The Ghol heavy lifter, a sleek black needle of ceramic and compressed air, kissed the rooftop of the Drosk Manor with a silent thud. Kerym, feeling a strange thrumming in his bones from the cerulean conduits now glowing softly on his forearms, stepped out. The alloy bracers felt like a second skin, cool and responsive. Sennira was a shadow beside him, her combat suit a dark ripple in the dim Zethorian night, her gaze fixed on the fortress-like structure below. The air smelled of ozone and the distant hum of power conduits. “The parents are likely in the surgical vault,” Sennira stated, her voice tight with focus. “Praxton could be anywhere. We proceed fast.” Kerym merely inclined his head. The apathy was still there, a soft blanket, but beneath it, a cold, sharp edge had formed. Praxton had taken Vorstag. This wasn't just about survival anymore; it was about reclaiming the quiet peace that had been offered, then violently ripped away. They launched. Not a run, not a jump, but an instantaneous blur. Kerym’s enhanced marrow, amplified by the bracers, condensed the air around them, creating muted shockwaves that detonated in their wake. They were streaks of condensed light, slamming into the manor's primary defense perimeter. The Drosk elite guards, clad in polished chromium armor, barely registered the impact before they were flattened. Their resonance shields, once formidable against lesser threats, simply imploded under the sheer, focused force Kerym exerted. One guard, mid-shout, found his entire body shunted sideways with enough force to embed him halfway into a reinforced durasteel wall, a silent, grotesque monument to Kerym’s passing. Sennira moved with equal, terrifying grace. Where Kerym struck with crushing economy, she weaved. A snapping parry disarmed a heavy weapons specialist, the rifle spinning into the night before she was through him, leaving him twitching on the ground, every joint dislocated. They carved a path through the inner defenses with contemptuous ease, the corridors becoming a blur of smashed equipment and groaning bodies. These were the same guards who had once mocked Kerym, who had dragged him to the operating table. Now, they were less than dust. They burst into the surgical vault. The room was sterile, spotless, filled with an array of complex surgical apparatus, all hum of power and precise, silver tools. In the center, strapped to a suspended steel table, was Vorstag Ghol, his usually fierce gaze narrowed in steady fury. And standing over him, their faces a mixture of smug triumph and desperate relief, were Kerym’s parents, Teral and Lykor Drosk. “Kerym! You’re back!” Teral Drosk exclaimed, a grotesque smile stretching across his face. “Just in time. The machine is calibrated. Get on the table, boy. Praxton needs you.” His tone held no warmth, only the cold, possessive command of a farmer speaking to his chattel. Lykor, ever the colder of the two, gestured to a prepared surgical gurney. “Don’t make this difficult. It’s for the family. Our family.” Kerym didn’t move. He simply stared at the multi-million-credit siphon rigs, the polished scalpels, the whirring scanners. He felt the soft hum of the bracers, the immense power at his fingertips. A flick of his wrist, barely a tremor, sent a focused concussive discharge. The nearest marrow siphon shrieked, its internal components shattering into a cascade of sparks and smoke. Another flick, another piece of equipment exploded. Within seconds, the entire setup was a smoking, mangled ruin, expensive surgical tools twisted into abstract sculptures of metallic junk. His parents stared, their faces draining of color. “What… what have you done?!” Teral shrieked, his voice cracking. A roar ripped through the chamber. Praxton Drosk, no longer the frail, sickly prodigy, lunged from a shadowed alcove. His skin was stretched taut, veins throbbing with an unnatural cerulean glow, his stare wide and manic. He wielded a massive, erratic resonance blade that crackled with stolen charge, its edges shimmering. “You think you can destroy my salvation, you ungrateful ghost?!” Praxton’s every movement was ragged, powerful but uncoordinated. The serum had made him strong, but it hadn’t granted him Kerym’s innate precision. Kerym met him with a casual parry. Praxton’s blade, meant to cleave through durasteel, barely nudged Kerym’s armored forearm. The impact sent a jarring, stuttering tremor through Praxton’s entire body. Kerym moved, a phantom blur, dodging a wild, over-extended swing. He countered with a short shockwave from his wrist, not aimed to maim, but to destabilize. Praxton stumbled, his frantic power proving ineffective against Kerym's flawless, natural poise. “You’re sloppy, Praxton,” Kerym said, his voice a low, even murmur that cut through the chaos. “Always have been. You borrow power, but you can’t wield it.” Praxton roared again, pushing more and more of the volatile serum through his system, becoming a whirlwind of raw, wild force. The very air around him warped, threatening to tear itself apart. But Kerym was faster, his movements minimal, elegant. He danced around Praxton’s fury, deflecting, redirecting, each touch of his wristplates sending jarring feedback through Praxton’s overcharged system. This wasn’t a fight; it was a demonstration of a master correcting a student. Praxton’s borrowed power was a roaring inferno; Kerym’s was a laser, precise and devastating. Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed. Vorstag Ghol, with a sudden burst of internal pressure, had shattered the restraints on his arm. Before Teral Drosk could react, Vorstag snatched a discarded sidearm from the floor. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space. Teral Drosk crumpled, a crimson bloom spreading rapidly across his chest. Praxton, momentarily distracted by his father’s fall, screamed in incoherent rage. He saw Sennira, momentarily off-balance, assessing Vorstag’s condition. In a desperate, animalistic lunge, he closed the distance. His edge, now crackling with even more volatile torque, snapped out, not at Kerym, but at Sennira. Before Kerym could react, Praxton had his arm clamped around Sennira’s neck, the lethal, shimmering blade pressed against her jugular, a thin line of red already appearing. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, fixed on Kerym. “Surrender! Or she dies!”

The Raid on Drosk Manor