Chapter 3: Unleashed
The giant shell of A.B.I.G.A.I.L opened slowly.
Metal panels shifted like the skin of a waking beast peeling away from its bones.
Inside was a boy.
No.
Not a soldier.
Not a monster.
A teenage boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with messy hair and dull, unfocused eyes.
A restraining collar wrapped around his neck. Thin black wires threaded into ports along his spine and skull, humming faintly like trapped insects.
He stepped out slowly.
Clumsily.
His movements were awkward — unsure where to place his feet.
Like a child learning to walk.
The audience below whispered.
Chatter...
Chatter....
The Boss walked forward calmly and disconnected the cables and shackles, linking the boy to the massive biological armor behind him.
TWISS!
TWISS!
The giant body remained standing like a hollowed vessel.
"This," the Boss announced, voice carrying across the chamber, "is the first successful Omega Savage."
He paused.
"But perfection demanded a price."
Daito's fingers tightened slowly around his sword.
"What price?" Daito asked.
The Boss smiled.
"His sanity."
Daito's eyes darkened.
"You put a mentally disabled child into that thing."
The Boss replied without emotion.
"Stability required cognitive sacrifice. Emotion creates unpredictability. We removed it."
Rage flickered in Daito's chest.
"You sick bastard."
The Boss raised a hand gently.
"Do not worry. You will see."
He leaned down and whispered into the boy's ear.
The words were soft.
Gentle.
Like a parent speaking to a sleeping child.
"Don't kill him. But otherwise…"
His voice lowered.
"I unleash you."
Light lines across the boy's tight bio-suit ignited — glowing circuits spreading across chest, arms, and eyes.
The boy's pupils sharpened.
Focused.
Empty.
The Boss returned to the spectator platform.
"Good luck, Daito Greyhell."
"Don't hold back."
Daito's response was calm.
"Thanks for the advice."
The match official stood between them.
He looked at Daito.
The expression was clear.
Kid.
Quit now.
That thing is death wearing skin.
He raised his hand.
"Begin."
The boy did not speak.
He roared.
The sound was not simply loud.
It was pressure itself.
Air condensed into violent shockwaves. The roar struck like a mountain collapsing inward.
Spectators screamed and covered themselves.
Glass panels cracked.
Dust rose like ghost smoke.
Daito planted his blade into the floor and clung to it.
FWOOSH!
His coat whipped violently.
The boy moved.
100 meters.
Closed instantly.
Not running.
Not jumping.
Simply crossing space as if distance had lost meaning.
CRACK!
His foot slammed into the floor first.
The concrete cratered outward like a shattered moon.
Then—
The punch came.
Daito felt it before he understood it.
BAM!
CRACK!
Bone shattered.
His right hand exploded with pain as if crushed inside a hydraulic press.
The impact continued.
CRACK! CKACK!
Ribs cracked sequentially — sharp, terrible sounds like breaking wooden branches in winter.
His back bent unnaturally as his body was launched upward.
"ARGH!" He yelled from the pain.
SWOOSH!
BANG!
Through the roof.
Through reinforced steel.
Out into the open sky.
Blood sprayed from his mouth in heavy droplets that spun slowly in the air.
Red.
Too red.
Why was it red?
Daito's mind drifted strangely.
Is this blood?
Why is it so much?
His right hand was broken — his dominant hand.
Ribs were misaligned.
Breathing was difficult.
The cold air burned his lungs.
Am I dreaming?
The ground below looked far.
A fall from this height could kill him.
"Just who is that bastard?!"
The boy inside A.B.I.G.A.I.L followed.
He burst upward through the shattered roof opening with terrifying acceleration.
DASH!
Daito's eyes sharpened.
Time slowed.
Rubble fragments floated around him in midair.
He grabbed one.
Then another.
Then another.
Using them like stepping stones in the sky.
Muscles screaming.
Pain burning.
But his mind was clear.
Focused.
Efficient.
He angled his body downward.
SWOOSH!
Accelerated.
Not away.
Toward.
"DIIIIIIEEEE!!!"
The scream tore from his throat as he swung his blade with his left hand.
One strike.
Everything he had.
War veteran footwork.
Uncle's sword technique.
Father's discipline.
The arc of steel cut through wind, dust, and intent itself.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Below, the Boss smiled faintly.
"Good," he whispered.
"Show me how far you go, Greyhell."
Daito's swing was desperate.
Abigail saw it.
Not with intelligence.
Not with hatred.
But with the cold mechanical certainty of a predator watching prey exhaust itself.
At the last moment, Abigail lifted his leg and kicked.
POW!
The impact was not a kick.
It was force weaponized.
SWOOSH! FWOO!
Daito's body broke through the air like a thrown stone, crashing into one building after another.
CRACK! BOOM! BRRMM!
Concrete walls shattered outward like bursting lungs.
Steel beams bent.
Glass exploded in glittering storms.
Wood splintered.
Stone fragments embedded themselves into Daito's body.
Blood mixed with dust.
Breath became shallow.
Pain became noise.
Abigail followed.
Slow.
Unstoppable.
Like gravity wearing the shape of a boy.
GRIP!
He grabbed Daito's torn coat as he fell.
Daito tried to stand.
Instinct.
Training.
Pride.
SWOOSH!
He charged forward again.
And was beaten.
BAM! POW!
PANG! KICK!
Mercilessly.
SWOOSH! FWOO!
Daito's body flew randomly across the underground city like a broken projectile losing meaning in direction.
He had never felt strength like this.
Not from Freakers.
Not from Savages.
Not from anything he had fought.
He hit the street pavement hard.
BOOM!
PSSSH!
Blood spilled wildly from his mouth, nose, and torn skin.
The world felt distant.
Unreal.
CRASH!
Abigail landed beside him.
Silent.
Patient.
Empty.
Daito pushed himself up anyway.
Blood filled his chest when he inhaled.
"Cough.. ..Cough!"
Pain was not localized.
Pain was everywhere.
But he charged.
Left hand only.
His dominant hand was destroyed.
"HAAAA!"
He screamed.
Not strategically.
Not controlled.
Just raw survival.
BAM!
The punch struck Abigail's face.
SWOOSH!
The shockwave was enormous.
A circular pressure burst outward.
SHATTER! SWOOSH!
Nearby windows shattered instantly.
Trees were torn from soil and flung sideways.
SPLASH! WAVE!
The surface of the pond near the city trembled violently as if struck by invisible hands.
FWOOSH!
Dust rose in violent rings.
Abigail did not move.
Did not react.
The pressure generated by the punch traveled backward into Daito's arm.
Inside his muscles, tissue ruptured.
BAM! SPLATTER!
Blood vessels burst like overfilled pipes.
Skin split open.
SPLISHH!
Muscle fibers protruded grotesquely.
PSSSH!
Blood spilled down his arm in reckless streams.
"Arrgh!"
Daito screamed in agony.
Abigail used the opening.
He kicked Daito's leg directly into the concrete.
CRACK!
Bone snapped.
Immediately.
The fracture was total.
POW! PANG!
POW! PANG!
Then four heavy punches followed.
Face.
Gut.
Face.
Gut.
Each strike carried terrifying precision.
Daito's consciousness flickered like a damaged light.
The match was stopped.
The Boss raised his hand calmly.
He was pleased.
Satisfied.
Almost proud.
Even though Daito could barely hear anything anymore, one sentence reached him clearly.
"Well… you work for me now."
The thought formed weakly inside Daito's fading mind.
What the hell happened?
It felt like being hit by a train.
That crashed into a truck.
That collided with an earthquake.
The medics spoke around him.
Their voices were distant.
Like people talking underwater.
Bandages wrapped his body slowly.
Carefully.
Professionally.
His broken right arms.
Shattered ribs.
Crushed leg.
Torn muscle tissue.
Multiple internal haemorrhages.
Into the ICU he was carried.
Machines beeped rhythmically.
Life preserved.
Not healed.
Preserved.
A message was sent to his mother.
PING!
[Daito has been badly injured.
He will be hospitalized for approximately one— month.
Do not worry.]
* * *
One truth settled quietly inside the underground city.
Daito Greyhell had lost.
The future had changed.
The NBA had its weapon.
And the boy who believed he could dismantle a system alone learned, for the first time in his life—
That there were forces heavier than anger.
The ICU was quiet.
Too quiet.
Beep! Beep!
Machines beeped in slow, mechanical rhythms — like a heart that had forgotten how to race.
Daito lay inside a reinforced medical pod designed by the NBA.
Transparent alloy glass sealed him in, circulating nutrient fluids and therapeutic nano-medicines through micro-tubes embedded under his skin.
Pain was constant.
Not sharp anymore.
Just… "present."
His right arms were immobilized in a regeneration frame, ribs were aligned by internal scaffolding.
His shattered leg was suspended in anti-gravity stabilization gel.
Healing was happening.
Slowly.
Purposefully.
Not to restore him quickly.
But to keep him alive.
Days blurred together.
Sometimes, doctors spoke near him.
Sometimes, they didn't.
Daito mostly listened.
That was the only thing he could do.
His body was weak, but his mind was sharp.
And something was wrong.
On the fourth day, the woman in the white coat visited him.
She stood outside the pod, hands folded behind her back.
"You survived," she said.
"Obviously," Daito replied weakly.
His voice sounded strange through the pod's communication speaker.
"Was it planned?" he asked suddenly.
Silence followed.
She didn't ask what he meant.
That was answer enough.
"You fought well," she said instead.
Daito's eyes narrowed.
"You knew I would lose."
Another silence.
Then—
"Yes."
The word was simple.
Heavy.
Honest.
"Why?" Daito asked.
"Because victory without preparation breeds arrogance," she said calmly. "You were growing too fast."
Daito's fingers twitched slightly inside the fluid.
"So you broke me."
"No."
The woman turned slightly.
"You were not broken."
"You wanted me humbled."
"Correct."
The truth was simple and brutal.
The NBA believed Daito's potential was dangerous.
Uncontrolled.
Independent.
A variable that might dismantle the system if left unchecked.
So they tested him.
Not just physically.
Psychologically.
Abigail had not used full capability.
Daito realized it slowly.
The speed.
The strength.
The precision.
The boy's behaviour had shown moments of hesitation when Daito was nearly dead.
Not mercy.
Observation.
Learning.
Training began on the ninth day.
Not conventional training.
The pod opened slightly while he was still weak.
A robotic arm injected stimulants.
"Stand," the voice system ordered.
Daito tried.
His muscles screamed.
Bone scaffolds shifted under pressure.
He collapsed once.
Then again.
Then, he forced himself upright.
Because his father's voice echoed somewhere inside memory.
"A man does what he has to do."
The training room was underground.
White.
Empty.
Designed for isolation.
They gave him weighted movement exercises first.
Then, reaction drills.
Then combat simulations projected as holographic enemies.
At first, he failed constantly.
His broken body resisted aggressive motion.
But Daito learned something important.
Efficiency was not strength.
Timing was.
On the eighteenth day, something unusual happened.
During a simulation, Daito noticed a pattern.
The enemy AI intentionally slowed its strike sequences when his life health dropped below critical threshold.
He stopped moving.
Paused.
"Replay combat logs," he requested.
The system hesitated.
Then complied.
He watched.
Again.
And again.
The realization settled slowly.
The simulation was designed to challenge him.
Not kill him.
Not truly defeat him.
Teach him.
The defeat in the arena was not accidental.
Abigail's final strike patterns had avoided destroying organs that would guarantee death.
The Boss had been watching not just his strength…
But his resilience.
On the twenty-third day, the woman spoke quietly outside his pod.
"You are not meant to be a soldier," she said.
"What am I then?"
Silence.
Then—
"A weapon that chooses when to fire."
On the twenty-seventh day, Daito stood unaided.
His right hand flexed slowly.
Pain still existed.
But control returned.
The scar tissue beneath skin hardened like battlefield memory.
He understood something then.
His defeat was not humiliation.
It was calibration.
The NBA was not finished with him.
Abigail was not simply a monster.
It was a mirror.
On the thirtieth day, the pod opened fully.
Daito stepped out.
Head high.
Eyes colder than before.
The woman spoke one final sentence.
"Training continues tomorrow."
Daito nodded.
Then asked quietly—
"When I fight him again… is he still the same boy?"
The woman did not answer.
Because both of them knew the truth.
No experiment remained unchanged after combat.
That night, Daito looked at the underground city through reinforced glass.
Somewhere below, Abigail was probably sleeping.
Or thinking.
Or learning.
Or waiting.
Daito placed his left hand on the glass.
And whispered softly,
"I will win next time."
Not with rage.
Not with pride.
But with certainty.
* * *
The woman in white entered the training chamber carrying clothes folded neatly over her arm.
Daito was sitting against the wall, eyes half closed, breathing slowly as his body adjusted to post-recovery movement.
She dropped the clothing beside him.
"Stand."
Daito opened one eye.
"…Why?"
"You are going to meet your team."
He didn't move immediately.
Then he sighed and stood.
SWOOSH!
His movements were controlled now — less wild, more efficient. The scars beneath his skin still pulled slightly when he stretched.
She handed him the new outfit.
A white and purple leather jacket.
Lightweight.
Durable.
Designed for mobility.
He inspected it briefly.
"Stylish," he muttered.
"You are representing the NBA now," she said calmly.
He slipped the jacket on.
Then she handed him a new weapon.
A refined blade.
Slim.
Balanced.
Different from his uncle's war sword.
More surgical.
Less ceremonial.
He tested the weight.
Silent.
Satisfied.
As they walked, she spoke.
"You are not a lone hunter anymore."
Daito didn't respond.
"I know you prefer one-man operations," she continued. "But you are part of the structure now."
He stopped walking.
Turned slightly.
"I am not good with teams."
"I don't care," she said.
Then added coldly,
"Besides, I would appreciate it if you spoke to me with more respect now."
Daito's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You are senior to me now," she said. "You are NBA property."
The word settled heavily.
Property.
Not prisoner.
Not ally.
Property.
He said nothing.
They entered a large tactical meeting room.
Three individuals stood inside.
Savages.
Each dressed more stylishly than the last.
The first Savage "Gabimaru Sway" was tall, wearing dark blue combat robes with embedded alchemic veins glowing faintly along the sleeves.
The second "Zumi Caid" wore silver tactical armor etched with geometric sigils.
The third "Tasao Void" looked younger — maybe twenty — with crimson highlights across a black high-collar jacket.
They observed Daito.
Some nodded.
Some smiled slightly.
Daito did not greet them.
He evaluated them.
Cold.
Analytical.
In his mind, he saw not warriors.
But failures.
People who had sacrificed loved ones for borrowed power.
Power that came from grief.
Power that required emotional mutilation.
Meaningless strength built on tragedy.
He spoke.
"You are all broken people chasing control over something you don't understand."
The room went silent.
One Savage's eye twitched.
Another tightened his jaw.
The third stepped forward slightly.
But before anything escalated—
The woman in white spoke.
"Back."
Her voice carried authority.
They obeyed.
Then she continued.
"You have noticed the chips behind your ears, correct?"
Daito didn't react.
"Explosive devices," she said calmly.
"If you misbehave, they detonate."
The Savages' expressions tightened.
"They are not just control mechanisms," she added. "They are stability insurance."
She gestured lightly.
"The NBA groups you by combat capability. You are considered equals in operational hierarchy."
She looked directly at Daito.
"If you fight each other, you all die."
The implication was clear.
Rebellion was suicide.
One of the Savages spoke quietly.
"So this is the legendary Greyhell."
Another smirked faintly.
"He doesn't look impressive."
Daito didn't respond.
Because in his mind, they were already irrelevant.
The woman spoke one final instruction.
"You will cooperate."
Daito replied casually,
"I work alone."
She looked at him.
"You work for us."
He didn't argue.
Because arguing was wasteful.
Instead, he said one sentence.
"If they get in my way, I remove them."
The Savages stiffened slightly.
But the woman did not object.
As Daito walked past them, one of the Savages whispered,
"Monster."
Daito stopped briefly.
Turned slightly.
Then said quietly,
"Sacrificing someone you love for power doesn't make you strong."
Pause.
"It just means you were afraid to be weak."
He walked out.
Leaving silence behind.
* * *
That night, somewhere deep underground, three Savages stared at the empty hallway where Daito had stood.
The youngest one spoke.
"He's going to betray us."
The second answered.
"No."
The third said quietly,
"He is already beyond us."
Meanwhile, inside the central NBA command tower…
The Boss watched surveillance footage.
And smiled.
The mission paper lay flat in the hands of Daito Greyhell as he read under the white fluorescent lights of the briefing room.
Retrieval mission.
Simple wording.
Heavy meaning.
An operative from the National Biohazard Authority had been eliminated inside an enemy-controlled base.
Stability protocol demanded response.
Destroy hostile mechanisms.
Retrieve the briefcase the agent left behind.
Daito's eyes scanned the document once.
Then twice.
Then he paused.
"…These are people," he said.
Not Freakers.
Humans.
He had expected mutated monsters.
Not this.
Not soldiers of another faction.
"Tch," muttered Tasao V, leaning against the wall.
"See who's acting chicken now." added Gabimaru.
Daito glanced at him.
Expression flat.
Then looked away.
"Quit if you're scared," added Zumi lazily.
"Simple. Die later."
Daito spoke without raising his voice.
"If something is simple here, it's you talking nonsense without backing it up."
The room went quiet.
The Savages exchanged looks.
The woman in white entered.
She had been watching.
"You leave immediately," she said.
"The target base is located beyond the eastern quarantine zone."
She gestured toward the open hangar doors.
"Use the NBA jet, Gabimaru. You remain with me."
Gabimaru scoffed. "Tch, fine."
* * *
The transport aircraft of the National Biohazard Authority was sleek, matte black, almost invisible against the night sky.
Inside, the atmosphere was tense.
Tasao V stretched his neck casually.
Zumi C checked his alchemic resonance bracelet.
Daito sat alone, cleaning his blade.
Silently.
Methodically.
The base was visible below — an enemy fortress carved into rocky terrain.
Multiple defensive turrets.
Human soldiers.
Communication towers.
No Freaker signatures detected.
Daito's fingers tightened slightly on the weapon.
He didn't like this.
Not because of danger.
Because of clarity.
Fighting monsters was simple.
Fighting people was complicated.
People had reasons.
People had families.
People bled and screamed differently.
The jet doors opened.
Cold wind rushed inside.
"Jump in twenty seconds," the pilot's voice said through the intercom.
The Savages stood near the edge.
Tasao V smirked.
"Don't die, Greyhell."
Daito didn't respond.
Zumi C added quietly,
"Show us what the legendary kid can do."
Daito stepped forward.
Looked down at the base below.
Then said calmly,
"Just don't get in my way, Savages."
No emotion.
No threat.
Just operational fact.
The woman's voice came through the communication channel.
"Retrieve the briefcase."
"Destroy enemy defensive infrastructure."
"Mission priority: stability maintenance."
The jet reached a drop position.
The hatch opened.
FWOOSH!
Wind roared violently.
Daito adjusted his jacket.
White and purple leather moving with the air.
He gripped his blade.
Head high.
Eyes focused.
"Jump."
Three shadows fell from the sky.
One believed in power through sacrifice.
One believed in controlled chaos.
And one…
Believed in getting the job done.
The retrieval mission had begun.
to be continued....