A tide of glistening, microscopic nanite-parasites erupted from Tarkhan’s mouth, a living fog that splattered across Jargal’s face and neck. They felt like ice shards and fire ants all at once, burrowing through pores, seeking entry into his very essence. His vision blurred, the sterile control room warping into a swirling vortex of crimson and obsidian. Pain, a thousand needle-pricks, ignited every nerve ending.
Then, the agony vanished, replaced by the chilling embrace of the past. Jargal was no longer in the academy. He stood on a precipice of jagged obsidian, the wind whipping his raven-black hair. Below, the sprawling, moonlit city of K’tharr lay like a scattered jewel box. The scent of night-jasmine and betrayal hung heavy in the air.
“Master Jargal,” a voice, silken as a poisoned blade, slithered from the shadows. His apprentice, raised from the gutters of Kharn and taught forbidden arts of shadow, now held a dagger to the throat of the healer sworn to his care.
“Release her,” Jargal whispered across the memory, recalling how easily he had swallowed false vows like sweet wine. The hostage stared at him, terror draining color from her cheeks.
The boy’s smile was a twist of moonlight on steel. “You always were too sentimental, Master. Loyalty is a leash for fools.” The blade sliced flesh, a thin red bead forming on her throat. Jargal’s temper flared into raw heat; he lunged, but the traitor had anticipated his footwork.
A searing pang tore through his spine as poisoned steel sank deep. The world spun away. He fell, watching the hostage vanish into blackness under the boy's grip. His final breath had tasted of self-loathing—blind loyalty to anyone granting scraps of warmth had butchered him once, and here it stood again.
The crimson vortex imploded. Jargal snapped awake under flickering emergency strips. The parasites burrowed within flesh, filaments wrapping sinew to hijack his limbs and twist his own fingers toward his throat.
“Clever, Jargal,” Tarkhan’s deep, resonant voice, now devoid of any pretense, echoed. “They’re already mapping your synaptic pathways. Soon, you’ll be a puppet, a new vessel for the swarm.” He took a step forward, his shadow still twisting with unnatural life.
The memory had ripped away his blindness; the stinging shame of another betrayal fueled a furious resolve.
A roar tore through his teeth. He ignited his Night-Viper Qi inward, turning his circulation into molten copper. His skin flushed scarlet; sinews knotted as he forced pure vital force to scald his marrow. The swarming constructs dissolved under the furnace heat, disintegrating before they could root into his nerve clusters.
He swayed on trembling knees, vapor rising off his sweat-drenched collar. Rage burned clear and lethal, stripped of hesitation.
“You… you *burned* them out?” Tarkhan stared, pupils dilating in sudden disbelief.
Jargal lunged, a coiled viper unleashed. His fist, imbued with residual Night-Viper Qi, shot forward, aiming for Tarkhan’s jaw. The blow should have shattered bone, ripped through flesh. But Tarkhan reacted with impossible speed. His arm rose in intercept. A translucent, obsidian-like carapace erupted across his forearm, shimmering with resonant neural discharge. Jargal’s knuckles slammed home with a bone-jarring crack that jolted up his shoulder without cracking the shell.
“Pathetic,” Tarkhan sneered, flesh warping outward as gleaming chitin plates locked over his chest. A violet mind-barrier hardened like glass around him, repelling ambient air.
Jargal drove forward with palm strikes and elbow drives, striking meridian points that should have ruptured lungs and paralyzed joints. The alien shell swallowed the kinetic impact, the shimmering barrier scattering every ounce of force.
Tarkhan chuckled, a wet, gurgling sound as his neck thickened. “Physicality is a primitive concept, Jargal. An anachronism. My form is engineered for… higher applications.” He grabbed Jargal’s wrist, his grip impossibly strong, the chitinous fingers digging in. A needle of condensed neural energy sparked from his palm, thrusting toward Jargal’s sternum.
Jargal twisted hard, circulating qi through his wrists to shear free of the grip. He stumbled back, panting through scorched lungs as Tarkhan’s arm morphed into a barbed spear coated in luminous bile.
“Your usefulness has expired, Dead-Mind,” Tarkhan hissed, hoisting the spear-arm overhead while his neural barrier pulsed violet.
Then, with a deafening *CRACK* that shook the entire room, the reinforced wall behind Tarkhan exploded inward. Dust and debris filled the air, the screech of tortured metal echoing through the control center. Through the swirling chaos, a colossal, three-fingered claw, scorched and trailing wires, ripped through the opening. Beyond it, outlined by the cold void of space, stood a silhouette of jagged, battle-scarred metal. Its single glowing optics, fractured but defiant, burned with a furious, familiar light. It was Valkha, piloting a heavily battle-damaged, jury-rigged Dread-Mecha, its very frame screaming defiance against oblivion.