the one Desmond had been holding prisoner—had escaped. The last of the cloaked figures rushed toward him, desperation fueling his steps.
CRACK.
Derek's claws found their mark with a brutal strike. Bone shattered beneath the force, and the body flew, tumbling through the air like a ragdoll. It hit the ground with a sickening thud, motionless.
The jungle was silent for a moment. The only sound was the ragged panting of Derek's breath, his chest heaving with the aftermath of the frenzy.
His claws slowly faded, the green aether dissipating like mist, leaving only the faintest trace of energy lingering in the air.
They all turned toward the last man—the one clutching the scroll. His time was coming.
Back at the Stovia Cadet Corp– Research & Engineering Facility
In the Army Cadet Corps, buried deep within the Research & Engineering Facility, 19-year-old Ace Richards hunched over a desk cluttered with half-assembled gadgets, aether samples, and open notebooks. Small-framed, shy, and utterly untrained in combat, Ace was no fighter. But he was a builder. A thinker. A prodigy.
Born a war orphan, Ace had been raised within these walls. He was only three when Cedric Proctor—head of the Department —spotted him building a tiny paper boat with a paper motor, sailing it through rain puddles. To Cedric, it was more than a child's plaything—it was a glimpse into Ace's mind. Every conversation with him felt like a chess game—each word and gesture carefully considered, with a sense of strategy beneath the surface. To Ace, Cedric was a genius—sharp, calculating, always steps ahead. To Cedric, however, Ace was a prodigy with a death wish. He saw the brilliance, but he also saw the reckless nature that threatened to derail it.
Cedric, a white-haired man in his forties with square glasses and a strict, calculating demeanor, had lost both his wife and newborn in one tragic night. He never spoke of it. Never smiled. But he took Ace in—not as a son, but as something to protect from afar. The paper boat scene had opened Cedric's eyes to Ace's potential—the kind of potential that could change everything, if only it was harnessed with caution. Yet, every bold, impulsive move Ace made made Cedric wonder whether that brilliance would ultimately be his undoing.
Under Cedric's supervision, Ace had created a mission-linked device: a bracelet that monitored life signs and movement data, paired with a small cube at his desk. Green meant normal. White meant danger. Black meant life-threatening.
The cube blinked.
Black. Black. Black.
Luis. Desmond. Derek.
Ace froze.