Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Remnant...

Deep within the woods.

The sky burned faintly above the endless canopy, dusk bleeding into night like a dying wound. For a while, it was peaceful — wind whispering through the trees, a cold current sliding between branches. Then the air shifted.

You could feel it — that creeping heat in the bones of the world, pressure coiling tight until even the birds went silent. 

The still forest began to tremble. The trees swayed violently as wind ripped through the leaves, scattering them like shards of green glass into the darkening sky.

It built slowly. Ten minutes of gathering tension — the forest caught in a breath it couldn't release — until a sound cracked the heavens open.

BOOM.

A tear split across the skyline, faint and jagged at first, like a fracture in glass. 

Energy bled through, white and violet, distorting the air, sizzling with the raw stench of ozone. The wind howled, the trees groaned — and then the sky itself ripped.

From the gash in the atmosphere came lightning, unnatural and writhing like serpents of energy. They lashed out, stabbing into the earth, carving molten scars into the cold grass. The very air warped with heat and noise, the ground shaking beneath its wrath.

And then something fell through.

A body — limp, torn, and bloody — dropped from the wound in reality, tumbling violently through branches before slamming into a small clearing below. The impact sent a wet, heavy sound through the night, scattering dirt and leaves.

The portal pulsed once. Twice. Then, as abruptly as it came, it folded in on itself, imploding with a shriek of energy before vanishing. The pressure vanished. The wind died.

Silence reclaimed the forest.

No trace of the rift remained.

No light. 

No smoke.

Only him.

Hank J. Wimbleton — the Icon of Sin, the most infamous man in Nevada, the man who refused to die — lay sprawled on the forest floor.

His body looked like it had been dragged through ten yards and spat out by hell itself. 

The black combat attire clung to him in shreds, riddled with bullet holes and blood. His mask was ripped, one lens shattered, exposing his left eye — dull, tired, but still faintly alive.

The other half of his face revealed the twisted gleam of his metal jaw, the reflection of it catching the pale moonlight. A mechanical grin with no humor left in it.

His left arm was gone, torn from the socket, nothing but a seared stump left behind. His right hand clutched the ropes of his guts spilling from a jagged gash across his stomach. His leg was bent the wrong way. His ribs — visible through shredded cloth — rose and fell in uneven rhythm.

He was alive. Somehow. But barely.

If a corpse could breathe, it would look like him.

The forest watched him bleed.

Steam rose off his body, faint in the cold air. The only sound left was the wet, ragged rhythm of his breathing — harsh, uneven, punctuated by low groans that almost sounded like laughter.

Breath rattled through his lungs, fog curling from his mouth. He wanted—no, he longed—to surrender, to let the cold earth claim him. But the rules of his existence would not allow it. Death was denied.

If he could've chosen, he would've died right there. The ground beneath him was cool — cold, even comforting. The kind of quiet that promised an end.

But Hank knew better.

Death wasn't mercy anymore. Not for him. He had learned that lesson a long, long time ago.

This was the cycle. The loop. The joke that the universe never stopped telling.

The air smelled thick with iron. Blood pooled beneath him, painting the grass a deep, ugly red. His eyes flickered up to the sky, blinking past the haze of exhaustion and pain.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he saw them...

Stars.

Not the crimson haze of Nevada's sky. Not the chemical clouds or the dull orange glow of firelight reflected off dust. These were clear — cold — real.

The kind of stars that belonged to a world untouched by human ruin.

For a moment, he wondered if he was hallucinating. It wouldn't be the first time.

Hallucination? Delirium? He had seen them before, had learned to distrust every flicker of light and color, every fragment of sanity in his mind. But this felt different. Real. True.

Pain always brought the visions — warped memories, ghosts, broken fragments of a mind that had long since stopped healing. He had seen angels made of static, and oceans of blood. But this... this felt too consistent. Too vivid.

He blinked again, forcing his vision to steady. Tall trees loomed overhead, thick with green leaves — alive leaves, not the sickly gray husks from home.

He was in a forest. A real forest.

That shouldn't have been possible.

He hadn't seen a healthy tree in years — not since Nevada's sun burned out and the skies turned red. Everything that grew after that was twisted, mutated — shaped by radiation and blood. Nothing pure had survived there.

And yet here he was, lying in grass that smelled of soil and rain, surrounded by trees that looked like they belonged to another century.

The air was cleaner. The temperature mild. The quiet — unbearable.

He tried to make sense. Some trick by his Employers? A cruel, posthumous joke? Or another godlike being, mocking him with a fleeting paradise only to tear it away?

No. He knew better. Peace was poison. Comfort was a trap.

For a second, he almost laughed.

'What, did they finally decide to give me paradise?'

He could almost hear the sarcasm in his own voice. If this was some test — some simulation cooked up by the bastards who toyed with him — then they had a sick sense of humor.

No. This was something else.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, the breath rattling through his chest, he thought. "Maybe it's the last stop."

But even as he thought it, something deep in his bones — something older and crueler — whispered otherwise.

He was never allowed to rest.

The grass beneath him shifted. A faint hum built in the air, static crawling across his skin. The world around him seemed to tighten, the pressure returning in a pulse that grew louder and louder in his skull.

He'd been here before.

Hank drew a shallow breath, his chest rattling. His hand slipped from his wound and fell limp beside him. His last coherent thought before the blackness overtook him was a bitter one:

Hell

He stopped and fell flat.

Hank lay in the center of the forest clearing, his body a twisted, mangled composition of blood, broken limbs, and shredded combat gear. The moonlight fell on him like a cruel spotlight, illuminating every slice, every gash, every abnormal angle of his battered form.

He looked like a macabre portrait from some twisted Renaissance nightmare—artful in its horror, deliberate in its cruelty.

Time dilated. To him, the seconds stretched into hours; to the world, barely a few minutes passed.

Somewhere, far away, a ticking clock echoed its hollow rhythm.

And there he remained, a battered boddy...

Is denied death.

A tremor ran through him. Subtle at first, almost imperceptible, then violent, uncontrollable. Sparks of improbable energy crackled sporadically over his shredded skin. Heat blossomed across his flesh, burning it, charring it, as black smoke hissed into the cold night air.

Guts, exposed and pulsing, bubbled with unnatural fervor, writhing before bursting into flames that licked his torso. Muscle melted, skin liquefied, organs shriveled into a blackened slurry, dripping onto the forest floor. His clothing and equipment, once soaked with blood and gore, flared and disintegrated into ash, scattered away by the whispering wind.

When the firestorm of destruction ceased, what remained was horrifying in its simplicity. A charred skeleton, some muscle fibers and cartilage stubbornly clinging to the bone. The skull remained intact, the artificial metallic jaw pristine and unyielding.

And there, in the right eye socket, a single wilted, lifeless eye stared skyward, unblinking, as if clinging to some distant, unattainable dream—some fragment of a hope he could no longer reach.

Steam hissed from the skeleton, curling into the cold air like ghostly tendrils. Electrical arcs danced across bone, snapping along the spinal column and lingering in the jagged remnants of his ribs. Every crackle, every flicker, felt like a heartbeat, a defiance.

Hank's consciousness, trapped within this impossible reconstruction, lingered at the edges of perception, tasting every sensation, every impossibility, every shred of agony. He could feel himself being consumed, remade, reborn in the furnace of improbable energy. And still, that single eye, wilted and pitiful, fixed on the night sky, a silent witness to the endless, merciless spiral he could not escape.

The blackened skeleton trembled. A low, vibrating hum grew from deep within the bones, like a chord struck across the universe itself. Sparks of improbable energy ignited along his spinal cord, crawling upward and outward, wrapping the charred structure in white-hot electricity.

Bones cracked and snapped in precise, violent rhythm, as if the skeleton itself were remembering its proper form. Calcium and minerals fused, forming a humerus, radius, and forearm, forming a full skeletal arm in mere seconds. Joints clicked into place. Tendons flared into existence, fibers knitting together as muscles twined around bone like living wire.

Skinless nerves sparked and writhed as they rebuilt, racing through the skeletal lattice in pure white light. Veins crystallized, thick with nascent blood, weaving a spiderweb across the reborn frame.

The organs surged back into being, swelling and pulsing with impossible energy. Guts bubbled, lungs expanded with fresh, burning air, a heart exploded into life, pumping crimson through his emerging veins.

And then... the brain.

Brain matter explodes and reforms back into existence, bringing Hank's consciousness and memories back.

A chaotic storm of neurons fired, connecting past and present, pain and memory, instinct and awareness. Every sensation—every torment he had endured—returned in jagged, searing clarity. Pain, despair, exhaustion—all layered atop each other, amplified. His consciousness screamed from the edges of oblivion.

Hank jerked upward, spasming violently, as if every cell, every molecule, was clawing its way back into existence. Electricity danced along his reformed skin, wrapping his body in a visible aura of improbable energy. Bones snapping together, muscles swelling, nerves pulsing, fingers flexing with a new, terrifying precision. Then the rest of his body followed: legs, torso, chest, neck.

The metallic lower jaw bit back into place, teeth glinting under the moonlight. Skin knitting over scars and melted muscle. Blood coursed freely, carrying both pain and life, rushing through veins like molten liquid.

He jerks up, his eyes open, and...

GET UP.

WEAK.

INSUFFICIENT PERFORMANCE.

GET UP.

He felt everything!

Every fiber of him burned, a sensation like being chewed alive and rebuilt from the inside out. Like tiny maggots crawling all over him, laying eggs into any spot and cravis that his boody needed to restore.

His lungs heaved, his heart pounded like a war drum, but he obeyed instinctively. Standing was not optional. Pain was inevitable.

As if his whole body was engulfed by very familiar hellish flames. Along with those embers laughing at him in a very demonic undertone.

Drowning in acid just by trying to form a coherent thought.

Finally, his crimson lenses snapped over his eyes, restoring his world to the familiar hue he had relied on for decades. 

Tunnel vision flared, awareness sharpened, instincts coiling like springs ready to snap.

Exhaling warm air that turned to vapor upon contact with the cold atmosphere. His body instinctively going into a combative stance, ready to pierce someone's throat out.

Neverves and senses perked up.

Throwing punches, kicks and jabs spontaneously every direction.

But after a few seconds of hitting nothing but empty space, he finally let himself loose, the state he was in catching up to him.

Hank flexed his fingers. The forest awaited—silent, alive, indifferent. He could feel every fiber of himself again, fully aware, fully capable. Rebuilt.

And still, deep in the recesses of his mind, that wilted, lifeless eye of the skeleton lingered—an echo of the torment he had endured, a reminder that no matter how complete, no resurrection was ever truly painless.

Hank exhaled, letting the mist of his breath curl in the cold night air. He was whole.

He can finally feel his entire self again.

From the regenerated left arm, strong and whole, to the familiar weight of his upper jaw and the metallic lower jaw.

Huh?

'So much for regeneration.'

The words echoed in his mind with bitter amusement. Even after surviving the hellfire of improbable energy, after feeling every agonizing second of his body melting away and reassembling from nothing, the experience still clung to him. The memory of every second, every searing pain, burned in his consciousness.

And yet... what unsettled him most wasn't the memory—it was the forest.

Real trees. Real soil. Grass stretching in every direction. Flora thriving. It didn't make sense.

'So this wasn't just my mind going overdrive? This isn't Nevada?'

Confusion twisted through him like a snake. His mind, trained for years in the chaos and ruin of the irradiated desert, refused to accept this: verdant life, the faint blow of wind through leaves, the soft padding of soil underfoot.

In his memory, the other Western states were deserts and shrublands. Artificial flora in greenhouses was the only life he had ever touched. Anything natural was a luxury for the top dogs to feast and exploit, or was a cruel trick.

He could not possibly be in any other state or country that he could note of.

And yet, here he was. Alive. Whole. Standing in a thriving forest.

He considered the possibilities. Warp gates. Teleportation. Temporal anomalies. He had experienced them before, each a fleeting, disorienting glimpse beyond the bounds of reality—a blink-and-you-miss-it affair. But nothing like this.

Nevada, he knew, was a cage. A prison with invisible walls. Any attempt to leave was met with inexplicable forces, a tug of physics and improbability binding its prisoners. Anyone who tried to escape fell into hysteria, paranoia, madness—or worse, turned broken, like him.

Like puppets on a string.

It doesn't let go.

It's like a curse.

We are cursed...

Yet, despite all the rational explanations, a small part of him—buried under centuries of doubt and rotten hope—was captivated by the beauty around him. The forest was alive. Every leaf shimmered faintly in the moonlight, every branch swayed like a living entity. Even the rustle of small nocturnal creatures felt orchestrated, harmonious.

He wasn't sure if this was still some kind of illusion, his own denial or the lack of sleep and insomnia catching up to him again.

Hank reached out, fingertips brushing the leaves. Texture, life, growth. 'So... this is what it felt like back then?'

The simple act of touching something real, something untouched by destruction, brought a momentary respite from the constant chaos that defined him.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling the skin of his face, the warmth of what was left intact. Then he realized: his signature red goggles were gone.

Damn it.

He had sworn he kept hold of them while falling through that impossible sky. Without them, his tired, baggy eyes were exposed—pitiful. Weakness in plain sight. And weakness was dangerous.

He would not show fragility. He would not allow anyone to exploit him. He was not a pawn. Not a stepping stone. He was an avalanche waiting to happen.

*sigh*

Hank surveyed the forest. Vibrant green leaves, the gentle rustle of wind, the rich, dark soil. Beauty, alien and unfamiliar, pressed in on him. For the first time in ages, he paused, breathing it in. A rare moment of reflection. Of clarity.

He ventured deeper into the clearing, searching for his goggles, when moonlight caught something high above. His gaze lifted—and froze.

A fractured sphere hung in the sky, casting shards of light across the forest and onto his face.

A shattered Moon.

"What..."

"Bullshit, what is this? Did the Improbability Drives cause this? Gravity and oceans would be in chaos if it was."

He pondered to himself in disbelief and mustering out in confusion. Recalling his textbook knowledge on the celestial body.

He reeled his thoughts back ever so slightly. 'Yet everything seems to be completely natural.'

He rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of it, his mind teetering on the edge of disbelief. Months without sleep had shredded his patience and his ability to process even minor oddities, let alone this.

'This day cannot get any more unbearable... headache, great.'

Staring at the nightly sky, the shattered Moon illuminating on his uncovered peculiar appearance.

*sigh*

'This complicates things.'

He exhaled, trying to calm himself. He needed something familiar, something to ground him. His face was exposed, and that, by his own definition, was a sign of weakness. A weakness he could not tolerate. And he hated it.

He muttered through the fog of frustration:

"I need... my fucking... gla... glasses."

His fists tightened. He wanted to smash something—anything—but the forest offered no convenient target. Only trees, only shadows.

He pressed his hand to his face, trying to focus, trying to center himself.

'I can't even remember what happened before I landed here. So fucking ironic.'

'Witnessing... greenery...'

'Why does something so mundane make me feel sick? Why the hell do I even care?'

Frustration coiled tight in his chest. Rage bubbled to the surface. He punched.

A thick tree trunk exploded under the force, splinters scattering like a violent firework. Leaves swirled around him, carried by his fury and the sudden release of tension.

"Do what comes natural."

The words slipped from his lips, almost a whisper, carrying weight he couldn't yet name. He drove his hand sideways through the trunk, wood ripping apart like butter under heat. Bark and wooden chips flew in all directions. The tree groaned, strained, then collapsed with a thud, leaves scattering, the earth trembling beneath it.

Hank stood amidst the aftermath, calm now, headache dulled. His gaze caught a glint among the foliage.

The red-lens goggles.

His anchor. His anchor to clarity.

He snatched them, brushing off soil and leaves, sliding them over his eyes. Crimson returned. Tunnel vision flared, reality snapped back into focus, the world reduced to the clarity he craved, the familiar shade he relied on. A piece of himself returned, a missing puzzle piece restored.

The only item that helpped him see everything and every being for what they are.

A dark and crimson red.

That was always the primary color of what he saw before and after encountering or interacting with anyone. He made sure things stayed that pleasant color for as long as he's standing.

For a moment, he breathed. For a fleeting moment, the forest, the fractured moon, the impossible peace—all of it was tangible. Real. And he was still standing.

Hank's eyes, now framed by the familiar red lenses, scanned the forest. Shadows danced and stretched, the leaves whispering secrets that no one else could hear. The ground beneath him was soft, yielding, yet every step carried the weight of suspicion.

And then, a glint.

High in the dense undergrowth, moonlight seeped onsomething metallic, lodged deep in the darkened bark of a massive oak. 

The Dragon sword.

The blade, a symbol of his prowess and his will. Its handle's end loosely resembling the shape of a dragon's head.

Time slowed. His hand twitched instinctively toward the hilt. That blade—more than a weapon, more than steel—was a part of him, an extension of his will, forged with his rage and his precision. Every scar, every kill, every trial it had witnessed whispered to him through the steel.

He approached, cautious but unhesitant. Even in a place that defied reason, he knew one thing: that sword was real, tangible, essential.

With a firm grip, he tugged. Wood splintered. Bark exploded outward, rain of chips scattering across the clearing. The sword slid free, slicing the air with a hiss that sounded almost alive. Moonlight gleamed across the polished blade, revealing the engraved Thai letters along its spine:

บดขยี้, ทำลาย, ฆ่า

Crush.

Destroy.

Kill.

Such a unique and fitting weapon to describe its wielder in such simple detail.

It was perfect. A statement, a promise, a reflection of him in three sharp, undeniable words. The Dragon Sword did not need to speak. It did not need to justify. It simply existed—and in its existence, Hank's own purpose was reflected.

When the blade is used to its fullest, it shows more emotion then he ever does. Kinda poetic really.

He sheathed it across his back, the weight familiar, grounding. His fingers flexed along the hilt unconsciously. The reunion with his cherished blade felt intoxicating. It saved his ass countless times after all. Not that he needed saving...

And then, something made him pause.

A sound, subtle but deliberate—a snapping twig, the faint brush of movement behind a cluster of ferns. Instinct and paranoia, honed through years of survival, screamed at him. Eyes narrowing behind the crimson lenses, he scanned the darkness.

Carved into the thick bark of a tree, words caught his eye—familiar, almost haunting in their simplicity. He didn't need to read them twice. No one else could have carved them, and no one else could ever understand their weight the way he did.

...Just Do What Comes Natural...

A shiver ran down his spine. The phrase was innocent on the surface, deceptively simple—but beneath it, a malevolent undertone gnawed at him, familiar from nightmares he had long ago learned to endure.

Was he feeling paranoid?

The words reverberated in his mind, bending the forest around him, twisting shadows into shapes he didn't recognize. The ground, the trees, the moonlight—they all seemed... off. His pulse quickened. His grip on the Dragon Sword tightened instinctively.

'I feel like a damn schizo, damn it.'

Hank's thoughts spiraled, a storm of frustration and hyperawareness. Every instinct, every shard of madness honed over decades, screamed at him to ignore the message—but he couldn't. The forest mocked him, and the lingering shadows seemed almost alive.

"Fucking clowns," he muttered under his breath. The words were absurd, ridiculous—but not to him. To Hank, it made perfect sense. Some dangers were never literal. Some absurdities carried their own weight.

He finally pushed himself upright. The tree's carved letters had left their mark—not just physically, but psychologically. With a practiced motion, he slashed the bark with the edge of the Dragon Sword. Sawdust and splinters rained around him as the worded threat was physically torn from the trunk, another fragment of chaos expelled into the forest.

Heathed once again, the blade rested comfortably against his back. Hank exhaled—a long, deliberate sigh, the fiftieth of the night perhaps, though it didn't matter. He was no explorer. He only had survival instinct, thrust into a place he had never been, in territory uncharted even by his precise mind. Trained him to remember streets, alleys, ruins, monsters, faces—but this was different. This was... alive.

He scanned the forest, the moon's slit casting silver across the clearing. Thoughtfully, he murmured to himself:

"Any survivalist with worth of a common sense would tell you to stay in one spot. Construct a makeshift shelter. Signal people."

But the landscape told him otherwise. Clearings stretched across the terrain, moonlight catching patches of soil, disrupting the dark with faint light. Civilization, or at least evidence of it, could not be far.

No devices. No cellular reception. No lifeline. Only instincts, honed to near perfection by decades of chaos, disaster, and encounters that defied logic. Not after witnessing whales falling from the sky, buildings collapsing, and facing... things that shouldn't exist. He thrived in it. He lived for it.

Flexing his arms, cracking his neck and fingers, he felt the familiar hum of readiness, the adrenaline of a predator sensing the unknown.

Vapor escaped his mouth in the cold night air, fogging briefly before dissipating.

He was ready.

Ready to unravel the mystery, ready to confront whatever twisted mechanism had brought him here.

Hank took a final, steadying breath. Crimson lenses catching the moonlight, Dragon Sword secured, mind sharpening with each exhale.

He was ready to get this shit over with, hoping he will find anything interesting in this long-stretching, overgrown wasteland.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter Text

Hank moved in silence, every step deliberate, as the damp undergrowth yielded beneath his boots. His body ached, joints stiff and head throbbing. He limped slightly, every step reminding him of the revival that had left his body sore and twitching, like a car just rolled off the repair line and was still rattling.

The forest around him was alive in a way he hadn't experienced since before Nevada's collapse. Towering trees stretched upward, their leaves rustling. Sunlight sliced through gaps in the canopy, splintering into thin, shafts that shined across moss and roots. 

The river nearby added its own amusement — Water like glass, flowing lazily through the forest, clear enough that he could see tiny fish darting like flickers of silver. He studied them for a moment, wondering if they had direction or if, like him, they were drifting aimlessly, carried along by a current they couldn't control.

The vibrancy of the forest was jarring. It felt alien, almost wrong, yet intoxicating. It was beautiful, yes — painfully beautiful. A contrast to the barren, sun-bleached wastelands of Nevada he used to unfortunately call home. 

The smell of wet earth, the occasional chirp of a bird, the vibrant green pressing in on all sides — it was intoxicating, but also wrong, like stepping into a painting that was almost too perfect.

Alive. Innocent. Bizarre. Even vile, in a way that made his stomach tighten. Hank had seen a lot, done a lot, but this... this vibrancy felt alien. Every rustle of leaves, every glint of sunlight seemed to mock his survival, a reminder of a world he'd lost and could never come back to.

His mind wandered, piecing together wild theories. Firstly, he was certain he might have escaped and torn out of the fierce fields of Nevada. Even though the Moon — cracked, dented, and unfamiliar — complicated the puzzle. 

Unless... he was so out of touch with the outside world at this point that even the Moon made no sense.

Hell, if he was honest, he had forgotten what the outside world even looked like or how it operated. Maybe drastic natural changes had taken place, and he'd been too insulated to notice, not that he cared for it anways. 

Information had always been scarce in Nevada; only high-ranking officials had a smidgen of insight into the world, and even then, they were lucky to hold it for more than a week before a bullet replaced them and someone else took their place.

Despite the pain in his limbs and the throbbing in his head, Hank pressed on, letting his senses drink in every detail. The smell of wet earth, the occasional birdcall, the damp air and wind flow, the feel of sunlight on his face — it all hit him at once, a rush of stimuli that was almost too much for a body and mind accustomed to barren wastelands. 

He kept moving, cautious yet purposeful, scanning the shadows and curves of the river, noting each carved tree or chopped stump — evidence of human intervention, yes, but nothing that offered guidance.

Time passed without clear measure. The fractured Moon hung in the pale sky, a constant reminder that nothing here was entirely normal. Hank counted time loosely by the feel of the wind on his skin, guessing it to be somewhere between seven and nine in the morning. Without a watch, without a device, he relied on instinct — the same instinct that had kept him alive this long.

As he walked, he pondered more. Maybe this place was mystical, ancient, a fragment of a world untouched by human hands. Maybe he'd slipped not just across space, but across time. If The Drive could bend space with no care for linearity, then perhaps temporal boundaries were equally pliable. The notion was crazy, but somehow plausible. Still, the fractured Moon unsettled the theory. He needed evidence before subscribing to the idea of time travel.

Or maybe this was all a dream, some sick purgatory designed for him alone. Perhaps he had truly passed on and now walked some afterlife, some new realm of judgment or retribution. The thought made him snort bitterly — a joke, if there ever was one. 

Dreams didn't chase you with nightmares filled with blood and repetition. Not like the endless nights he'd endured, where every rest brought nothing but the same twisted visions. Every nightmare folded into the next, a loop of violence and despair, leaving him raw, hollow, and clawing. 

Sleep should have been a refuge, a chance to let the body and mind breathe, but for him it was just another battlefield, another reminder that peace wasn't meant for people like him. Dreams didn't leave you with a lingering ache for rest you could never truly know.

Hank shook his head and exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease just enough to keep moving. Hunger had begun its subtle gnawing at the edges of his mind, not yet unbearable, but persistent enough to be acknowledged. He had survived worse, but starvation — or even the slow creep of dehydration — was a concern that wouldn't wait.

The pond from earlier had quenched his thirst, for now, but it offered no lasting reasurance. He was on his own, moving through a world that didn't care whether he lived or died. He scanned the undergrowth, noting potential sources of food — roots, berries, small animals — dismissing most with a shrug. Berry bushes were sparse, fungi were foreign and possibly lethal, and hunting tiny creatures felt like a waste of time he couldn't afford.

No, he needed something substantial, something worth the effort, something that would fill the gnawing emptiness in his gut and remind him that he was still alive.

And yet, food wasn't the only hunger pressing at him. Another, sharper craving — one less physical, more primal — whispered at the edges of his brain. A test against the unknown.

Hours passed in this rhythm. Crunching leaves underfoot, snapping twigs, sunlight drifting and dancing over his goggles. The forest offered no guidance, no markers other than its endless, shifting patterns of life. Every shadow could conceal a threat or opportunity. Every rustle could be prey or predator.

He muttered to himself, voice rough from disuse. "Right... Do what comes natural. Survive first, figure out the rest later."

A dry laugh followed. "Yeah, I'll eat fecal matter if I have to," he said under his breath, the corners of his mouth twitching despite the gnawing discomfort. Survival didn't care about dignity, and neither did he. He had no illusions about the world — it was indifferent, cruel, outright hostile. He had learned to adapt.

The forest mocked him with its perfection.

He paused briefly at a fork in the riverbank, glancing over his shoulder at the endless green behind him. No trace of where he had started. No landmarks he could trust. No help in sight. Survival instincts sharpened, muscles tensing subtly. His eyes flicked over every line of the forest, every ripple in the water, every shape that could hide prey or predator.

Hank's thoughts returned to Nevada — or what he note of it. The desert heat, the emptiness of the sky, the smell of walking corpses, the scum of the streets. This place was different. Ancient. Mystical, maybe. He could feel the weight of its history pressing down on him, as though the forest itself had been watching long before he arrived.

Protein cubes, pills, and the meager remnants of survival he had carried were gone, burnt away during his resurrection. Hopefuly his trench coat wasn't remade with some cheap crap — tailor wasn't particularly generous on the price. He was stripped to almost nothing — body, mind, and resources. If he starved here, he'd die comically, pitifully. 

Yet he pressed on, step after step, ignoring the soreness in his joints.

The crunch of leaves beneath his boots, the snapping of twigs, the distant murmur of the river — all became a rhythm, a meditation of survival. 

Sunlight glinted off his goggles, broken into shards by the canopy above. "Keep moving... keep alive," he muttered, words rough and low. "Find civilization, find someone who knows something... or at least survive the day."

The forest remained empty, but he could feel its life pressing in on all sides. Every rustle, every flash of movement, every bend of the river made him alert. 

Shadows could hide predators, or they could hide answers. Every step was a choice, a risk, a test of instinct and endurance. Hank moved with care, muscles coiled like springs, senses stretched taut. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig underfoot, felt magnified. The forest no longer seemed empty; it felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for him.

He noticed it first in subtle ways — a branch bent unnaturally, a footprint pressed into the mud near the riverbank, the faint glint of metal between the trees. Signs of life. Signs of people.

His stomach grumbled again, reminding him that survival wasn't just about curiosity or theories. Hunger demanded attention. Food, water, shelter — these weren't luxuries. They were necessities, the thin line between failing and getting out of this. Yet, even in this heightened awareness of his own needs, another instinct stirred beneath the surface: caution.

As if he ever got the luxury to choose what was a necessity and what was a luxury in the first place. Not here, not in a place that felt as alien and unforgiving as this one.

And then he heard it — a voice, low, rough, carrying through the undergrowth. Not natural, not part of the forest. A human voice.

"... You're going to attract Grimm on us if you don't stop with your constant bitching. Why didn't we leave you at the cabin for crying out loud?"

Hank froze mid-step, muscles locking, ears straining. The voice was deep, angry, carrying the weight of someone used to getting his way. Another followed, sharper, anxious. The sound of movement, muffled by leaves, the clinking of weapons.

A grin tugged at the corner of Hank's black-masked face. His goggles caught the slanting sunlight, and for a moment, a flicker of excitement cut through the tension. 

Finally. Answers. Or at least something resembling them.

Through the thick foliage, he made out figures — a group, at least a dozen, maybe more. Men and women, rough clothing, mismatched equipment, weapons held loosely but ready. Not organized soldiers. Bandits, scavengers, people who lived by their wits and brute force.

Hank's mind worked quickly. He counted sixteen, sizing them up in shapes and stances, noticing the subtle cues: the way they held their weapons, the tension in their shoulders, the wary flick of eyes. Every instinct screamed caution, every nerve hummed with anticipation.

He could approach, plead... or he could wait and watch. Survival instincts warred with curiosity. Hunger warred with caution. And somewhere in the back of his skull, that old, familiar itch.

Hank took a deep breath, steadying himself, letting the cool morning air flow into his lungs. He knew he had to act carefully, but he also knew this was an opportunity. Answers, resources, maybe even a test he could use to measure his own limits.

He muttered under his breath, voice low but firm. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

His steps were deliberate as he began to move closer, crunching leaves softly, keeping his tall figure partially hidden behind trees. Every movement calculated, every breath measured.

The forest seemed to tighten around him, shadows stretching, light filtering in splinters. The river gurgled quietly nearby, oblivious to the brewing storm of human tension. 

Hank's hand hovered near the hilt of his Dragon sword, feeling the reassuring weight beneath the cloth. Muscles tensed, heart pumping — the familiar rush of danger.

Then came the voices again, sharper this time. Commands. Shouts. The unmistakable sound of armed men preparing for a confrontation.

This wouldn't be his first approach initially, but this was different, this was far from his territory. He needed answers after all and the fact that he was tired, lost and hungry, he didn't see much to do of this situation.

It would be a nice change of pace if he homicided these thugs and relieve himself of the building itch he had at the back of his skull. He doubted anyone would miss these idiots. But he wanted the easy way out at this point, and he needs some questions answered soon.

So Hank decided for the latter option and took a contenplating gamble.

Finally, Hank stepped into the small clearing, every movement deliberate. He raised his hands slowly, letting them catch the fractured sunlight. "Hey... help," he called, voice rough but controlled, carrying through the still forest. "I'm lost. Injured. Can anyone help me?"

The group froze. Heads snapped toward him, weapons raised, grips tightening, stances stiffening. Eleven men, five women — every eye sharp, every muscle taut with aggression.

Beneath his mask, Hank's expression turned into a baring one. This was pathetic.

A massive man stepped forward, the leader. Big motherfucker.

A jagged scar ran from his eye down to his neck. A tattered cloak hung over broad shoulders, and a crude mace gleamed faintly in the sunlight. He planted his feet, chest forward, voice booming.

"Listen carefully! Hands in the air. Weapon on the ground. Empty your pockets. Then we might... maybe consider listening to you."

Hank's eyes narrowed beneath his goggles. He could smell it — fear, or confidence pretending to be courage. He didn't flinch. He didn't care.

"Look," Hank said, calm but firm, letting his voice cut through the tension like steel, "I'm just asking for directions. A camp, an outpost... anywhere. I fell hard. I'm lost. Not looking for trouble."

The leader's lips curled into a smirk. "Excuses don't matter, red-eye. Drop your weapon. Hands where we can see them. Nothing against you but the way your weapon is so easily accessible ain't making this easy for us. Not taking the chances."

So much for playing it nicely.

Hank's grin widened beneath the mask. Calm and polite slipped away, replaced by razor-sharp defiance. "Sixteen to one — you have your weapons, I have mine. So tell me... are you giving directions, or are you done shitting yourselves?"

A woman stepped forward, rifle leveled, voice sharp: "Oi! Stop talking! Get down now! You don't get to walk in here like you own the place!"

A thin, cloaked man muttered nervously: "Fuck, Fuck this is exactly how my old bro lost his ear. This is how them damn Huntsmen play, trying to put you in a false sense of security, and that shit!"

Another voice barked from the back: "I say we just kill him! Outnumbered, looks dangerous as hell — let's finish it!"

Hank tilted his head slightly: "Kill me? Look closer. You're all nervous. Heart racing. And yet... you want to charge into this uncertain of the end result."

The leader's smirk faltered, fingers tightening on the mace. "I said—"

" I heard you," Hank interrupted, voice cold, slicing through the tension. "But I don't scare that easily. You're nervous, I advise for you to find a common ground quickly."

Hesitation flickered across several faces. The woman with the rifle twitched, unsure if she should fire. The cloaked man swallowed hard. The leader leaned forward, trying to project authority, but the confidence in Hank's stance was undeniable.

He wasn't getting anywhere with these poor idiots. If he just submits to them, he would either get satisfying results or will get ransacked out of his stuff and gutted. Doesn't help that he pissed them off.

These people don't look like they play by societies rules. Who's to say they won't just stab him in the back anyways. But all things considered he did actually need some pivotal information. As much as he hates it, reasoning would be a good place to start.

Good thing he doesn't play by the rules either.

Hank exhaled slowly, drawing his hands from his pockets. The air brushed across his fingers, muscles coiling, senses sharpening. Calm. Deliberate. Predatory.

And then it came — the command slicing through the stillness of the forest:

"FIRE!"

The command cut through the forest like a whip.

Hank's body reacted before his mind even caught up. A volley of arrows and bullets ripped through the clearing, whistling past his ears. He dove behind a thick tree trunk, boots skidding on the moss-covered earth, branches snapping under his momentum. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the earthy scent of the forest, and his pulse spiked.

'At least I found my strees ball,' he thought, adrenaline surging.

Bullets thudded against the trunk, splinters flying, and arrows thudded into the bark around him. Hank's eyes flicked across the attackers' positions, noting their angles, stances, and mistakes. Every twitch, every glance, every breath was a story waiting to be read.

Calmly, deliberately, he slid his hand to the hilt of his Dragon sword. The leather was warm beneath his glove, the weight familiar and comforting. He crouched lower, letting the shadows cling to him, muscles coiled like springs.

With a sudden burst, he launched himself from cover. Bullets and arrows sang past him, narrowly missing his head and shoulders. His body moved with terrifying precision, every step calculated, every turn fluid.

A black and red blur.

And then...

One..

Two..

Three..

Two males, one female, were decapitated in a blink of any eye.

Their heads plopped onto the cold soil, their bodies spraying the scenery a crimson red. Amidst the lifeless bodies, Hank stood, ensuring his strikes had landed cleanly. Judging from the red-painted grass beneath him, it was a 100% lethal cut.

The forest became a storm of motion. Branches snapped, leaves scattered, dirt kicked up. The bandits scrambled, panic replacing their bravado. Screams echoed, weapons clattered, and blood painted the undergrowth crimson.

Hank's mind remained razor-sharp. 'Don't get sloppy'. He readjusted his footing, pivoted, and kept moving. Three down, the rest frozen, eyes wide with disbelief and terror. Hank paused just long enough to let them process it, letting the silence stretch, heavy and oppressive.

The forest seemed to hold its breath around him, the river murmuring quietly nearby, birds silent in the aftermath. Once the oppressors finally and fully realised what happened in that moment, a wave of shock rippled through the rest of the group.

The suddenness and swiftness of the attack left them frozen in disbelief. Their initial bravado dissolved into a desperate realization that they had picked the wrong fight.

Three of their comrades have dropped dead in a blink of an eye, they had no idea what monster in the woods they just ticked off.

With all of them on high allert, all their weapons and intent to kill showing.

Hank swiftly and justly turned towards them. The glint of excitement in his eyes and bloody aura araund him that could be felt through the atmosphere sent a chill down their spines.

With a word he spoke out.

"Come then..."

The fight was on!

TO BE CONTINUED...

NAME : Hank J. Wimbleton

APPERANCE:

Age: 25 (does not remember date of birth.)

Gender: Male

Height: 6'2

Eye color: They shift from a dull black to a crimson red from time to time. On rare occasions, the irises become fully black, devoided of light, and the pupils are full on bloodshot.

Hair color: Used to be raven-haired, but later, all the hair became white from all the stress and unnatural battle wounds. Currently, he is bald, with a few strands here and there. It's usually covered with bandages and a bandana.

Other: Hank has a very tall and imposing figure. His build is muscular and well-defined (imagine Toji from JJK). Also, very lean and sometimes appears to be malnourished, considering the harsh environments of Nevada and being hunted by organizations and bounty hunters doesn't help in that case. He also has a pale and grey-ish skin tone. His body is littered with bullet wounds, scars, and stitches, some in very unusual and peculiar places. Some wrap around his fingers and wrists, looking like they were hacked off and then just reattached and stitched back together, same applies to his feet and toes. One even stretches around his neck, appearing like he got decapitated. Burn marks and puncture wounds are also no exception. His most prominent and iconic injury is his missing lower jaw, replaced with a cold and metal artificial one. His other distinct features he carries are his tired, baggy, and unkempt eyes, carrying wearied intensity within them. Sometimes, it looks like he wears eyeliner, but it's just his lack of sleep that gives it that appearance. His other strange features are his jet black-colored nails and toenails. According to Hank, they are not polished or painted. Marked all around his left arm and back is a large abstract serpent-like tattoo. Additionally, Hank has three piercings on his right ear.

ATTIRE:

Hank sports a combination of combat gear and protective clothing, featuring a black combat trench coat (very stretchy) with a tactical or military-inspired design. He has a bandana wrapped around his mangled-up mouth and head to make him as masked and anonymous as possible. Red lens goggles sit comfortably on his eyes, and fingerless gloves adorn both his hands. Underneath, he dons a tight tank-top. However, beneath all that fancy tactical attire, his skin and wounds are tightly wrapped in bandages.

Chapter Text

The dense canopy of Remnant's wildwood cut through with an eerie breeze. Branches swayed to the horrifying motion.

Blood was still warm on the moss, soaking into the earth beneath three decapitated corpses.

Discarded like pieces of garbage left outside.

Hank stood over them — motionless. His breath visible in the cool air, shoulders rising and falling with restrained rhythm. His mask gleamed faintly, catching the dim morning moonlight that pierced through the leaves. Beneath it, there was only the sound of his slow, deliberate breathing — and the faint metallic rasp of his mechanical jaw.

"Come then..."

Were the words he calmly spat out.

He didn't shout it. The words seeped out, low and inviting — more threat than challenge.

His nose filled with the smell of blood. Clenching his sword even more. All his pent up adrenaline and blood flowed through his muscles and straight into the now-blood stained katana.

Thirteen pairs of eyes stared back at him from the treeline. The forest held its breath. Even the insects halted their buzzing. The group of perpetrators — once confident, loud, boastful, filled with bravado — now found their courage melting beneath the suffocating tension that hung in the air. Paralyzed by a wave of real fear.

The smell of blood and gunpowder coated their nostrils. None of them moved. Their boots were planted, yet their wills beginning to crack.

Faces paled, the hung up bravado once etched into their expressions transitioning into silent dread. Weapons that had moments ago been clutched with confidence now quivered in their hands, the steel rattling nervously. The thirst for loot, the greedy thrill of an easy kill—all of it withered away, retreating into the back of their minds and replaced with a suffocating presence of caution and regret.

Hank's posture shifted slightly, one foot angling forward, sword loosely hanging by his side. His movements were subtle.

The silence broke when one of them stammered, voice quivering with terror,
"Wh–what the hell is he...?"

No one answered. The decapitated heads said enough.

Another voice whispered, hoarse and trembling.
"Three of us... just like that..."

Eyes darting between the bodies and the imposing figure of their comrades murderer.

"He... what, huh?" One of them tried to force words past the lump of terror lodged in his throat, but it came out as a stutter, weak and trembling.

The smell of blood, coppery and thick, made his stomach churn violently. A violent gag rose unbidden, and before he could even think, he vomited.

Their leader — a broad, stitched man named Cedar — stepped forward, his makeshift mace trembling in his grip. He'd been barking orders just minutes ago. Thinking he had all the authority. Now looking like he was forcing himself not to flinch. Struggling to maintain his composure. The confidence in his eyes was replaced with uncertainty, as he took a hesitant step back.

His gaze locked onto Hank. Every breath came sharp and uneven as sweat poured slowly down his face. His mind spun, grasping for some type of logic, for anything that could explain what he had just witnessed. Only a rare few in all of Remnant could move with such speed, such precision—abilities reserved for the fittest, for the ones he had pledged to serve and never cross.

A thought slithered into his head, desperate and opportunistic. 'If I can bring this man down... if I can take him to them...' The reward would be beyond measure. His trembling steadied for just a moment, that old greed and pride surfacing again.

Taking down a Huntsman of this caliber...

The thought trailed off in his mind, unfinished, because even as it formed, the reality before him made it sound absurd.

Sweat trickled down his temple. His voice cracked, half-growl, half-fear.

"I–I'll... We will kill you for what you did, you psychopath. You hear me?! I'll shove your head through a pike!" He reassured his grip on the mace. Getting back his battle ready composure. Practically yelling at the top of his lungs.

Hank didn't move. His crimson goggles locked on Cedar. Staring at him like he was the most unfortunate bastard in the world.

A thin voice cut through the group, tentative as a twig cracking underfoot.
"What kind of Huntsman?" it muttered, more to itself than to anyone else.

A woman, half-hidden behind an oak, pressed her palm to her mouth. Her eyes were wide; she stared at Hank like you'd stare at a thing that had crawled from the gutter.

"That's no Huntsman," she whispered. "They keep a code — a goddamn code, a line they swear to. This... this man isn't one of them. He's—" Her tongue fumbled for words. "Some nutjob running these woods. I couldn't detect any Semblance when he moved like that. It was like—nothing. No signature. No warm hum. Just—"

She trailed off, voice strung tight.

The others whispered among themselves — words like not human, aura, semblance, nutjob.

Someone else sought reassurance, eyes flicking to Cedar. "Are you sure about this, Cedar?"

Cedar's jaw worked. He'd been the one to bark orders not long ago; now the words stuck in his throat.

"It doesn't matter what he is," he rasped, voice hardening. "Pump this bastard full of lead. Drop him. Avenge our friends in arms — charge!"

His shout cracked like a whip. The bandits, terrified but obedient, found a brittle kind of courage in numbers. Fingers on the trigger, bows pulled, brandished blades. Their dear leader restored confidence and bravery.

Foolish bravery.

Hank's grip tightened on the hilt. Before he could get into a proper fighting stance, he was sprayed again with another round of bullets and arrows. This time laced with inescapable purpose.

The volley came like a single, sporadic storm— arrows and bullets snapping the air toward him. The forest erupted; leaves exploded outward from impacts.

Feeling at home already.

Muzzles flashed, arrows shrieked through the dark canopy, and the smell of cordite and burnt air devoured the forest's calm. Hank was already moving before the first bullet reached where he'd been.

He slid sideways through the hail, his coat whipping behind him. The muzzle flares painted him in orange light—then snuffed out as quickly as they came.

A bullet grazed bark. Another split a branch beside his ear. Hank twisted, crouched, and sprang forward again. Each movement precise, measured—anatomy used as weapon.

He closed in on the first man, a sword-carrier too slow to even register. Their blades met, the ring of steel echoing through. Hank turned his wrist and redirected the blow, sliding his katana across the man's ribs. The cut was surgical.

Skin didn't cut, not completely; instead, a faint shimmer flared, taking the force and dispersing it in a wave of blue light. The attacker only repelled by the strike but quickly regained his stance.

'Weird, that should have cut him,' Hank reassuring himself for a split second.

Another came—a blur of trident points—and Hank vaulted backward, landing in a crouch that sent dirt flying. The trident slammed into the ground where his chest had been. Hank rose in the same motion, the tip of his boot snapping up, connecting with the attacker's knee. Bone didn't shatter. Instead it showed that same colorful blur of light stopping the attack.

'Again, that glow. Like kicking a type of armour. Flexible but solid,' Hank noted in the space between heartbeats. 'Forcefield coating?'

As he took a mental note, more melee attackers closed in on him.

A shovel-blade arced down at him from the right. Hank met it with his fist. Metal buckled inward with a deep, clang. The bandit's face received the remainder of the blow—a single, brutal crunch. That same blue shimmer cracked and died around him.

More moved in. Hank rolled, came up beside a spear-bearer, caught the weapon beneath his arm and snapped it clean with a downward kick. The attacker's field flickered; Hank caught sight of the opening and finished it, his blade drawing a red line across the man's throat. The glow vanished entirely. Blood followed a moment later.

This was the revelation. He exhaled through his teeth—steam in the cold air—pivoting toward the next threat.

Gunfire again. With a relaxed sigh, he raised the broken spear half and deflected a rifle round. He spun backward, vaulted up the nearest trunk, boots digging into bark, then propelled himself into the open canopy.

Leaves scattered behind him like shrapnel. From up high he scanned everything:

Twelve left.

Three with bows, three rifles, the rest meele.

Easy

The spear fragment in his hand whistled through the air before he landed. It found a shoulder, sank deep, and pinned its poor target against a tree. Hank hit the ground in a roll, came up beneath the arc of another rifle butt, and drove his heel up into a woman's jaw. Snatching the weapon in the process.

While fending off the approaching melee attackers, Hank, with his alert instincts, booted one bandit away and quickly raised the rifle to his head, successfully blocking two arrows that pierced through the stock of the rifle. Stoping inches away from his forehead.

'Right, the archers.'

Seizing the moment, he pivoted, relaxed stance, no distraction. Two archers in the distance jerked back, their aura barriers flaring under the first rounds. Allowing no breathing room, the third shot pierced clean through both skulls.

Still moving, Hank used the empty rifle to block another sword strike. The blade dug halfway through the stock before he shoved it aside, smashed the butt across the wielder's face, and spun, firing the remaining rounds into the chest of the next assailant. He then turned his attention to the nearest one. He, again, swiftly kicked at the same bandit's knee, finally and successfully breaking it this time.

The bandit collapsed with a pained cry, incapacitated by the powerful blow, that shattered his barrier and his knee.

With the bandit crying and clenching his broken leg, Hank dashed towards the woman that was just now getting up, the same one he had previously knocked out with a kick.

He gripped the rifle with both hands and smashed the rifle's butt into her throat with brutal force, breaking her neck instantly. She crumpled and twitched on the ground, lifeless.

With the the gun stained and damaged enough, he tossed it aside and took a glance at his remaining targets.

"Three dead, one crippled. one broken nose. Seven to go. And then theres the final boss."

Seeing their comrades fall one by one, the remaining bandits realized that taking Hank on separately was a huge and dear mistake. Now understanding the demented danger he posed, they decided to change tactics.

"Keep your distance!" someone barked — voice trembling, breath cutting short.
Another snapped back, "Distance? He's fucking everywhere!"

A muzzle flash cracked in the dark — too soon, too wild — and the bullet vanished into the mist. The shooter's hands shook so violently the rifle clattered against his armor. He barely caught it.

Cedar raised his arm, the signal for regroup. "Form up! Don't scatter like prey—"

"Prey?" someone shaked under their breath. "We are prey."

"Shut it!" Cedar's voice cracked like a whip. His rifle clicked as he reloaded. "He's one man! Focus your shots — coordinate!"

But even Cedar didn't fully believe it. He could feel something was wrong with the rhythm of this fight. The man they faced wasn't operating within their rules. 

A young soldier near Cedar whispered, "Captain, this isn't a man. That thing—"

"Enough!" Cedar snarled, though his voice wavered. He raised his rifle again. "We hit him together on my mark!"

Cedar clenched his teeth and slowly nodded, "Let's end this, we won't let this be the end!"

With silent nods and lip syncing among them, they coordinated their movements.

Only Cedar standing behind, calculatedly observing the situation.

Hank braced himself for their changed formation, charging at him in unison, their combined force a formidable threat. His eyes narrowing between them with focus.

As they closed in, he reacted and moved with umatched speed and precision.

With a sharp pivot, Hank moved like no other. His blade flashed once—clean, merciless. The first attacker barely had time to gasp before the Dragon sword drove through the poor bastards ribs with a wet, crunching sound. The steel tore out the man's side in a dragging arc, blood spraying against the trees.

Before the first corpse could even fall, Hank's sword was already in motion. He turned on his heel, swinging horizontally. The edge cleaved straight through the next bandit's skull, carving away half his frontal lobe in a single stroke. A mist of crimson and pale tissue spattered across the mossy ground .

Before his two victims could collapse on the floor, something luged from his right. Hank twisted, raising his sword just in time to deflect a trident thrust. Sparks flashed from the impact. At the same instant, a second attacker came down from above, blade whistling through the air. Hank didn't bother—he caught the man's wrist mid-swing, twisted until joints cracked, and forced the weapon loose.

'What a lousy attempt,' he thought, almost bored.

The trident wielder faltered, blinking in disbelief. That hesitation was fatal. Hank sidestepped, letting the man stumble forward, and with one well-placed shove, sent him crashing into his disarmed partner.

Dumbasses.

Their panic spread like wildfire. Knives, swords, and desperate cries filled the clearing, but Hank moved through them effortlessly—parrying, redirecting, slicing through the chaos with rhythm.

One misstep from a bandit with a shattered knee was all he needed. Hank spun low, the Dragon sword whispering through the air before separating the man's head from his shoulders. The body toppled.

Then—something wrong. A sharp gnawing sensation crawled along his neck. Instinct screamed.

Without hesitation, Hank pivoted and swung behind him—slashing through empty air. Or what seemed like it.

A streak of red appeared midair. Blood poured from nowhere, outlining the shape of a woman as she shimmered into view. She clutched at her neck, choking on blood before collapsing, her invisibility dying with her.

'Invisibility, huh,' Hank muttered flatly, eyes narrowing.

He turned back just in time to meet another trident strike. The weapon lunged forward—but Hank merely slapped it aside with his free hand, disarming the wielder completely. In the same motion, he lunged, driving his blade through the man's stomach. The sound was wet, final. The bandit's breath escaped in a rattled gasp as Hank wrenched the sword free, letting the body slump to the cold grass.

He exhaled softly, the fog of his breath ghosting in the dim sunlight.

I'm feeling generous.

Then, with a monotone, detached voice spoke up, "My offer still stands. We can talk it out. I'm positive the four of you left can still give me satisfying results. Would've been too much of a hassle if I had to deal with the other twelve anyway, you kno—"

A metallic shriek tore through the night. Hank's instincts flared—he dropped low, performing a split just as a massive, spiked sphere tore through the air above him. The weapon smashed into a nearby tree with a violent crack, embedding deep into the wood and shaking the entire clearing.

That was close.

Hank's gaze followed the chain, eyes narrowing as he traced it back to its source. There stood Cedar, his expression twisted in rage, the chain still trembling from the force of his throw.

The makeshift mace had fired from its handle, the chain taut, gleaming. A weaponized cannonball.

'Seems like his little toy can shoot out at bullet speed.'

His grip on the Dragon sword tightened. The forest air grew colder.

'Time to wrap this up.'

Hank leaned aside just as a knife hissed past his ear, embedding itself into a tree. Another bandit lunged from the side, sword raised high. Hank rolled under the swing with fluid precision, dirt and leaves spraying around him.

He caught another glint in the corner of his eye—a second knife, spinning straight for his chest. He snatched it mid-air, the blade slicing across his glove as he redirected its momentum. The knife found its mark.

The thrower stepped backward, eyes wide as steel buried itself into his skull.

Now only two remained. One clutched a longsword with trembling hands, the other wielded an assault rifle so empty it was reduced to a glorified bayonet. Hank stood calmly before them, his breathing steady—like a man on a morning stroll.

The swordsman lunged first, a desperate thrust driven more by panic than skill. Hank parried effortlessly, their blades ringing. Then, with a burst of speed, he vaulted over the man, twisting midair. His gloved hand locked around the back of the bandit's head, and before gravity could reclaim him—snap. The neck gave out.

The corpse hit the ground before Hank's boots did.

He turned, about to face the final straggler—when a tremor rippled through the forest floor. The air shifted, pressure changing in an instant. Hank's instinct loomed.

The ground shuddered.

A sound like splitting thunder tore through the forest, followed by the groaning agony of wood. Hank's eyes snapped up just in time to see a massive tree—its roots still writhing with clumps of earth—wrenched clean from its stump. The colossal trunk came hurtling toward him, spinning violently through the air. The wind howled, the sheer velocity bending smaller trees as it tore past. Hank barely dove aside in time, rolling across dirt and shattered bark as the tree obliterated everything behind him. Splinters exploded across the clearing like shrapnel.

While it only grazed his side, still hurt like a bitch.

He hissed under his breath, clutching his side. The grazing blow still stung—skin split, blood trickling. 'Guess my body's still not all that recovered...'

As the dust settled, he spotted the source of the madness. Cedar.

The hulking bandit stood with his chain-wrapped mace dangling at his side, smoke rising from the metal links. He gave the weapon a single yank, and the chain snapped taut, the spiked sphere glinting. The brute hadn't just thrown a weapon. He had ripped an entire tree from the ground and launched it like a projectile.

Hank straightened, one hand still on his wound, he murmured. "Not just a loudmouth after all."

The towering bandit sneered, muscles tightening beneath his torn vest. His chest rose, "You're dead, freak! You hear me?!" he roared, his voice cracking through the forest like a war drum.

Cedar stomped forward, swinging the chained mace in a furious circle that sliced through the air with a violent whirr. The surrounding quaked.

To think this guy was supposed to be a pushover, yet tossing trees like they're nothing.

'Looks like I'm dealing with MAG agent-level strength with this guy,'  Hank thought grimly, tensing his muscles.

His lip curled into a slight grin behind his mask, "The tougher they are..." he muttered under his breath, "...the longer they bleed."

Then he dashed forward.

A streak of black and red blurred across the clearing. Cedar swung his mace, the spiked head detonating the ground where Hank had been a second earlier. Leaves and dirt rained down as Hank closed the distance in an instant.

The last bandit standing between them tried to raise his rifle—he barely got to scream before Hank's knee crushed his skull inward. The corpse dropped limply, rifle clattering next to it.

Cedar's eyes narrowed, veins bulging in his neck. He gritted his teeth and gave a thunderous bellow that rattled the forest. The chain of his mace snapped forward, the spiked head detonating a section of earth as it passed.

Hank didn't flinch. He moved with unnerving precision — every shift, every breath, calculated. The air warped around him as the weapon barely grazed the hem of his coat.

Only the boss left, so close to getting his satisfying kill count. After all, while the 16 vs 1 battle was an absolute joke, it had still been a nice fix for him ever since he arrived here.

Dementedly grinning behind his black mask, the metallic gleam of his jaw added an eerie touch to his expression. Just by closing in closer and closer on Cedar. His senses honed, ready to end this confrontation once and for all.

'Too bad this guy's way too predictable,' Hank scoffed.

Another swing, dodge. And another miss.

"Stand still, damn you!" Cedar roared, ripping the mace backward. His fury grew heavier, more erratic. His muscles flexed as he anchored his feet into the ground, tearing another tree from its roots like it was no more than a sapling.

He spun with a guttural cry and hurled it at Hank.

This time, Hank didn't dodge. He charged forward.

The tree whistled through the air like a missile, and Hank vaulted up — his coat snapping behind him as he drew his Dragon sword mid-leap. With a single horizontal slash, the entire trunk split cleanly in two.

The halves exploded apart as he landed, dirt gusting outward in a wave.

Cedar froze for just a moment — his expression flickered between shock and rage, "That's impossible..."

The stich faced leader of the bandits was getting desperate, he knew it will be a problem if the bug eyed psycho gets too close. He had to keep going, finish what they started, do this for his fallen comrades.

What a burden.

He still pressed on. He would make sure to skin this mentally deprived bastard. He was sure this guy might have escaped from some ward, there's no way this person was human. By chance a Faunus. This bastard didn't even use his Aura at any point, and he swore he never took his eyes off him. No one did.

"You bastard! You're messing with me, aren't you? You're so demented you can't even use your Aura properly! Stop fucking with me!" Cedar roared, veins bulging along his neck and arms as he swung his mace in desperate arcs.

Hank said nothing. He stayed silent, fluid, unbothered by the brute's tirade.

"If you think you're so confident," Cedar continued, voice trembling with rage and fear, "why even ask for help in the first place? You trying to pull something with us, huh? Think you can snag a quick prize?"

"I've taken down Huntsmen before! You're nothing! NOTHING!" Cedar continuing to yell his lungs out.

Cedar faltered — sweat pouring down his forehead. His breath came out in short bursts, and his mind scrambled for an escape. "Wait... listen— listen to me, freak! You screw with us, you screw with them! The Branwen Tribe! You know that name, don't you? We're one of their contractors— big partners! You're dead once they find out what you did here!"

He laughed shakily, trying to believe his own bluff. "You're done. You've got no idea who you're dealing with."

The words spilled out fast, desperate, each one less convincing than the last. Deep down, he knew how pathetic it sounded — leeching off another tribe's name like a parasite — but pride didn't matter anymore. Not when his gang was gone. Not when his life hung by a thread.

If bluffing the Branwen name could make this psycho hesitate, even for a moment, then it was worth it. Because every instinct screamed that if Hank decided to move again, there wouldn't be time to scream.  He just stood there, motionless, the red lenses of his goggles reflecting Cedar's trembling figure like mirrors of indifference. He adjusted his grip on the Dragon sword, the faint hum of steel against leather cutting through the silence.

Cedar's jaw clenched. The silence was worse than mockery. "You hear me, bastard? The Branwen Tribe! You screw with me, and they'll gut you alive!"

Nothing.

"Say something!" he shouted, voice breaking.

Hank kept walking toward him. No hesitation. No words. Just a slow, deliberate advance. He intercepted the next wild mace swing with his bare forearms, the impact sounding like metal hitting an anvil. The ground shook, sparks flew, and Hank didn't flinch. Another swing — he stepped inside it, driving a high kick into Cedar's chest that sent the brute staggering backward.

Drowning in desperation. With a guttural growl, Cedar pulled a small combat knife from his belt, Aura flaring along his arm in a brilliant surge of light. He lunged forward, slashing wildly — not with precision, but with the strength of a man cornered.

The blade ultimately missed Hank's side— but it was enough of a destraction. Enough for an upper hand.

He roared and swung his mace overhead with everything he had left. His glowing arm shined with mystical and mysterious energyt. He poured all his Aura, all his rage, into the strike. The weapon came down with enough force to level a house.

"There! Die, you motherfuck—"

The words were cut short by agony.

Cedar's lungs tore through the forest as his Aura shattered completely . Feeling of heat that felt like molten iron poured down his spine. His body convulsed, blood spraying from a sudden, deep wound across his back. He turned, gasping, eyes wide with disbelief.

And there Hank was. Standing still. Dragon sword in hand. The blade dripping his own red blood.

'Wh-what kind of speed...?' Cedar's mind scrambled for an answer. 'Did he—did he teleport?! He was right there! He should've been crushed—'

His thoughts stuttered, tangled in terror.

'Like a goddamn blur...'

Hank tilted his head, unbothered, his voice a low, metallic rasp that sent a chill down the brute's spine. When he finally spoke, his voice carried through the clearing with malevolence— distorted, almost mechanical. His body raised up at the sound.

"Aura," he muttered, the word rolling off his tongue amusingly. "That's what you call it... that force you've all been using. The layer of protection that kept you alive from all those lethal strikes."

He tilted his head slightly, studying the faint, dying shimmer that still clung to Cedar. "Well... it tried to, at least."

Cedar's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it echo in his skull. His trembling hands tightened around the handle of his mace.

Hank's voice cut through the air again."And 'Semblance'... some kind of ability, I take it? That's how you threw trees like twigs. That's how that woman—" he flicked his wrist toward a corpse half-buried in leaves "—turned herself invisible."

He lazily swung the Dragon sword once, twice — flicking blood from its edge in red arcs across the grass. Then he continued, quieter this time, as if musing to himself.

"Aura and Semblance... two terminologies I've never heard before." He took one slow step forward, boots crunching through shattered bark and bone. "Guess that's almost enough of this." The crimson glow from his goggles brightened , locking directly onto Cedar.

Cedar's breathing hitched. His knees wanted to give out. The sound of his own pulse drowned out the forest around him.

He couldn't tell if Hank's eyes were looking at him or through him, but it didn't matter — the intent behind that gaze was unmistakable. It wasn't rage. It was pleasure. It was finality.

He was toying with us from the beginning.

Cedar's voice broke through the crackling silence, trembling somewhere between rage and disbelief. "Wha— the fu— you, what are you rambling about, motherfucker?!"

His chest heaved. The sweat running down his stitched face, eyes were bloodshot, veins bulging at the edges. "Guess you weren't lying when you said you hit your head, huh?" he spat out, his attempt at bravado cracking like his voice. He drew in a ragged breath, Aura beginning to shimmer violently around his arm, the glow flickering.

Across from him, Hank exhaled slowly through his mask, almost amused. His crimson goggles caught the scattered reflections of broken steel and splintered wood.
"Your name... Cedar, was it?" he said, his voice gravelly, distorted by the static hum of his respirator. A low click of his tongue followed.

"Kind of stupid. But ironic."

"Oh, you mocking shit stain!" Cedar roared, veins bursting along his arms. With a sharp twist of his wrist, the massive spiked head of his mace shot forward, bursting through like a torpedo on a chain.

The impact that followed was deafening. Hank barely got his sword up in time — the collision sent a shockwave ripping through the clearing, leaves and dust exploding outward in a gust. His boots carved into the dirt, his forearms straining against the force, veins popped out.

Hank grunted under his breath, shoulder joint popping audibly. "Shit, my shoulder's gonna pop."

The sheer pressure rattled his bones. Even through his hardended and honed frame, he could feel it — this bastard hit hard. But that only made his eye twitch with irritation. He had enough. This was starting to get on his nerves.

He was getting tired of this.

As much as he hated to close his eyes and trail off to sleep, he had to admit he needed some rest, some place to repose ever since he arrived here.

This weird and peculiar place.

He inhaled, muscles tensed. Then, with one explosive movement, he pushed back. The chain whiplashed upward, and with a blinding arc, Hank's blade sliced clean through it. The weapon's severed ball spiraled into the sky, the chain recoiling into a spiral.

Cedar froze, dumbstruck — then lunged forward in sheer desperation, hands clawing for Hank's throat. A sickening crack filled the air. The next thing Cedar knew, a brutal kick buried itself into his gut, folding him back. Before he could even gasp, Hank unleashed a flurry — seven rapid strikes, each one precise, each one a barrage of force.

Right fist hammered into Cedar's sternum.

Left elbow smashed into his solar plexus. High knee smashed into ribs. Right palm slammed into his face, cracking teeth. Left hook snapped his jaw sideways. A spinning back kick to the gut lifted Cedar off balance. Final knee to the chest drove him backward.

Cedar stumbled backward, dazed — and that was the moment Hank reached out, catching the end of the severed chain that had fallen between them.

He gripped it tight, eyes narrowing behind crimson glass. With a single, monstrous heave, Hank swung Cedar's own mace back at him. The spiked head blurred through the air, humming with momentum before colliding into Cedar's skull with a wet, meaty crunch.

Teeth, bone fragments, and grey matter exploded outward in a gruesome spray, painting the clearing. The headless corpse twitched once, then collapsed into the blood-soaked grass with a dull thud.

For a moment, the forest was silent again — save forthe slow dripping of brain matter from the mace's spikes.

Hank sheathed his katana with a flick.

Not before carefully wiping the slick, crimson filth from the blade — the blood of marauders coating it in thick, sticky layers. He exhaled slowly, a puff of mist escaping his respirator.

His gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the twisted forms of the fallen. Then his eyes, now dull and black behind the goggles, settled on Cedar.

The bandit leader's body lay crumpled, grotesque. Only the lower jaw remained intact, teeth jagged and still clenched, the tongue rolling uselessly out, the esophagus a hollow, shredded tube.

'So much for playing it nicely,' Hank thought, his voice a muted rasp in his head as he scanned the carnage. Each corpse, a forest floor painted in dark reds and greys, littered with broken limbs.

He let out a quiet sigh.

The taste in his mouth was bitter, despite the thrill. He had wanted a fight to purge the frustration coiling in his chest, yet this left him a bit dissapointed.

The entire fight hasn't even lasted five minutes.

'At least this confirms one of my theories,' he mused, letting the thought settle in the calm after the storm. More likely this than the ridiculous time-travel nonsense he'd been mulling over.

With the carnage around him, he finally allowed himself a breath, muscles loosening slightly.

Yet even in the stillness, his mind found the absurdity of it all.

"What a boring fight..."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter Text

Cold breeze and warm sky.

Beautiful rays of sunlight pierced through the canopy of what was now a corpse-ridden clearing, proudly signaling midday. The once-vibrant forest had fallen eerily silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant calls of birds—oblivious to the carnage beneath them.

The cause of it all was a single figure, moving among the dead. Hank walked through the bodies, crouching among them like a scavenger without a shred of concern. Boots nudged ribs. A heel rolled a corpse onto its back. Fingers pried open clenched hands—methodical, impersonal. He worked through the dead the same way one might dismantle useless machinery: check, strip, discard. He was looking for anything useful. Anything that could tell him where the hell he was—maybe a map, maybe a compass.

Blood slicked his hands, the heavy iron scent thick in the air, yet his expression remained unbothered. Each fallen body was checked for signs of life and loot with cold precision.

Knives. Ammunition. Cheap firearms. Cigarettes crushed in lifeless fingers. A flask, nearly empty. He pocketed what seemed useful and ignored the rest. Every pocket, backpack, wallet, and duffle bag was searched, yielding a handful of peculiar, unfamiliar items. 

One corpse had something heavier tucked into its jacket pocket. 

Hank pulled it free and frowned. A tablet—or something close to one. Flat. Rectangular. A glass screen, or what used to be one. It was spiderwebbed with cracks, the display dead and unresponsive no matter how he pressed it.

'Useless.'

Still, he turned it over once in his hand. Clean edges. Manufactured. Modern tech—not salvaged junk. Definitely not some medieval backwater like he'd first assumed. He dropped it back where he found it. He couldn't use it, but the implication alone was enough.

Then there were these cards. Stacks of them—thin, sleek, magnetic plastic rectangles, far too standardized to be scavenged trinkets. Each bore the same symbol: an L bisected by two horizontal lines. Familiar in a way—evoking European currency, even Japanese yen. Wasn't  barter money. Not scraps. This was organized. Civilized. Systematic. And systems meant rules. Rules meant places.

He stuffed the cards into his pocket and rose to his feet, scanning the clearing once more. The forest looked ugly beneath the midday sun—too bright for what lay below it. Blood darkened the grass. Tree bark had been stripped away where bodies and weapons had struck with impossible force. It was a mess.

That's when he heard it.

So faint it almost blended with the wind.

A breath.

Hank turned his head.

He hadn't stopped screaming because he wanted to. He'd stopped because screaming hurt too much. Every breath felt painful. Each one took more effort than the last, draining what little strength he had left. His shoulder was nailed to the tree behind him by a jagged spearhead, the shaft long since snapped off. Blood soaked through his vest, ran down his arm, pooled at his waist. His fingers were numb now—he couldn't feel them anymore.

'Don't look. Just don't fucking move. Maybe he didn't see you.'

He'd watched his companions die, he's seen everything that went down. 

Watched them rush only to be cut apart. And him.

The red goggles, the dark attire that snuffed out light, the way he moved so ruthlessly,so mechanically, the pale skin, or what he would asume was his skin.

The appearance of a fucking Grimm.

Every time boots crunched through leaves, the bandit's heart stopped so hard he thought it might burst. His vision blurred, darkened. He tried to stay silent—

A shadow fell over him. Those red lenses locked onto him instantly.

"Oh shi—oh no, no, no!"

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Hank stood there, head tilted slightly, pose relaxed, regarding the pinned bloody man so casually.

"You're alive," he said flatly.

He tried to pull back against the tree, forgetting for half a second that he was nailed to it. The bandit sobbed. It came out broken, humiliating, "I—I won't—please—"

He flailed. It was instinct. Panic. A useless jerk of his good arm trying to stop anything that was coming his way.

Hank stepped closer and then pressed his boot down onto the exposed shaft of the spear slowly. Metal shifted deeper into flesh with a sickening, final sound.

The scream that followed was gruesome, his body arching against the tree as pain raised throughout, blood surged fresh from the wound.

"Shut up," Hank said calmly.

The pressure didn't ease.

A knife appeared in Hank's hand, its edge sliding beneath the bandit's chin—close enough to feel, not quite touching. Just resting there.

"Breathe," Hank said, voice low and even. "Slow. Or you'll bleed out even faster."

He lifted his foot—but didn't remove it entirely. Just enough pressure to keep the man alive.

The bandit froze. Sweat streamed down his shaking face, mixing with blood and snot. His breaths came in short and steady, trembling, but he listened. 

Hank leaned closer, crimson lenses reflecting the man's wide, terrified eyes. 

"Good," he said. "Now listen."

He shifted slightly.

"This is how this is gonna work," Hank continued. "I'm going to ask you some questions. You're going to answer them. Honestly."

The mugger nodded frantically.

Hank pulled the knife away from his throat, giving him just enough room to breathe.

"Good," Hank said. "Because here's what happens otherwise."

He flicked his wrist.

The knife buried itself into the tree's bark, embedding inches from the bandit's face.

"If you get smart with me," Hank said calmly, "I break a finger." A  pause. "If you keep going, I break another. When you run out of fingers, I move on to the hand. Then the arm. Bit by bit, get it?"

The bandit nodded again—slow this time, eyes glassy, jaw quivering.

"And before you start thinking about screaming or trying to run," Hank added, glancing around the clearing with almost theatrical casualness, "anyone who might've cared is already dead. You're only alive because I let you."

Silence swallowed the space between them.

"Now then," he said, "who are you?"

The hoodlum swallowed carefully.

He croaked, "I—I'm Nick Frond. Member of Cedar's band—mercenaries, scouts. We usually call ourselves the Betula Bandits."

Hank nodded once, filing the information away without interest.

"Alright, Nicky," he said calmly. "You're going to stay calm. You're going to focus on your breathing. And you're going to help me understand this place."

Nick nodded too fast.

"If you follow exactly what I say," Hank continued, voice level, "and if I find your answers sufficient, I'll let you go."

He leaned back slightly, posture loose, eyes unreadable behind the crimson lenses. "Peachy. Next question."

Nick didn't wait.

"Y-you—" he blurted, voice cracking. "You really mean that? You're actually gonna let me go?"

Hank froze. Just for a second. Then he lifted a hand and scratched beneath one lens, slow, absent-minded—like the question barely mattered.

"...Yeah," he said at last. Flat. Certain. "I will."

Nick sagged against the spear with a broken, breathless sound.

Hank's gaze drifted away, upward, toward the vibrant canopy where sunlight spilled through the leaves.

"What is this place?" he asked. "And why does the moon look like that?"

Frond blinked. Once. Twice. Confusion cut through the pain. His brow furrowed, disbelief slipping through. "The hell are you talking about?"

Nick swallowed, then let out a shaky, breathless laugh that came out wrong.
"The moon?" he repeated. "Man... are you alright in there?"

The calm vanished.

Hank's hand snapped around Nick's left hand. Before he could register what was happening, there was a sharp, dry snap.

Nick screamed—a raw sound ripped straight from his lungs—as his index finger bent the wrong way, breaking like a pencil.

"That," Hank muttered through the scream, "is what happens when you fuck with me."

Nick jerked, clawing uselessly at the air. Hank immediately pressed his boot back down on the spear shaft, pinning him again.

"Stop moving," Hank warned. "You want to keep your blood inside you."

Hank leaned in again. Pressing his boot ever so slightly.

"Again," he said. "This time you answer properly. I'm not taking shit from you."

Nick nodded frantically.

"What country is this?" Hank asked. A brief pause. "What region. What continent."

His grip tightened slightly.

"O–okay," Nick rasped. "Fuck—okay. I will. I swear."

Hank didn't move.

"This," Nick began carefully, "this is Remnant."

Hank's head tilted a fraction, eyes appearing as if they faintly glowed.

Nick rushed on, afraid of the silence. "The continent we're on is Sanus. Western side. Forest outskirts—not far from trade routes." He swallowed.

"The kingdom—" his voice steadied, "—the kingdom is Vale. You're still in its territory. Borderlands, technically. That's why bandits operate out here. Easy pickings."

Nick took another shallow breath. "As for the moon... it's always looked like that. Been that way longer than anyone alive remembers." A pause. "No one really knows why. It just... always has."

Hank didn't respond immediately. He slowly straightened, exhaling through his nose, gaze drifting past Nick and into the trees—mapping something only he could see. This really complicated things.

"Vale," Hank said at last. "Explain it. What is it. Where is it. How far."

Nick swallowed, his throat scraping. "It's a kingdom," he said quickly. "A big one. Cities, walls, trade hubs. The capital's also called Vale—same name."

Hank waited.

"From here?" Nick continued. "On foot... five hours, give or take. Maybe more if you're wounded or slow. About twenty kilometers."

That seemed to satisfy something.

"Hideout," Hank said, clicking his tongue.

Nick blinked. "Huh—w–what?"

"You're bandits," Hank replied flatly. "You don't operate five hours from shelter."

Nick nodded fast. "Y–yeah. Yeah, we do. Camp's close. Thirty minutes. Deeper in the forest." He swallowed. "Old logging site. Dugouts, camo nets. We stash supplies there before hitting the roads near Vale's outer routes."

Hank absorbed that in silence.

Fear pushed Nick to keep talking. "There's a cabin—decent size. Beds, crates, ammo, rations. Some maps. Not official ones, but patrol paths."

Hank crouched in front of him again, one hand resting loosely on his knee.
"Good," he said calmly. "See how easy it is when you cooperate."

He shifted slightly, glancing past Nick at the bodies scattered behind him. Relaxed. Casual. Like this was a conversation over drinks, not an interrogation over a pinned, bleeding man.

"That glowing shield," Hank said evenly. "The thing coating your bodies—like armor. Stopping cuts. Even bullets. And the powers. The woman camouflaging herself. Your leader lifting trees like sticks."

Nick stared at him. At first, he thought it was nonsense. Then his mouth parted slightly.
"...You're fucking with me," he said weakly. "No—wait. You're serious." A nervous laugh slipped out before he could stop it.

Hank's eyes flicked. His hand reeled back into a fist—silent, immediate warning.

Nick swallowed hard. "No—no. O–okay. Okay. I'll explain. Just—just don't—"

He rushed on. "Aura," he said. "It's... a manifestation of the soul. Everyone's got one. Well—almost everyone. Huntsmen, bandits, civilians. Some people just never unlock it." He grimaced. "Once it's active, it coats your body. Invisible. Like a second skin. Bandits like us don't usually have strong ones. Or trained aura. Cedar was... an exception."

Hank listened. Unmoving.

"It absorbs damage," Nick continued. "Blunt force. Bullets. Blades. Keeps you from dying instantly." His voice dropped. "But it's not infinite. You burn through it. Once it's gone, it breaks fast."

"And the powers," Hank said.

Nick exhaled. "Semblances. Everyone's different. It's like your soul expressing itself. A personal ability." He swallowed. "Invisibility. Strength. Speed. Fire. Mind stuff. Depends on the person."

"And your boss."

Nick's eyes flicked toward the ruined corpse in the clearing. "Strength-based semblance. Aura-fed muscle output. Way past normal human limits." A bitter chuckle escaped him. "He was more experienced. That's why he was in charge."

'Clearly not based on leadership, Hank noted to himself.'

Nick hesitated, then spoke again, quieter now.

"But you..."

Hank finally looked at him. "So," he said, almost thoughtfully, "a s-3lf-based shield. And personalized superpowers." His fingers curled once, flexing. "...That explains fuck all."

He glanced at Nick again. "I'll give you this—you're handling it better than most. But you have no idea how much of a headache this mess has been." He shot him a crooked, almost apologetic look, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Hank exhaled through his nose, eyes drifting for a moment—not to Nick, but somewhere past him. 'Souls. Bullshit fairy-tale powers. Kingdoms, like we're in the 1400s.' A quiet scoff followed, more tired than mocking.

His attention slid back. His voice was level—almost bored—but the intent beneath it was unmistakable. "One last thing," he said. "Your boss kept running his mouth about some Branwens. Dramatic about it. 'Coming for me,' that kind of crap."

He watched Nick closely.

The moment the name left his mouth, something in the bandit snapped. Hank could see it clear as day. He narrowed his eyes behind the goggles.

"Your heart rate spiked," he muttered. "And you just went about three shades lighter. Scared of something?"

Nick shot a dead, jittery glance at him. "Y-you should be too."

"I've taken down worse than whatever bedtime story you're shaking over," Hank said flatly.

Nick sucked in a shaky breath. "You're full of yourself. The Branwen Tribe—they're... not just bandits. They're big. Old. Real nasty reputation." His voice dropped. "They roam mostly in the eastern regions. Hit villages, caravans—even Huntsmen if they feel like it." He winced. "They've got fighters with absurdly strong Semblances. Real killers. People disappear when they get involved. Cedar wasn't lying about that." 

Words tumbled over each other. "We weren't with them—not really. We traded. Supplies. Jobs they saw as beneath them."

His gaze flicked back to Hank, wide and desperate. "To them, we were property. Territory."

"And you don't piss on their property. Doesn't matter if they liked you or not." A tremor ran through him.

Hank gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if checking off a list.

He straightened and popped his neck with a satisfying crack. "Thanks for your cooperation," he muttered casually, not looking at the poor bastard.

Nick exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath. Finally over.

Hank didn't turn back. He stepped past him, crouching among the corpses again. Rifling through the scattered supplies, his hands settled on an empty assault rifle—a slightly modified M4A1, bayonet affixed. Hank inspected it, sliding a clean mag in, the nostalgic weight settling in his hands like he'd done this a million times. The rifle clicked. He hoisted it effortlessly over his shoulder and started toward the hideout Nick had indicated.

Relief curdled into panic. "Hey—" Nick croaked. "Hey, wait—"

Wait! Wait—what the fuck are you doing?!" Nick shouted. "You said—you said you'd listen! You said—!"

Hank didn't stop. "I did," he said calmly, not even glancing back. "And you talked."

Nick's voice cracked. "You're just—just gonna leave me like this?! Let me go! I did what you asked, you bastard!"

Hank slowed just enough for his words to carry. "I let you live," he said flatly. "Didn't I?"

Nick froze. Hank kept walking.

"There's a knife stuck in the tree," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Couple inches from your face."

Frond's eyes darted toward it.

"You can dig the shaft out of your shoulder," Hank went on. "Cut it off, do whatever you want with that knife."

The distance between them grew. Nick snapped.

"FUCK YOU!" he screamed, voice raw and cracking. "YOU, YOU SICK PIECE OF SHIT! YOU HEAR ME?! I DID EVERYTHING YOU WANTED! YOU FUCKING MONSTER—!"

Hank didn't respond. He just kept walking.

Nick's curses followed him through the trees—desperate, unhinged—until they dissolved into the forest.

Hank's boots crunched over the forest floor—again and again, a repeating cycle. It felt like that was all he'd been doing since he arrived here. Each step dragged longer than the last.

'Thirty minutes? Maybe forty?'

Hank scowled beneath the crimson lenses. 'That little bastard had to be lying. Or maybe he just had no idea—like most people around here.' Either way, Hank's patience was wearing thin.

He popped open the flask he'd salvaged earlier, tugged his bandana down, and tipped it against his metallic jaw. The last swig of water burned painfully as it slid down his throat. Cold liquid savoured.

As he trudged on, he replayed everything Frond had told him. Vale was five hours away on foot, apparently—forty or fifty kilometers, give or take. And this Branwen Tribe. This Aura shit. Semblances. It all grated against him.

But in retrospect, it wasn't that different from Nevada. Same freaks of nature. Same killers. Same supernatural bullshit. At least the environment here was livable.

His thoughts lingered. Remnant had rules—real ones—but whether they were natural or synthetic, he had no idea. The whole place was bizarre. Kingdoms and bandits, sure, but it wasn't some dystopian wasteland. There were modern conveniences too: advanced tech, present-day firearms, familiar clothing, sleek currency. Even the slang felt close enough.

"Doc... please... get me out of this," he muttered, barely audible over the rustling leaves.

Hank's gaze swept the canopy above, sunlight fracturing through the branches. Being here—completely cut off from his own world—left him off-balance in a way that dug its claws in deep. The familiar laws of Nevada were... optional here. Unreliable even.

Other thoughts flickered through his mind: the mess he'd left behind in Nevada—hell if he even remembered how he got here, his memories were scrambled to shit—the logistics of surviving in this place, and the constant calculation of what he'd need to make it another day. Refuge came first. At least that much still made sense.

Then he noticed it. The air went still. Birdsong cut off. Insects fell silent. The leaves stopped whispering. Even the scent shifted—subtle at first, then sharp and wrong.

Predatory.

Hank's lenses swept the trees, broken trunks, and disturbed underbrush. His grip tightened on the rifle. This wasn't the usual wildlife. Whatever it was, it had been watching him. Stalking.

Movement snagged the edge of his vision—a shadow slipping between the trunks. Then another. And another. Sleek, black shapes prowled through the undergrowth. Hank's spine tightened.

No. These weren't ordinary predators. Not even remotely.

The first pack moved into clearer view, and his mind raced. Overgrown, mutated canines—wolves, maybe. Twisted things. Their fur was black as tar, broken by jagged, unnatural angles. Bone-like masks jutted from their faces, marked with red streaks, white spikes bursting from their arms and backs. Their eyes burned feral red. Looked like werewolves

There were bigger ones too. Older. An alpha, he guessed—its spikes longer, bone plating thicker, fangs stretched far past what was natural and dripping with something dark. Its growl rippled through the pack. The smaller ones—normals—moved in unison, teeth bared.

Then he saw the bear-like one.

A massive shape dragged itself out of the dense foliage—a grizzly-like monstrosity, easily twice his height. Grotesque. Hunched forward on gorilla-like arms. Its fur matched the wolves', but its bone armor was thicker, heavier, bristling with spikes. A skull-like mask stretched across its bear-like face, muzzle wider than any animal Hank had ever seen.

God, the stench was disgusting. Burned tar and corpses.

Hank's fingers brushed the rifle grip. Too many to count. No time to analyze.

One of the smaller ones lunged first, jaws snapping inches from his arm. Hank barely rolled aside, letting the creature sail past before slamming a brutal kick into its ribs. It yelped—a thin, broken sound—and stumbled back like a scared mutt.

'Just flesh and meat,' he growled under his breath. 'Like any other feral-ass thing.'

Another came right after, jaws closing as he rolled under it, eyes narrowed and hands steady on the firearm. Hank barely registered it before a third charged from the flank. Without effort, he drove his boot square on its snout, crushing its jaw into the ground. It struggled, thrashing uselessly.

Hank leveled the M4A1 at its head. His finger tightened.

One sharp BANG. 

And the creature fell with a thud. 

The flash and crack of the gunshot echoed through the forest. The remaining beasts erupted from the undergrowth, snarling, drooling, claws raking dirt and leaves.

Hank bared his teeth under the bandana. "Come at me, you damn mutts," he muttered, low and unbothered.

He opened fire. Rapid shots tore through the air, his assault rifle spitting lead at the charging pack. Fur, bone, and viscera flew. Some dodged, some barely flinched—the bone plating stopped bullets, or maybe they were just too feral to care.

The hounds poured out from between the trees in a frenzy—sprinting on all fours, claws tearing up dirt and leaves. Some were smaller. Others were larger, thicker, their white masks cracked and jagged. One amongst them stood out. Bigger than the rest. Taller. Its mask was thicker, spikes portruding from the spine. It circled instead of charging.

'This one's smart.'

Hank stepped into the charge—short, efficient shots. One's skull detonated mid-leap. Another lost its shoulder and spun into a tree. A third made it close enough to rake claws across him before he drove the bayonet straight up through its throat, lifting it off the ground before kicking the corpse free.

The alpha finally lunged.

Low and fast, far faster than the others, jaws snapping for him. Hank twisted, grabbed the thing by the scruff mid-motion, and slammed it headfirst into a tree trunk hard enough to splinter wood.

It ripped free. Tore itself out of his grip with a violent wrench. Its mask was cracked, bleeding somthing black—but it didn't slow.

Hank fired.

It dodged. Zigzagged through the trees, bullets tearing bark and dirt instead of flesh. Too fast. It leapt again, jaws wide.

Hank dropped into a slide beneath it, skidding through the dirt. In the split second it passed over him, he twisted and emptied his rifle into its exposed underbelly. Shots tore through black flesh, ripping it apart before it even hit the ground.

Hank rolled to his feet, rifle still raised—and they were already on him. The smaller ones.

He fired, dropping the first in a burst. Stepped into the next, sending a brutal kick into its snout that sent it skidding across the dirt. Four more went down in bursts of shots. One got too close; Hank swung the rifle and caved its skull in with a wet crack, the stock crunching straight through bone and mask.

'Too many all at once,' He lost focus for half a second—

—an alpha slammed into him from the side. Jaws clamped on his arm, shredding fabric and trench coat up to the elbow. Hank growled, trying to bring the rifle around, but another hit him full force, pinning him to the ground. Hot breath. Snapping teeth. Inches from his throat.

He dropped the rifle and grabbed its jaws, one hand on the upper, the other on the lower. Muscles screamed as he forced the mouth open and wrenched sideways. The jaw snapped apart. He kicked the beast off him.

He pushed himself up, arm burning, bandages wrapped araund his arm fluttering in the wind. 

The ground thudded. Hank turned just in time to see it rear up—massive, hulking, its black-and-bone frame stretching skyward as it rose onto its hind legs. An overgrown rabid bear, white mask, claws like hooked cleavers swinging down toward him. 

He raised the rifle on instinct and squeezed the trigger. Click. Empty.

"Shit—"

It lunged, jaws wide. He didn't reload. Just surged forward instead. The bayonet flashed.

Quick, brutal thrusts—one into its throat, another into the snout, steel scraping bone as he drove the blade straight into its open mouth. He ripped it free and slashed upward, carving deep into the mask and skull.

The grizzly roared, a deafening, enraged sound. It acted immediatly. A massive claw slammed into him. Hank barely had time to bring the rifle up—

CRUNCH.

The assault rifle shattered in half, the force hurling him several meters back. He hit the ground hard, skidding through the forest. Behind him, it staggered, roaring again. The wounded beast toppled sideways, its enormous weight crashing down onto the remaining Beowolves beneath it. Bone and dark fur burst apart as the smaller canines were crushed under its bulk.

Hank stayed where he was for a moment, chest rising and falling. "...Not that hard," he muttered. "Just filthy animals. Predictable."

But they kept coming. That was the problem. He pushed upright and finally let his gaze settle on the bodies he'd left behind.

The smell hit him first—burnt oil mixed with human flesh. 

Then he noticed it. The corpses were coming apart.

Black smoke pured out of torn limbs and wounds. Bone and fur fading away into ash, dissolving into nothing until the forest floor was left scorched. Just nothing remaining from these creatures.

Hank watched the last of them dissolve—black smoke, brittle ash, gone. No guts, no decay, no biological follow-through. "...Yeah. Not normal wildlife," he muttered. 

They didn't behave like any other predator. The just kept on rushing, repeat—no fear response, no survival instinct past the target. More like weapons than wildlife. That explained why they just kept on fucking coming.

Something big was right behind him. Too close. Something heavier than the others. Bigger. Much bigger than the last bear. Close enough that its breath brushed the back of his neck. Jaws opening wide, ready to take his head and torso in one bite.

Hank didn't turn.

Didn't move.

Time narrowed.

0.9 seconds.

SLASH

SLICE

SLASH

A dry snap echoed through the forest.

The grizzly came apart.

Clean, vertical cuts ripped through its body in an instant, splitting it into slabs of meat and bone. The remains collapsed forward, chunks of it slapping wetly against the ground, others raining down over Hank's shoulders and coat. Nodachi-katana already in his hand. His eyes glowed faintly as black smoke began to seep from the dissolving corpse. He stood there, unmoved, blade dripping. 

'...Getting old,' he breathed.

He didn't bother turning around as the last pieces of the thing hit the ground behind him. Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward the treeline.

The remaining creatures lingered there, half-emerging from the area. No longer charging. No longer eager. Their movements were hesitant now. Watching him. Possibly in fear.

Hank adjusted his stance, one arm raised, the katana resting along his shoulder at an angle—loose, relaxed, like this wasn't even a fight anymore. His posture had changed. Not defensive. Not aggressive. 

Adapted.

A faint huff escaped his nose as he spat to the side, "I see how you fucks work now."

Nick Frond was barely holding on. 

The pain had dulled into something distant. Blood soaked his sleeve and bark alike, blood loss making everything feel slow, unreal. Midday light filtered through the canopy, too bright. Birds had started up again. The world, apparently, had moved on. His eyes fluttered. 

Then—boots. Many of them. His eyes snapped upward. Figures stepped out from the forest, fanning into the clearing. Around two dozen. Raiders and bandits by the look of them—mixed armor, tactical vests, cloaks, scavenged gear. Veterans. Every one of them bore the same insignia.

A circle with rectangular juts on the inside, resembling a gear or a clock. The circle was covered on the right by a jagged  shape of a wing. Stitched onto fabric or painted onto armor plates.

Nick's heart dropped into his gut.

"Branwen—" he gasped, louder than he meant to.

One of them stepped forward. The man crouched in front of him, bringing himself down to eye level. Blond hair shot through with patches of white peeked from beneath a bandana, bangs hanging loose. Dark green eyes and a small mole sat beneath his right cheek, impossible to miss. A dark red cloak was draped over shoulders, falling to his upper waist. Around his hips were two black leather belts, both showing buckles stamped with the Branwen insignia.

He grinned. "Nicky," he said, amused.  His gaze drifted past Nick, slowly taking in the carnage—the bodies, the torn trees.

He whistled under his breath. "...So," the man said casually, looking back at him. "What happened here?"

TO BE CONTINUED...