It was insectoid in base form with six legs and low to the ground.
But its carapace rippled with chromatophore cells that changed through the forest colors before settling on a mottled brown-green.
Trapikis1 genes.
And its legs—long, digitigrade, built for explosive bursts of speed.
Duma1 genes.
That explained the impossible pace.
Ethan hadn’t been running at all. He had been riding on sothing.
Blood seeped through the creature’s skin where its camouflage had failed. The dark stains spread across its flanks.
Whatever gene-splicing process had created it, the result seed to be a little unstable.
The thing was dying even as it carried its master.
Xavier t Lt. Hawn’s eyes across the clearing and gave a short nod.
Lt. Hawn had done good work.
Ethan almost rolled his eyes in exasperation. He stepped away from his dying mount and spread his arms.
"Since you clearly don’t want to leave," Ethan said lightly, "then I suppose I’ll just have to make you leave."
Then his hand moved.
It was fast.
The portable weapon he drew wasn’t military-standard—it was custom.
It was a vibrating sword with a serrated edge like a surgical bone saw. Each micro-tooth was oscillating at a high frequency.
Threaded along the flat of the blade, thin as spider silk but bright as neon. They were laser filants. Anything that the edge touched, it wouldn’t just cut.
It would shred.
Xavier brought his laser dagger up just in ti.
The first clash sent sparks screaming into the dark.
The vibration from Ethan’s blade traveled up through Xavier’s arm, rattling his teeth, threatening to shake the dagger right out of his grip.
Xavier gritted his jaw and pushed using the leverage of his stance to force the blades apart.
Ethan smoothly reset his stance and ca again, low and fast. The serrated blade was whining as it carved through the air.
"You’re good," Xavier said in a low voice with a dark face.
Ethan’s lips curled up, and he said, "I had an excellent teacher."
Xavier shoved him back, hard, to make as much distance from him as possible.
He took a deep breath and thought with a grave expression.
A teacher? There’s soone else?
○●○●
Back at the Seaside Estate in the High Society Club, the atmosphere was considerably less violent.
—but no less dangerous.
The cooking robot, not yet comrcially available but soon would be, had outdone itself.
The dining table was loaded with dishes that looked like art and slled like a gourmand’s fever dream.
The aroma alone was enough to make anyone drool over it.
Helena had settled Lilianna into a chair. She gave water first, then a napkin. Then she pushed a loaded plate firmly into her hands with a look that said, Eat.
Lilianna took a bite of a slow-roasted rib and paused, her eyes widening. She ate like she always ate sothing like this, but she was too polite to say so out loud.
"This food..." Lilianna began, her voice softening. "It’s better than anything I’ve ever eaten before.
Then, she turned to Grayson and said, "Grayson, if this is the prototype for the new ho-service line, Maxwell Corp is going to monopolize the culinary sector by next quarter."
Grayson continued to eat, ignoring Lilianna.
Ciel, who had taken the seat beside Lilianna, quickly picked at his own food upon hearing her comnt. One bite and he ate like he hadn’t seen a al in three days.
"Nrrronnnoporrrize (monopolize)? Derrr’re gonno be gorrds (They’re going to be gods)," he muttered through a mouthful of mushroom-infused mash and swallowed before continuing. "I’d pay half my salary just to have this thing wake up with breakfast."
Neville sat across the table next to Grayson, with his own al half-finished.
Good food always had a way of lifting the lingering tension, making people feel good enough to talk.
And Lilianna turned out to be quite a talker.
"Do you rember the training camp in the Third Sector, Grayson?"
Lilianna asked, her tone changing from polite to casual upon nostalgia.
"When we were first assigned to the sa squad, we thought we were so elite until they handed us those survival kits."
Helena snorted, forcing herself to stop laughing as she recalled the scene. "Oh, god. The survival kits. I haven’t thought about those in years."
"Survival kits?" Ciel looked up, his expression souring instantly. "You an the ’Brick of Despair’?"
"Exactly!"
Lilianna laughed, waving her fork in the air.
"The military rations we had when we were stuck in that canyon for forty-eight hours during the sandstorm. We were starving, and Grayson—ever the dutiful leader—decided it was ti to open the ergency supplies."
"It was Batch 9-Gamma-702,"
Ciel chid in with a dry, bitter tone. He held a grudge bad enough to even recall the specific number of that batch of supplies.
"I will never forget those numbers. I think they’re etched onto my soul in acid."
"702?" Helena asked, grinning. "Was that the one that tasted like wet sand and copper?"
"No," Ciel corrected, pointing his knife at her. "702 was the one that tasted like recycled boot rubber soaked in industrial-grade floor cleaner. It didn’t even have a texture. It was just... structural madness."
Neville thought that military rations would at least be nutrient solutions with a different flavor profile, but he was dead wrong.
It was worse.
Neville sent a pitying look at Grayson. Grayson saw him and just shrugged.
Lilianna swatted a fork in the air and continued.
"Grayson took the first bite to show us it was safe. But then, he chewed for three full minutes."
Lilianna looked at Grayson with an accusatory look.
"His expression might not have changed, but then he looked at us and said, ’It’s edible.’"
"It was edible and efficient," Bryan comnted on Grayson’s behalf. A hint of a smile in his eyes as he looked at his old friends. "It had four thousand calories per block."
"It was a cri against humanity, Grayson!"
Lilianna countered, her eyes bright with the mory. She continued to call out to Grayson, but obviously, Grayson had no intention to entertain her.
"I tried to trade mine to a passing scout for a single dried la1. The scout took one look at the 702, then looked at , and just walked away without a word. He didn’t even want it for free."
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