Darian Coer, former Special Forces legend, back in action—a pillar of steel among chaos. A military-grade, tungsten-forged iron rod clutched in one hand. A child tucked under the other. And surrounding him?
Hell itself.
As I ran toward him, my boots crushed the blood-soaked gravel. I could see it now—my father wasn't just holding his ground; he was controlling the battlefield.
A black-skinned goblin, nearly two meters tall, charged at him with a jagged bone-club in both hands, snarling like a beast. Its legs rippled with muscle, and its eyes were red with primal bloodlust.
But my father? He didn't move an inch.
His breath slowed—deep and centered, like a mountain unmoved by the wind.
He shifted his grip on the tactical iron rod—a Special Forces relic forged from dense, high-carbon alloy mixed with tungsten fibers, known in military circles as "Unbreakable Hand."
It was designed not just to resist bending, but to amplify force through kinetic transfer—turning every swing into a bone-cracking hammer blow.
The goblin raised its club overhead.
In that instant, time slowed—at least, that's how it felt watching him.
Darian stepped half a pace to the left, just enough for the club to barely miss his shoulder. And then, in a move that felt more like poetry than violence, he rotated his body inward.
Boom.
The rod didn't swing like a weapon. It struck like thunder.
He pierced forward, using a form I'd only seen once when dad trained at home—'Iron Needle Pierces Night,' a Martial art-style technique adapted from ancient staff arts. The tip of the rod drilled through the goblin's right eye socket, shattering the frontal skull plate with precise internal acceleration. The monster's head burst like a melon.
It collapsed instantly.
One strike. Clean. Lethal.
I froze. Even KIRA's voice dimmed.
[KIRA: Vital signs of target "Darian Coer": Stable. Adrenaline peak—122%. Combat capacity—98%. Recommendation: Do not interfere.]
My voice cracked. "Dad…"
He turned to me, still holding the child.
"Sam? Damn it—I told you to stay back."
"I hacked a satellite; I wasn't going to sit around while you fought alone."
He grunted with a smirk.
"…Still reckless."
A shriek rang out—dozens of monsters skittering over overturned vehicles, leaping down from broken rooftops. A second wave.
"Can you run?" he asked.
"I can do better than that."
I threw him a shock grenade. He caught it mid-air, activated the pin with his thumb, and hurled it behind us. The explosion knocked the horde off balance—just enough time to escape.
We ducked into an alley, my KIRA navigating the route with 3D wireframes. The child clung to Darian, too shocked to cry.
"Dad," I panted, "that move you used—was it real Murim-style?"
"It's something my captain taught me before he died. Based on the 'Ten Movements of the Storm Rod.' Takes decades to master." He looked over his shoulder. "You just saw number four."
I stared at the blood still dripping from the rod.
KIRA's voice crackled in my ear, breaking through the noise.
"Murim's fiction, Sam. No supernatural energy detected. Martial arts? That's real. Focus on what you can actually fight with."
No time for doubt.
Just then, a monstrous shadow eclipsed the chaotic street—like nightfall swallowed the sun.
Before I could even register, a deafening crash shook the ground—my car was obliterated under a massive footfall. Metal screamed, glass shattered, sparks flew into the smoky air.
I glanced up.
An 18-foot-tall beast towered over us—thick, scaled black hide cracked like molten lava, eyes burning crimson, wielding a bone blade the size of a small building.
Every breath it exhaled sent a hot, rancid wind swirling dust and debris.
The streets were pandemonium—screams, sirens, crumbling buildings, people running and falling under the weight of terror.
Some fought desperately with what little weapons they had, others fled in blind panic. Blood splattered; bones cracked—chaos was a living thing.
And in the eye of the storm stood my father, Darian—unyielding, a mountain of calm fury.
He wielded his Unbreakable Hand iron rod—an unbendable, military-grade weapon forged for wars and legends. With a fierce battle cry, he met the beast's bone blade.
The impact shook the street. Concrete cracked; sparks flew like fireworks. The creature's strike thundered down like an earthquake—but my father didn't just block it—he deflected the blow with precision, sending it smashing into a ruined wall behind.
"Sam!" His voice cut through the chaos, a lifeline.
"Get out of here! Take the child! Now!"
I could see the strain in his eyes—he was holding back a storm beneath that iron calm.
"But Dad—"
"No time."
The beast roared, rage and malice pouring from its gaping maw. It swung again—this time faster, angrier, the sound like a freight train.
Darian fought back, every move a blur of strength and discipline honed through years of war. The street echoed with their brutal clash—metal on bone, earth shaking beneath them.
"Go!" he barked.
I grabbed the child, heart hammering like a war drum. The world narrowed to the pounding of my own breath and the distant screams.
Mounting my father's bike, I tore through the chaos, dodging rubble and terrified civilians, adrenaline scorching every nerve.
I'm not weak. I can't be.
Memories flashed—my father's battles, his sacrifices—burning into resolve.
He was protecting us—forging a path through the nightmare.
'I had to go back, I must go back.'
In the distance, the battle raged on—the clash of titans echoing like thunder.
The scent of burning plastic and concrete dust thickened the air. Darian's chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm.
Sweat mixed with blood on his brow. He pressed his back to the cracked wall of a collapsing parking tower, gripping his iron rod with both hands—knuckles white, fingers cramping.
The Draco-lizard stalked the ruins, its claws grinding over steel and stone.
It dragged its titanic bone blade behind it, leaving sparks and deep scars across the ground.
The monster's breath steamed in the air—hot, toxic, and rancid—like rust and fire. Two glowing red eyes scanned for movement with cold calculation.
Darian glanced at his shattered phone. The broken screen still displayed a faint image of his family—Talia, Rio, Sera, and Sam.
His eyes stung. Not from the dust. From the knowledge that this might be his final hour.
"I wanted one more dinner at home... just one more."