Inside one of the convoys, Commander Marius, a modified Mogadorian with danger-sense enhancements, jolted. His blackened eyes narrowed.
"Something's wrong," he growled in Mogadorian. "Check the trailers!"
The convoy halted. Trailers hissed as doors opened, and Mogadorians spilled out, blasters raised.
Marius turned to his squad. "Open it. Be ready to fire."
The hatch slid open—only to reveal… emptiness.
The creatures were gone.
Just as the Mogadorians processed the sight, Marius's danger sense flared again—too late.
Behind them—Alexander.
With a gesture, bodies flew—blasters scattered. He reached out—snapping limbs with pinpoint telekinesis, bones cracking like dry wood. Neck after neck twisted violently.
Marius snarled and tried to aim—but Alexander lifted him midair with a flick. A moment later, his neck snapped sideways, limp and final.
While on the far side of the trailer, Six moved like a wraith through shadow and fire.
A Mogadorians that where thrown away, had broken off in fear—there squads fanned out with jittery blasters scanning everything around them.
They didn't see her.
Not at first.
With a subtle flex of her palm, flames erupted—not chaotic and wild, but controlled, elegant. A stream of fire arced from her outstretched hand in a spiraling torrent, superheated and blue at the core, slamming into the side of an armored trooper.
The fire didn't just burn—it pierced, slicing through synthetic armor and metal plating like molten razors.
He screamed, then fell silent, his armor glowing red-hot from within.
On the opposite side of the trailer, Six moved like a phantom.
She activated her Novis mode, her body cloaked in ghostly plasma—a misty aura of deep electric blue and soft cyan. Wisps trailed behind her like silk underwater.
With every step, she was a ripple—leaving behind a ghost-trail that faded softly into the air.
She blinked into sight behind a Mogadorian and drove her Loric diamond dagger into his side. He collapsed without a sound.
Another turned, only to see mist swirl—and his world go dark.
Silent. Precise. Deadly.
The metallic groan of opening trailer doors pierced the forest silence.
Commander Spike, a tall and twisted Mogadorian with pale grey skin, stepped into the shadowed interior of Trailer Two. His body armor was jagged and spined, and his eyes glowed with brutal anticipation. Behind him stood his elite unit — six Mogadorians, all heavily modified.
But before he could take another step—
CRACK—THWACK!
A blur slammed into his face, sending him staggering backward off his feet.
Hannu, eyes gleaming with primal focus, had activated Animal Imitation: Cheetah, enhancing his speed and power. The kick landed square on Spike's jaw, fast enough to be a blur to the soldiers behind him.
Spike growled, recovering mid-fall, his muscles bulging.
"Kill him!" he roared in Mogadorian.
One of his lieutenants charged — a brute enhanced with super strength — swinging wide fists like wrecking balls.
Hannu ducked low, letting the blow smash into the trailer wall, leaving a gaping dent and throwing sparks across the metal surface.
But Hannu was already in motion.
He flipped back, leaping into the air with wild simian agility, invoking the essence of Spider Monkeys — swift, elusive, untouchable.
Then came the shick-shick sound — twin blades drawn from his sides, knives etched with glowing Loric runes. Their bluish hue pulsed softly, awakening with his intent."Let's get this over with."
The battlefield became a blur.
Hannu jumped, spun, flipped, and slid between Mogadorian ranks, his movements an elegant storm of violence. He carved into exposed throats, drove his blades into heart-points, and dashed away before blasters could lock on.
The red energy beams from Mogadorian rifles flashed past him, searing the air — but Hannu's reflexes were too fast. His limbs twisted midair, landing like a panther with a predator's grace.
Spike snarled and activated his bone manipulation.
"CRACK!" — Razor-sharp drill-like bone spikes burst from both wrists with a grotesque crunch.
He hurled them as projectiles, each spiraling with deadly velocity.
Hannu somersaulted over them, twisting through the narrow space like smoke in a bottle. One spike grazed his arm, drawing blood — but that was all Spike managed.
Then the rhythm changed.
Hannu launched himself over the remaining soldiers, flipping and landing just behind Spike. His palm touched the back of Spike's head—"Static discharge."
A surge of electricity burst from his hand, lightning arcing through Spike's nervous system. The Commander screamed, convulsing as his body seized and locked in place.
Hannu wasted no time.
With cold precision, he stepped forward and drew both blades across Spike's throat.
A clean slice — Loric steel humming briefly — and then silence.
Spike fell to his knees, gurgled once, and collapsed.
As the remaining Mogadorians stood frozen, Hannu turned toward them, blood glistening on his blades, eyes glowing faintly.
Outside the third trailer, dimly lit and reverberating with the low hum of Mogadorian tech, an eerie silence lingered. That silence shattered—
CLANG—FWOOOSH!
Nine dropped in from the roof of trailer like a comet, landing hard, his boots cracking the ground beneath him.
In his hand, he held what looked like a plain silver pipe—simple, unassuming.
Then—
CLACK—FWOOM!
He snapped his wrist, and the pipe violently expanded, elongating into a six-foot weapon, glowing crimson-hot.
Nine's Pipe-Staff was online.
The Mogadorians turned, raising their blasters—too slow.
Nine activated his Anti-Gravity Legacy.
A pulse of energy erupted from his core, turning the laws of physics upside down.
He ran along the side walls of the trailer, the metal groaning beneath his steps as he defied gravity. Blaster bolts screamed past him — but he was too fast. A blur of motion.
Then came the carnage.
WHAM! — His staff cracked into a Mogadorian's skull, dropping him instantly.
The Pipe-staff then had rotating blades spinning at the head like a fusion of spear and buzzsaw.
VRRRM! — He spun mid-air, striking another through the chest, his rotating blade slicing through armor like tissue.
CRACK! — A backflip off the ceiling, landing behind two soldiers — twist, slam, silence.
Bodies hit the floor faster than they could scream.
Nine was a storm in motion, laughter echoing as he tore through his enemies with pure, controlled brutality.
On the opposite end, Marina — known as Seven — moved like a ghost among shadows.
Her hand glowed icy-blue, frost creeping up her arm. With a breath, she flung her arm forward—
SHHK! SHHK! SHHK!
Icicles shot out, lethal and razor-sharp, piercing two Mogadorians mid-run. Their bodies stiffened, frozen in place as frost overtook their limbs.
Then came Commander Larkin — a brute of a Mogadorian with enhanced strength, swinging a massive double-sided axe that hummed with dark energy.
He came at her like a tank.
Marina dodged his first swing, sliding beneath the weapon like water, her hand skimming across the ground.
With a flick—
CRACK! — Shards of ice burst up from the floor, stabbing into Larkin's legs, locking them in solid glacial formations.
He screamed, trying to pull free.
The ice climbed higher, crackling as it constricted, turning his legs into jagged blocks of frost.
"You're not walking out of this," she whispered.
With smooth precision, Marina summoned her Loric knife — its blade glowing brilliant blue, the runes pulsing with power.
She dashed forward — one clean motion —
THUNK! — The blade buried deep into Larkin's back.
He gurgled in shock, his strength failing as the frost spread across his chest like spiderweb fractures. His axe fell with a final clang.
Nine strolled over, spinning his staff lazily, eyes scanning the room full of downed Mogadorians.
"All clear?" he asked.
Marina wiped the blood and frost from her blade, her calm eyes never blinking."All clear."