The blast doors, a meter of reinforced plasteel, didn’t just open. They detonated. A concussive wave slammed through the lab, rattling half-empty vials from their racks and sending Tirvan sprawling. Bavol, slumped against the cold floorplates, felt the residual vibration through his very bones, a dull ache mirroring the one in his gut. Dust motes danced in the sudden, harsh glare of the corridor lights. Three figures, cloaked in midnight-grey syn-weave, strode through the swirling particulate. Their masks were sleek, featureless, devoid of any identifying marks. Each carried gear that shimmered with contained ambient charge – two with long, curved blades that hummed with a low thrum, the third with a multi-barreled rifle that pulsed an ominous cerulean. They moved with a predatory grace, fanning out as they entered, clearly trained for efficient termination. “Jelika Glimmer.” The lead operative’s voice, filtered through a vocoder, was flat, devoid of inflection. “Your contract is forfeit. Surrender, or be forcibly retired.” Jelika, still kneeling beside Bavol, her hand pressed against his chest as if to feel for a heartbeat that wasn't there, snarled. “Over my dead body.” “The terms are flexible,” the striker replied, raising one of the curved blades. “We can make that happen first.” Bavol’s vision swam. The agony from the Null-Blade was now a distant, muted background throb, overshadowed by the profound emptiness where his life force should have been. Yet, a spark, an infuriatingly stubborn ember, still flickered. He couldn't die. Not like this. Not before he truly groveled. Not before he actually won her back. Even if it was just for a fleeting moment, he had to try. He watched as the two blade-wielders advanced on Jelika, their steps silent, their intent lethal. The marksman aimed directly at Bavol, a bright bead of blue light forming at the barrel. Tirvan, recovering from his fall, scrambled for a discarded wrench, sweating through his tunic. “No.” Bavol’s voice was a rasp, barely audible. His vision blurred, then sharpened, focusing on the first blade-wielder. He didn’t even lift his hand from the floor. He simply… thought. A lazy, dismissive flick of mental will. A sudden, violent burst of raw mana erupted from the floor between the killer’s boots and their steel. The curved edge, a masterwork of forged arcanite, glowed with an impossible internal heat, then *popped*. Not an explosion, but an instantaneous, catastrophic molecular destabilization. It shattered into a million glittering motes, raining down on the killer's masked face, leaving nothing but a useless hilt. The striker stumbled back, reaching for a secondary sidearm. Bavol, with another tiny shift of focus, fixed on the multi-barreled barrel. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of purple energy ran along his arm, tracing the network of blackened veins now visibly prominent beneath his pale skin. He felt a searing pain, a dry, burning sensation, as if his very essence was being scraped away. [DING! Unauthorized Mana Fluctuation! Resource Depletion Imminent!] He ignored the cheerful prompt. The rifle, still aimed at his head, suddenly glowed an angry crimson. The complex energy conduits within its frame fried, sparking violently. The emitter whined, then slumped, a useless chunk of slag and melted wires. The marksman stared at it, then at Bavol, his hands visibly shaking. “Foolish. You are dying.” The third infiltrator, a woman whose synthesized voice held a hint of sneering amusement, stepped forward. Her blade, a twin to the one Bavol had just vaporized, hummed ominously. “Xylos offers an… alternative. Abandon her. Walk away. We have a temporary Null-Blade counter-agent. Enough for you to escape this pathetic end.” Bavol’s head lulled to the side, his eyes, dark pools in his sallow face, fixing on Jelika. She had frozen, her gaze darting between him and the infiltrator, tension hardening the corners of her mouth. He felt a profound weariness, the cold dread of his impending dissolution. But the thought of leaving her, after everything, after realizing the true depth of her sacrifice, felt like a betrayal he could not commit. Not now. Not when he had finally, truly, acknowledged his idiocy. “No,” he croaked, the word a struggle. “I’m not… leaving.” “Are you quite certain?” The cloaked fighter pressed, her edge slowly rising. “A few hours of life. Just enough to flee. To live, if only for a little while longer, free of this… complication.” She gestured at Jelika with a contemptuous flick of her wrist. Jelika’s eyes narrowed. The storm broke. A furious, blinding flash of pure, unadulterated rage crossed her features. Before Bavol could even process it, before the assassin could react, Jelika moved. It wasn’t the precise, calculated strike of a trained fighter. It was raw, animalistic, fueled by a scorching, incandescent fury that made the air around her crackle. She snatched a long, pointed pry-bar from a nearby workbench, a tool for dismantling heavy synth-cores. With a guttural roar, a sound Bavol had never heard from her before, she lunged. The pry-bar, not a sophisticated weapon, became a spear in her enraged grip. It cleaved the air, a blur of motion driven by something primal and utterly terrifying. The cloaked woman, caught off guard by the sheer ferocity of the charge, barely managed to bring her own blade up. But Jelika’s strike wasn’t aimed at the steel. It was aimed directly at her chest, where the syn-weave cloak offered little protection. The pry-bar plunged, with sickening force, through her sternum. There was a wet, tearing sound, then a choked gurgle from behind the vocoder. The woman staggered back, clawing uselessly at the bar protruding from her chest, her fingers twitching as blood bloomed across the dark fabric. Jelika didn’t pause. She twisted the pry-bar, a savage, violent motion that sent a cascade of crimson spraying across her face. The infiltrator stiffened, then crumpled, her edge clattering to the floor. The synthesized speaker went silent. The remaining two fighters, momentarily stunned by their colleague’s brutal demise, finally sprang into action, charging Jelika. But Bavol didn't see it. He saw only Jelika, her chest heaving, her eyes blazing with an emotion so fierce, so possessive, that it stole his breath. He felt a final, agonizing lurch in his chest, a sickening jolt that echoed through his entire being. The world tilted. The light dimmed. The pain, the cold, the emptiness—it all coalesced into a singular, profound cessation. Then, a blinding, saccharine pink light erupted directly in front of his eyes. [DING! End of Life Survey!] [Would you recommend Soul-Rot to a friend? Y/N]

The Lethargic Prodigy