Dae-hyun paused at the doorway, looking back at her. His voice was steady, full of resolve:

  “I will come… to protect you.”

  And with that, he

  CHAPTER - 7: THE FEAR

  China.

  He had descended from the Great Wall and moved toward the left.

  The sun hung high in the sky, its rays spilling over the ancient stones of the Wall, casting long, sharp shadows across the terrain. The light caught every crack and ridge, painting the path ahead in gold and shadow, as if the Wall itself were guiding him forward.

  Shillong, India

  Muskan glanced at the packed bags around them. “So… where exactly are we going after this?”

  Azad smirked. “From here, to the airport… then Kachchh… and after that, Europe.”

  Muskan’s eyes widened. “What? But… how?”

  “By helicopter,” Azad replied casually.

  Muskan laughed nervously. “A helicopter? How are we even supposed to fly in that?”

  Azad shrugged. “We fly.”

  “You… can fly a helicopter?” she asked, stunned.

  “Yeah.”

  Muskan blinked, clearly impressed. “Wow… I had no idea.”

  Kashmir, India

  On an empty, peaceful day, Irfan and Arifa walked through the calm streets in silence.

  Arifa spoke first.

  “Tell me… what do you do for work?”

  Irfan glanced at her.

  “What will you do knowing that?”

  “I just want to hear it,” she said. “I’m feeling curious.”

  “But I don’t want to tell you,” Irfan replied.

  “Please, tell me.”

  Irfan rubbed his head with his right hand and said,

  “Will you stay quiet, or should I drop you off with that old man?”

  Arifa paused, then nodded.

  “Ah… okay.”

  Chihuahua, Mexico

  In the dark of the night.

  The train stood still on the tracks.

  It had already crossed the mountains and the deserts of Chihuahua.

  Darkness had completely fallen, yet within it, the train remained on the rails, moving forward, leaving a soft glow behind as its lights cut through the night.

  Indo-Pak Border, Pakistan

  A lone figure moves quietly, almost like a shadow, making his way toward the border.

  In front of him lies the boundary — stark, unyielding. Behind him stretches the Rann of Kachchh, the vast Indian salt desert, shimmering under the sun.

  He is in a hurry. His steps grow faster, then faster still. Eyes darting, taking in every detail of the land around him.

  The cautious walk becomes a sprint. His movement quickens, urgent.

  Now he runs toward the border, full speed — the vast desert behind him, the unknown ahead, every second charged with tension.

  He is moving fast, his legs pounding the ground, urgency in every step.

  But on the other side…

  The Rann of Kachchh lies silent, calm, untouched. Nothing seems to have stirred here.

  The salt desert bakes under the scorching sun, endless and unyielding. The salt crust absorbs the heat, shimmering subtly, while the bright sunlight scatters across its surface, reflecting in blinding flashes.

  The vast emptiness stretches out in all directions — a stillness so complete it almost feels alive, waiting, watching.

  Even as he races toward the border, the desert remains indifferent, patient, carrying the weight of the sun and silence alike.

  He reaches the border, moving cautiously, every step measured.

  He drops to the ground, sitting, eyes scanning the surroundings, alert to every sound, every shadow.

  Carefully, he takes off his bag and unzips it.

  From inside, he pulls out a large cutter, its metal glinting faintly in the sunlight. He zips the bag back up, slings it over his shoulder, and rises to his feet.

  He edges closer to the border, pausing again, surveying the area. The desert stretches behind him, silent. Ahead, the barrier looms, a metallic challenge in the heat of the day.

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  Finally, he reaches the barrier. He lifts the cutter, positioning it carefully, and begins to cut.

  Eyes flicking constantly to his surroundings, he works deliberately — first along the lower edge, then the right side, then the upper part. Sparks fly as metal gives way, his hands steady despite the tension in the air.

  Once a section is cut, he crouches low, scanning once more. The desert still lies calm, indifferent, holding its heat and silence.

  With a careful, measured movement, he squeezes through the opening, finally crossing the border.

  He is now in India.

  A quiet stillness washes over him, a fragile peace settling into his chest. The tension that gripped his body loosens, just a little.

  For the first time in hours, maybe days, hope flickers within him — soft, steady, undeniable. He breathes in the desert air, feels the sun on his skin, and something inside whispers that he is safe, at least for now.

  His shoulders relax, his eyes soften, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips.

  In this vast, silent land, among the salt and heat, he finds a fleeting sense of belonging, a momentary sanctuary — a quiet victory over the fear and danger that trails behind him.

  But he is not alone in the desert.

  Far off, very far, figures emerge on the horizon.

  They move together, strangely controlled, almost like a single entity. Their eyes lock onto him, widening as recognition hits. Without hesitation, they break into a run, legs pounding the salt-crusted ground.

  They run with precision, every movement deliberate, as if bound by an unspoken rhythm. Faster and faster, the desert carrying the sound of their steps, the heat rippling off the ground around them.

  Though their pace grows relentless, there is a strange control to it — calculated, purposeful. They are running, but not chaotically, driven by some force, some will beyond themselves.

  The distance closes. The tension rises. He feels it, senses it, and knows — he is being watched, hunted, and the quiet peace he found is fleeting.

  He turns his eyes toward the side, sensing movement — maybe someone is coming.

  Quickly, he swings his gaze back forward, facing the path ahead. His face tightens, muscles taut with tension.

  He rises to his feet, scanning the desert. And then he sees them — the prisoners, closing in.

  Fear spikes through him. In a hurried panic, he throws the cutter aside, the metal clanging against the salt-crusted ground. His eyes widen, heart hammering — what if they catch him?

  He pushes himself to the right as fast as he can, sprinting across the harsh terrain. Each breath comes sharp and ragged, chest heaving. He glances back briefly, dread stabbing through him.

  The bag he carries bounces violently as he slings it forward and clutches it tighter, almost instinctively. His legs are burning, every step a struggle, but he cannot slow down.

  Behind him, the prisoners surge forward, relentless, their pace unyielding.

  They chase him, fast, measured, hunting, and the distance between them shrinks with every pounding step.

  He is running. Fast. Faster. Every step burns, every breath slices through the heat of the desert.

  Ahead, something moves — coming toward him. He squints through the glaring sun, trying to make it out.

  It grows closer, larger, faster… and he realizes, more prisoners are approaching from the front. Their pace is relentless, unyielding, eyes locked on him.

  He pushes harder, legs straining, heart pounding.

  A glance behind him confirms his fear — more are coming from the rear as well.

  All around, the desert feels alive with pursuit. Front, back, everywhere — the hunters close in. Dust rises from the ground with every step, their shadows stretching long under the scorching sun.

  The space between him and them shrinks. He can feel it in his bones: there is nowhere to hide, nowhere to pause. Only forward, only faster.

  He is in panic now.

  “What do I do… what do I do now?” he whispers to himself, voice trembling with fear.

  “They… they will kill me… no… I don’t want to be killed by them.”

  Tears sting his eyes, and fear dominates his gaze. His face tightens, jaw clenched, every muscle trembling under the weight of dread.

  His eyes betray everything — the terror, the desperation, the fragile thread of hope that he clings to. It flickers there, fragile but alive, even as the hunters close in from every direction.

  The desert around him feels endless, oppressive. Each step forward is both a plea and a defiance, a desperate race against fate itself.

  At that moment, far above the desert, a spacecraft streaks across the sky.

  It moves with blinding speed, cutting through the air like a silver arrow. Its sensors sweep the landscape below, scanning every inch of the salt-crusted desert.

  The sunlight glints off its metallic surface as it glides, fast, precise, unrelenting. The vast emptiness of the Rann seems smaller beneath its gaze.

  Below, the man running feels the shadow of something larger, something unstoppable, though he cannot yet see it fully. His panic spikes — now, the desert feels alive not just with hunters, but with the eyes of a machine from the sky.

  The spacecraft descends, coming closer now, its shadow sweeping across the desert.

  He keeps running, trapped between prisoners on both sides, breath tearing through his chest.

  Then he sees it.

  Fear crashes over him. He stumbles, eyes wide, voice breaking.

  “No… no!” he cries out. “Not again… please, not again!”

  His legs keep moving, but his heart feels like it’s collapsing.

  “Leave me alone,” he pleads, panic choking his words. “Please… please leave me. I don’t want to be abducted. Please… please let me go.”

  Tears blur his vision as the spacecraft closes in, its presence overwhelming, inescapable.

  Above him, the machine hums with cold precision.

  Around him, the desert burns.

  Behind and ahead, the prisoners keep running.

  And in that moment, fear consumes everything.

  The spacecraft hovers above them, suddenly still.

  The prisoners stop in their tracks, frozen mid-chase.

  He freezes too, eyes wide, voice barely a whisper:

  “Wh… what… what is that?”

  His legs give out. He collapses onto the ground, sinking to a sitting position, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face.

  The spacecraft does not abduct him. It just hangs in the sky, massive and silent, scanning the desert below.

  The desert stretches endlessly around him — heat, salt, and silence. Yet above, the hovering machine radiates something cold, alien, and utterly unyielding.

  For a moment, everything stops: the running, the fear, the chaos. Only the desert, the prisoners, and the spacecraft remain — locked in a strange, tense stillness.

  A gate opens on the underside of the spacecraft.

  From within, an assault gun is thrown. It slices through the air with a sharp whistle, spinning as it descends, cutting toward the desert floor.

  He watches it, frozen, heart hammering in his chest. Around him, the prisoners form a tense circle, motionless, eyes locked on the falling weapon. They do not move, do not interfere — only watch as it crashes down to the ground.

  The gun lands with a heavy, echoing thud, sending a small cloud of salt dust swirling into the air.

  Then, as suddenly as it opened, the gate closes again, sealing the spacecraft back into silence.

  For a moment, the desert is still once more. Only the heat, the salt, and the strange metallic presence above remain.

  “Wh… what is it? What do I do now… what do I do with this?” he mutters to himself, voice trembling.

  The spacecraft rises slightly higher, hovering silently above.

  The prisoners keep their gaze fixed on it, frozen, mesmerized.

  He edges toward the fallen gun, careful, every movement measured. He picks it up, hands shaking slightly as he grips the cold metal.

  The prisoners watch him now, their eyes widening as they realize he has taken the weapon.

  He stands, holding the gun, examining it quickly, fingers tightening around the trigger. Then he slowly turns, and his gaze meets theirs.

  They are still, eyes locked on him, the desert silent except for the pounding of his own heartbeat.

  For a moment, everything hangs — man, prisoners, desert, and the silent spacecraft above — suspended in tension, each waiting, each calculating.

  Suddenly, the prisoners rush at him, fast, unstoppable.

  “Wait! What?! Hey, wait! Wait! Wait!” he shouts, panic cracking his voice.

  They close in, hands reaching for him. One thrusts a finger toward his right eye, while pressing his neck with the palm of the other hand.

  “Haa! Wait!!” he screams, struggling.

  A prisoner in front grabs the tip of his gun, trying to wrest it away.

  In the scuffle, his finger hits the trigger. A sharp crack — a bullet strikes the palm clutching the gun tip. The prisoner yelps, loosening his grip.

  He jerks the gun back instinctively, and the others falter for a split second.

  Seizing the moment, he fires again. The gun shakes violently in his hands as bullets tear through the air.

  One hits the prisoner who had his hand on his eye. Another strikes a second attacker in the chest. The force knocks them back. Pain and shock make them stagger and collapse.

  He keeps moving, breathing hard, gun in hand, eyes scanning rapidly. He aims at anyone coming closer, firing with precision.

  Each shot vibrates through the weapon, each impact creating chaos among the prisoners.

  The desert around him — the salt, the heat, the endless white — now feels alive with tension. The spacecraft hovers silently above, watching, indifferent, as fear, survival, and raw adrenaline pulse through the battlefield below.

  He sees the prisoners closing in, fast, relentless.

  Panic surges through him. Without thinking, he pulls the trigger.

  Bullets roar, cutting through the air, sparks flying as they ricochet in the salt dust.

  The first prisoner reaches him — a shot, and he collapses, screaming.

  The second comes right behind the first. Another bullet flies. Impact. He falls.

  The others hesitate for a heartbeat, then surge forward again.

  The gun fires again, sharp and violent. Sparks scatter in the salt-dusted air. Another prisoner drops, lifeless.

  The desert seems to tremble with the echoes of gunfire, each shot punctuating the tense silence between bursts.

  He breathes heavily, gun still in hand, eyes wide, scanning, waiting, every nerve alive with fear and adrenaline.

  The spacecraft above hovers silently, watching the chaos below, a cold presence against the heat and violence of the desert.

  The spacecraft lands in front of him, shaking the desert floor slightly. Dust and salt rise around its massive base as the metallic doors creak open.

  From the gate, a single figure steps out.

  Zika — the sixth highest authority among the beings — walks forward. In his hand glints a sword, deadly and sharp. He comes alone, no one following, silent and controlled. The desert feels suddenly smaller, the wind carrying a tense stillness.

  The man tightens his grip on his gun, eyes locked on Zika. Behind Zika’s feet, a soft blue light glows, shimmering upward, radiating power.

  Zika’s gaze meets his, calm and unwavering.

  “Who are you?” the man asks, voice shaking.

  Zika says nothing. He steps off the spacecraft, the doors closing behind him with a dull metallic thud.

  “I am Zika,” he says finally, voice low and commanding, “the sixth highest authority among beings.”

  The man swallows hard.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I am not here to answer your questions,” Zika replies evenly.

  “So why are you here, then?” the man presses.

  Zika raises the sword, the edge catching the sunlight.

  “This is the Zikagian Blade,” he says, voice deliberate and chilling.

  “It cuts through a person as if they were nothing more than cream.”

  The man’s chest tightens with fear.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he whispers.

  A gust of wind sweeps the desert. Zika stands behind it, silent, immense, untouchable.

  Then, with a single fluid motion, his head tilts backward unnaturally — detaches and hangs in the air for a heartbeat. Crimson blood drips onto the sand.

  Zika lifts the Zikagian Blade, swipes it clean through the air, precise and effortless, as if nothing happened.

  The desert falls silent once more. The spacecraft looms above. The man sits frozen, heart hammering, finally understanding the terrifying power of Zika and his Zikagian Blade.

  — — — — TO BE CONTINUED — — — —

  THE DEATH ISN'T A BIG COST

  IN SURVIVAL

  CHAPTER - 8: THE SOUTH POLE

  Written & Created by

  DARK_Novels_