John tightened his grip on the metal file, scraping away the last rough edges from his P50’s internals. Sparks danced for a brief second before fading into the dim light of the Ship’s interior. With a click, he slotted the final piece back into place, turning the weapon over in his hands. "A bit of filing here, and it should be good enough."

  The gun was lighter than before. More responsive. The mechanical tension in the trigger assembly had been eased just enough to allow full-auto fire without jamming. A faint, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Easier than expected."

  John exhaled and stepped outside.

  The forest stretched endlessly around him, a sea of dark, towering trees swaying in the early morning wind. The air smelled fresh—clean, untouched—but that serenity only made the weight in his chest heavier. “The operation starts today.” He inhaled deeply, letting the crisp morning air fill his lungs, then squared his shoulders. There was no time for hesitation. With a swift motion, he pulled out his P50 and snapped it up to eye level. His fingers moved automatically, flipping the safety off. He squeezed the trigger. A rapid burst of bullets tore through the silence, hammering into a nearby stump with sharp, mechanical cracks. Bark and splinters exploded into the air, leaving deep, ragged holes behind.

  John huffed out a breath, scanning his work. "Huh. That was... surprisingly easy to convert to full auto." The grin didn't last long. He had no illusions about his skills—modifying the weapon was one thing, handling it in a real fight was another. His hand moved to his Spell Glove. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he pressed the eject button. The cartridge inside popped free, sliding smoothly into the leg pouch strapped to his thigh. In the same motion, he grabbed another and slammed it into place, sealing the compartment with a sharp click. “Too slow.” John gritted his teeth. "Still not good enough."

  He could barely hold onto his gun during a firefight. Pulling off something like this while dodging incoming attacks? Impossible. He glanced up at the overcast sky, frustration tightening in his chest. "Maybe one day… when I have more training." His eyes flickered to the shredded remains of watermelons scattered across the ground from yesterday’s spell practice.

  Those new spells should help. He hoped he wouldn’t need them. But hope didn’t mean anything in a real fight. John sighed and headed back inside. The transition was immediate—the moment the Ship’s doors sealed behind him, a flood of artificial emotions surged through him, remnants of the machine's attempt to simulate comfort, safety. He barely registered it anymore. He collapsed into his chair, eyes locking onto the Emulator Station like it held the key to survival. "Those modifications… they were necessary." His fingers danced across the terminal, pulling up a folder labeled ‘Experimental Spells.’ A list of names glowed on the screen, and John opened the first.

  Hundreds of lines of text filled the display, the culmination of hours of research, testing, and scraping through obscure forums for any hint of optimization. John smirked. “Calling it a fireball is really stretching it.” Instead of a large, dramatic orb of flames, Hyper Boiler formed a tiny, dense sphere of concentrated heat, almost invisible to the naked eye. Instead of lobbing it at enemies, he would fire it at near-supersonic speed, letting sheer velocity punch through shields. The moment it hit, it would expand rapidly, heat surging outward in a lethal burst. "Should be useful if I can't break defenses with my guns." It was not as flashy as traditional fire spells.; that was a bonus. His fingers flicked to the next file.

  John grimaced at the cost. “This one is... risky.” The concept was simple—strike the target and instantly strip the surrounding air away, creating a miniature vacuum. Without oxygen, heat would dissipate at unnatural speeds, flesh would rupture from the sudden pressure difference, and anything reliant on combustion or energy transfer would fail spectacularly. Theoretically, it was devastating. In practice? It might burn through too much Improbability Factor for too little return.

  “Or it’s a complete waste.” John chuckled dryly, opening the last spell.

  Now, this one was straightforward. A fireball with a guidance system. Increase the power, add minor tracking properties, and let it hunt its target down. “Simple. Effective. No gimmicks.” John leaned back, rubbing his temple. His exhaustion was starting to creep up on him again, but there was no time for rest. He was close. Then—a sharp chime from his Terminal. His stomach twisted. Reality snapped back into focus. “The raid.”

  John took a slow breath, his fingers gripping the edge of the console. His thoughts raced, running through every scenario, every contingency plan. His spells were ready. His gun was modified. He’d trained as much as he could in the time he had.

  But was it enough?

  Chase: Operation starts in thirty minutes. Meet me at the Hot Spot ASAP.

  Thomas: On it.

  John swallowed hard as he keyed in the restaurant’s coordinates into the Ship’s controls.

  He still had time to turn back. He still had time to walk away from all of this—

  He clenched his fists. “Can the Ship take on the entire Hidden World by itself?” The question hung in the air, weighty and absurd. His mind answered before the controls did. A flash of memory— the moment he’d tried landing in the Bazaar, the way the Ship had crumpled like wet paper under the unknown force. John exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping. “Yeah… probably not.”

  A soft ding signaled his arrival. His pulse hammered against his ribs as he stepped toward the exit doors. His breath came faster now, shallow and uneven. "Am I really doing this?" The number burned in his mind. Thirty fishmen. Even with backup, it was insane. Flashes of previous battles surged through his thoughts—the unnatural speed of the fishmen, their deadly spells that ripped through flesh and armor, the inhuman gurgles they made even as they bled out.

  “Everything should be fine.” He forced the words out, hoping if he said them enough, they’d feel true. He’d stay in the back. Take a few potshots. Go home.

  John stepped outside. The city’s chaotic symphony crashed over him—the muffled chatter of shadowed figures, the ever-present hum of distant neon lights, the sharp metallic clang of something being thrown down an alley. The moment the Ship’s doors sealed shut behind him, it felt like he’d just walked off the edge of a cliff.

  No turning back.

  He spotted The Hot Spot. Open this time. People drifted in and out, their unnatural glow flickering just beneath the surface of his vision, a constant reminder of the Hidden World’s presence.

  "Man, how are you doing that?" The familiar voice made him turn, a grin tugging at the edge of his lips despite the tension coiling in his gut.

  Chase. His usual laid-back style was gone—replaced by full riot-gear inspired armor, the same kind the werewolves had worn after the party attack. The plates were reinforced but flexible, shifting easily with his movements. “I just sent you a message, like, seconds ago.” Chase sniffed the air and clapped him on the shoulder, eyes narrowing. "No way. You actually learned Glamour in less than two days?"

  John smirked. “What can I say? I’m talented.”

  Chase sniffed again. His expression shifted to one of mock offense. “Or you just bought a suit with built-in Glamour. Cheating bastard.”

  John chuckled. “Jealous?”

  “Nah. Mom says the built-in ones make us ‘soft.’” He rolled his eyes. “Bunch of bullshit if you ask me. But hey—” His gaze flicked down to the massive revolver strapped to John’s thigh. His lips curled. “So, uh. You compensating for something?”

  John flipped him off. Chase barked out a laugh. For a moment, the tension bled away. It was easy to forget what was coming when they fell into old rhythms, easy to pretend that this was just another night out instead of a fight they might not walk away from.

  Then, Chase’s face sobered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass orb. "Ready?"

  No.

  He nodded anyway.

  Chase barely needed any effort—his fingers flexed, and the orb shattered between them. The spell surged outward, wrapping around them in a burst of raw kinetic energy. And then they were flying. The world blurred. John’s stomach lurched as the spell yanked him forward at an impossible speed. He flailed, limbs useless against the sheer force of the movement. "N-Never getting used to these!" he shouted over the rush of wind.

  Chase, sailing effortlessly beside him, grinned. “You just need better instincts!”

  They crashed down in front of a decrepit building. John staggered, bracing against his knees as he fought the nausea rolling through him. Chase grinned. John shot him a withering glare as he straightened, forcing his legs to steady. “Can’t you people use sane modes of transportation?”

  Chase smirked. "Says the guy who willingly rides around in a metal box propelled by explosions."

  John narrowed his eyes but had no comeback. Chase took the victory with a smug grin. Then, his expression darkened. “How did you get to The Hot Spot so fast?” His tone turned wary. “You came from the Bazaar?”

  John hesitated for half a second. Long enough. “…Yeah, something like that.” He waved off the question before Chase could dig further. “What’s the plan?”

  Chase exhaled, shaking off his curiosity. “We meet my brother and his squad first.” His voice shifted into something more serious—more tactical. "They’ll brief us. This warehouse is the nervous system of Ninth Street; from what we know, it’s got a ton of defenses and wards."

  John glanced at the building ahead. The shadows that pooled around it felt… unnatural. Alive, almost. His hand drifted to the grip of his revolver.

  Thirty fishmen.

  For a second, the morning air felt suffocating.

  He swallowed the fear and forced a smirk.

  “Sounds great.” John clicked his tongue, gaze flicking toward Chase. “Still, you only brought one squad? Thought this raid was important to your family.”

  “It is—but not that much.” Chase shrugged, as if taking on a warehouse full of fishmen was just another Tuesday. “Ninth Street’s a problem, but in the grand scheme? Minor league. My mother’s more focused on the bigger families, so we don’t waste too many resources on small-fry like this.”

  John swallowed hard. “Thirty fishmen are just a low-level threat?”

  Chase gave a wry smile. “You have no idea. Even I don’t know everything.”

  With that ominous remark, Chase pushed open the door, and they stepped inside. A dim, dusty room. The only source of light was a glowing orb embedded in the ceiling, casting harsh shadows against the cracked walls. The place reeked of old wood, metal, and sweat.

  And then there was the squad.

  Five hulking figures sat on chairs far too small for them, their massive frames making the already-cramped space feel even tighter. They wore the same riot-gear-inspired armor as Chase, their golden eyes gleaming under the dim light. John took half a step back. The weight of their gazes hit him like a physical force, his breath catching in his throat. These weren’t just werewolves—these were warriors, seasoned and lethal. One of them flicked his gaze toward John, just for a second, and his spine locked up as a primal instinct screamed: Run.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Chase, of course, walked in like he owned the place. “It’s me.”

  The werewolves didn’t relax.

  “Who’s me?” one of them growled.

  John recognized the voice before he saw the smirk—Carter. Chase’s older brother.

  Chase rolled his eyes and promptly raised his middle finger. “Fuck off, you know damn well who it is.”

  A couple of the werewolves chuckled under their breath.

  “I brought Thomas with me,” Chase added, jerking a thumb toward John.

  Carter let out a grunt. “Ah. The mage.” His golden eyes scanned John for a long moment before giving a short nod. “Guess I’ll introduce you to the barely sentient idiots you’ll be working with.”

  “Fuck off, Carter.” The voice came from a stocky, six-foot-tall werewolf with coarse brown fur streaked with faint white stripes. He leaned back in his too-small chair, arms crossed, before clicking his tongue. “We all know you can’t understand sentences longer than five words.” With a bright white glow, his form shifted—fur retracting, bones cracking, limbs shrinking—until a muscular but slightly pudgy human man sat in his place. His rough features, shaved head, and piercing brown eyes still held that wolfish sharpness beneath the surface. “Garrett,” he introduced himself, stretching out a massive, calloused hand. “Right-hand man to this idiot. Make sure he doesn’t forget how to tie his shoes. And that he hasn’t shat himself.”

  John braced himself for a crushing grip—but to his surprise, Garrett’s handshake was firm but controlled.

  “Thomas,” John said, nodding. “Likewise.”

  A wiry werewolf with mottled brown fur grunted from his seat. “Cole.” He didn’t bother shifting back, nor did he offer a handshake.

  Before John could decide whether to be offended, another werewolf elbowed Cole hard in the ribs. “Don’t be a dick,” the black-furred werewolf muttered. His voice was lower, rougher, like he’d spent his entire life growling instead of speaking. A scar ran down the side of his face, cutting through the fur like a permanent battle mark. “Tyler.” He gave John a curt nod, which John returned.

  Then the shortest of the group—still an respectable five-foot-nine even in his werewolf form—stepped forward. His coarse gray fur bristled slightly as he gestured at the others. “I’m Ethan. The smart one.” His lips curled slightly. “Probably the only one here who can do basic math without using my fingers.”

  “Hey, fuck you, I—”

  “Carter, don’t lie to yourself.” Ethan’s grin widened.

  Carter scowled but didn’t argue.

  John snorted, relaxing just a bit. The tension in the room had shifted. These weren’t just warriors—they were a unit.

  A pack.

  And now, for better or worse, he was part of it.

  Carter folded his arms. His golden eyes glinted as he got to business. “Alright. Ninth Street warehouse is well defended.”

  “Wards on the whole building,” Ethan added. “We detected water enchantment signatures at the entrances, but the wards scrambled the details. My bet? High-pressure water jets. Not complicated, but effective.”

  Cole grunted. “Guards everywhere. No real blind spots. It’s gonna be a pain in the ass.”

  John exhaled.

  “The plan’s simple,” Carter continued. “Cole and Tyler scouted earlier. There’s a weak spot in one of the walls. We’re gonna bust through fast and hard before they can organize.”

  Chase raised a brow. “That’s… surprisingly well thought out.” His smirk turned wolfish. “Don’t overwork your two brain cells.”

  “Eat shit.”

  John held back a laugh.

  Chase ignored him. “Lemme guess: You and Garrett in the front, me and Tyler in the middle, Cole and Ethan sweeping the stragglers?”

  “Yup.” Carter turned to John. “You’re a mage, so you’re staying at the back. That alright?”

  John flexed his fingers, his Spell Glove humming faintly at his wrist. He nodded. “Fine by me.”

  The room grew heavier. The camaraderie didn’t vanish—but it coiled underneath the surface, woven into the way they checked their armor and touched the rings on their fingers. A final ritual before battle.

  Before war.

  Carter cracked his knuckles. “Any questions?”

  Silence.

  Then, one by one, they nodded.

  And just like that, it was time to move.

  "Fuck me." John’s whisper barely left his lips as he pulled out his P50, the familiar weight of the gun doing nothing to stop the hammering in his chest. His mind flickered between two images—his body, torn apart by fishmen claws, drowning in a pool of his own blood—and the destroyed parking lot where he had gunned down a squad of fishmen with terrifying efficiency. He had been outnumbered then, too. He had felt the same fear—and yet he had walked away.

  A thin, unnatural smile crept onto his face. A quiet hum resonated at the edge of his thoughts.

  The Ship.

  He let the sound settle his nerves, even if just a little. Carter snapped his fingers, gesturing toward the door. Time to move.

  The werewolves led the charge. Carter and Garrett darted across the street, their movements smooth and controlled. Their Glamour made them invisible to normal eyes, letting them blend into the city’s early-morning hush. But to John—who could see through supernatural veils—they were like burning lighthouses, their presence blazing against the dull backdrop of reality.

  "Glamour was supposed to make them hidden," John thought with bitter amusement. "And yet, to me, they stand out like a sore thumb."

  The city was still waking. The streets were empty, save for a few early risers walking their dogs, a couple of workers dragging themselves toward the nearest coffee shop. No one noticed the squad ghosting through the alleys, their mission unfolding right under the nose of an unsuspecting world.

  The warehouse loomed ahead. It was a weathered, industrial husk, its faded blue paint peeling under the weight of time. The surrounding pavement had cracks choked with weeds, making it look long abandoned.

  And yet— The chain-link fence surrounding it was brand new. Steel untouched by rust. Fresh barbed wire twisting maliciously along the top.

  "Someone's been busy."

  “Wards,” Cole muttered. He crouched low, nostrils flaring as he sniffed along the fence, his ears twitching at something John couldn’t sense. His golden eyes narrowed. "Ethan, do your thing."

  Ethan didn’t reply, already stepping forward, his gray-furred fingers weaving through the air. Thin strands of red energy curled around his claws, forming intricate, glowing symbols that shimmered against the fence. The rest of the squad held their breath. If the wards triggered—the entire mission would be over before it started.

  Seconds stretched.

  Then—

  Ethan smirked. “Too easy.”

  He pulled a small amethyst tube from his belt and snapped it in half. A fine purple dust spilled out, and with a quick puff of breath, he scattered it across the fence. The glow in the metal flickered—then vanished. Ethan grabbed the edge and pulled the fence open with ease.

  “Go.” Carter’s order was low but sharp. He ducked through first, followed closely by Garrett. The rest of the squad slipped in one by one, their movements so fluid that John almost felt like an intruder in his own team.

  John hesitated for just a second. Then he forced himself to follow.

  The group pressed against the side of the warehouse, moving silently toward their entry point. The section of the wall they had chosen bore the scars of recent repairs—hasty patches of new material over deep fractures. A weakness, just waiting to be exploited.

  John exhaled. "That’s not up to code.”

  Chase snorted.

  The squad took their positions.

  Carter and Garrett— front line, powerhouses. Their golden eyes gleamed as red mana swirled around their arms, thick as smoke. Their claws twitched, anticipation rolling off them like a storm about to break. Chase and Tyler— midline. Chase’s electric-red aura crackled over his skin, small arcs of lightning dancing between his fingertips. Beside him, Tyler stood stock-still, but the air around him had shifted. Heavier. Almost solid. Ethan and Cole— ranged offense. Ethan’s hands were already cupping a sphere of churning blue ice, so cold it seemed to freeze time itself. Cole, in contrast, held a tightly compressed ball of air, so pressurized it began to glow like a miniature sun.

  And then there was John. He didn’t hold a maelstrom of magic. He didn’t wield elemental destruction in his hands. Instead—he lifted his gun. The P50 felt small in comparison to the raw, supernatural power crackling around him.

  Yet, when he tightened his grip, it felt right.

  Carter took a deep breath, smoke curling from his nostrils. His golden eyes flashed as he snarled the order— "GO!"

  And hell broke loose. Carter’s roar ripped through the air as his fist slammed into the warehouse wall. Metal buckled, shrieking in protest, before splitting like brittle glass under the sheer force of the impact. The building itself shuddered as dust and debris billowed out, followed by another devastating strike from Garrett, who carved a second opening with terrifying ease.

  "Move!" Carter barked.

  The squad poured inside. They breached through the back, where the warehouse’s loading bays stood in eerie silence—until the screams began. The gangsters inside barely had time to react before chaos descended upon them.

  "Fuck!" A panicked voice rang out as jets of high-pressure water slammed into the vanguard. The sheer force dented the metal flooring and sent Carter skidding back, his shield flaring to life in a burst of golden energy.

  "Wolfheart! Get into position befo—" The warning never finished.

  Chase moved. One moment, he was behind John—the next, he was a blur of motion, appearing beside the fishman like a living shadow. The werewolf’s claws flashed—and the fishman’s torso ripped open in an explosion of gore and viscera.

  John barely had time to grimace before the rest of the gangsters regrouped, hurling themselves behind heavy metal crates. Others sprinted toward the stairs, aiming for the catwalks above.

  "They're trying to get the high ground!" Ethan warned. His hands shot forward. A storm of blue mist howled from his palms, racing up the catwalks like an unnatural frost. The rusted metal froze solid in an instant—then shattered. Fishmen screamed as they plummeted, their bodies cracking against the warehouse floor in sickening squelches.

  Cole said nothing. He simply snapped his fingers. The air split—thin, deadly currents twisting into razor-sharp lances. The projectiles struck with surgical precision, each one bursting skulls or severing limbs. Heads exploded, the fishmen’s shields flickering weakly before failing altogether. Yet—not all of them died. Some stood back up. Their shields flared again, stronger this time.

  John swore under his breath as he squeezed the trigger of his P50. A burst of gunfire barked, sending rounds at the entrenched fishmen. The bullets pinged uselessly off the thick metal crates. Then—

  Pain.

  A jet of pressurized water smashed into John’s chest like a sledgehammer, throwing him backwards. His shielding ring flickered, absorbing most of the impact, but not all of it. He landed hard, gasping for air as he scrambled behind an overturned crate with Ethan and Cole.

  A wet squelch. Something landed next to them.

  John turned.

  Chase.

  Soaked in blood.

  "Fuck me." Chase grunted, slamming his back against the crate as another wound opened on his arm. His breathing was ragged, his expression strained.

  Carter grunted as he ducked back, clutching his shoulder where a jet had torn through his flesh.

  "I don’t like this." His golden eyes narrowed. "Most of them have shields—and good ones, too."

  Tyler exhaled hard, cracking his knuckles as he peeked over the crate. "Makes sense. This is their main operation. Of course they’d have their elites here.”

  A jet of water shrieked past, missing his head by inches.

  "Damn it!" Tyler ducked back down, laughing breathlessly. "Good thing these bastards can't aim for shit."

  "Plan?" Carter’s jaw clenched. "Cole, what do you see?"

  Cole didn’t answer right away. He lifted a hand, his fingers curling through the air. Thin tendrils of almost-solid wind bent the light, giving him a refracted, distorted view of the battlefield.

  His expression froze.

  His ears pinned back.

  A shiver racked his entire body.

  "We need to leave."

  Carter’s eyes sharpened. “What?”

  Cole turned to them, his face ashen. “They have military-grade weapons!”

  Silence.

  John’s stomach turned to ice.

  "How the fuck did they get their hands on that?!" Cole hissed.

  Carter didn’t hesitate. “Retreat! NOW!”

  But—

  They were already too late. A thick ball of water slammed into them, exploding on impact. The liquid moved. It wasn’t just water. It was alive. John gasped—only for the water to crawl into his nose, his mouth. His lungs convulsed. A soundless scream ripped through him as his chest locked, as if his own body had turned against him. He couldn’t breathe.

  The fishmen’s magic was drowning them where they stood. John’s vision blurred. His heartbeat pounded in his skull. The edges of his world darkened. Then—a snap. Cole thrust his hands forward. Thin tendrils of air lashed out, wrapping around his comrades' chests. The wind wrenched their airways open, forcefully ejecting the cursed water from their lungs. John gasped violently, coughing up red. His hands trembled as he wiped his mouth. His vision spun. His stomach churned.

  The exit—they had to get to the exit. But the fishmen weren't letting them.

  "We're pinned!" Chase, wounded and panting, blurred into motion, darting across the battlefield—only to reappear with a fresh gash along his ribs. "Carter, we need to—"

  A glow. Bright. Molten.

  A beam of raw magma cut through the air. Straight through Chase’s head.

  John didn’t even have time to react before Chase’s body hit the ground. Blood pooled beneath him, a stark, steaming contrast against the cold warehouse floor.

  Silence.

  “C-Chase?” John’s voice cracked. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his pulse a hammering drum inside his skull. His eyes locked onto the lifeless corpse of his friend, the glow of molten death still sizzling where Chase’s head had been. The smell of burnt flesh and iron filled his nose, choking him. "This can't be happening," John whispered. "This can't—"

  Pain. White-hot, nerve-searing agony erupted through his body.

  He screamed. His limbs convulsed violently, every nerve in his body blazing like fire. He tried to move—to push himself away from the battle, to do something—but his body wouldn’t respond. Then he looked down.

  His stomach dropped into a bottomless abyss.

  His legs were gone. Where they had once been, only blackened stumps of exposed bone and seared muscle remained. His mind reeled, struggling to comprehend, to accept—but his blood painted the floor, pooling beneath him in thick, steaming rivulets.

  Then, a body hit the ground beside him.

  John turned his head just in time to see Tyler’s lifeless eyes staring at him. A gaping, charred hole smoldered in his chest, the last embers of life still flickering before going dark.

  John choked. His vision blurred. His ears rang with the sound of his own heartbeat, his own strangled breathing.

  Somewhere beyond the haze of his own impending death, Carter’s roar ripped through the air. "YOU BASTARDS!" His voice was raw, primal, a sound filled with rage and grief and desperation. A pulse of red energy exploded outward, swirling around Carter’s body like a living flame. He launched himself forward, too fast for John’s failing vision to follow—

  Then— The war cry.

  "The Ninth Street never forgets!" A searing beam of magma screamed through the air—

  Carter vanished. In his place—only a drifting cloud of ash.

  John’s breath hitched. This was it. They were going to die.

  “W-We’re going to die…” Ethan’s voice was barely more than a whisper, a broken thing. His body was shaking uncontrollably, his knees tucked to his chest as he pressed himself into the corner. Tears streamed down his face. His lips moved, repeating the words over and over, but there was no focus in his eyes anymore. No plan. No fight. Just—emptiness. "We’re all going to die… we’re all going to die, we’re—"

  John felt something inside him snap.

  His body slumped.

  His vision darkened.

  The world stopped.

  John fell out of his chair, screaming. The pain was still there, a phantom echo ripping through his nerves, as if the flames were still eating him alive. He clutched at his legs—his whole, unburnt, still-attached legs—but the agony didn’t fade. His heart slammed against his ribs, his lungs heaving for air.

  The warehouse was gone.

  The blood. The screams. The heat of the magma—

  All of it had been wiped away.

  And yet— his hands were still trembling.