Huff. Huff.
In the middle of the desert, a woman could be seen running at an astonishing pace—almost impossible for a normal human to achieve.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest burning with the effort of forcing one foot in front of the other. The desert stretched endlessly before her—vast and merciless—its golden dunes now darkened to an eerie shade beneath the storm. Rain fell in furious sheets, hammering against her skin, drenching her clothes, making every movement heavier, more exhausting.
Isla couldn't help but wonder—how had she ended up in this situation?
This wasn't supposed to happen. None of it.
The experiment had been a controlled effort—numbers, calculations, and precise equations balanced delicately on the edge of discovery. Not this. Not a nightmare breathing life into the darkness.
Her fingers curled into fists—slick with sand and rain—trembling from both exhaustion and the sheer terror clawing at her mind.
"What's the point of being so strong if I have to run away under others' protection?"
She mocked herself for never learning how to truly use her strength—for being satisfied with a longer life, perfect health, and a sharper, faster mind that helped her research but never taught her how to fight. Unlike every other fourth-level evolved superhuman, she had failed to properly utilize the gift she had been rewarded with by her master.
something others yearn for.
Behind her, somewhere in the madness of wind, soil, and water, lay those who had tried to protect her. Were they even alive? She didn't know—couldn't afford to look back. She knew this was her only chance to buy precious time—to keep herself alive before His Highness arrived to save her.
Unfortunately, fate seemed to have turned its back on her.
"Ha ha ha! It's so fun."
"Run faster, Isla. Run faster."
A loud voice entered her ears, sending a shiver down her spine.
She didn't look back to confirm her fear. She refused to.
She pushed her body to run faster, ignoring the way her muscles protested.
Suddenly, her ears caught a voice—low at first, but rising against the howling winds.
Thwop. Thwop.
Happiness bloomed in her heart. Finally, her efforts and desperation had paid off. She knew this sound well—she had waited for it, prayed for it.
Several miles away, four highly advanced Nightfang X-50 combat helicopters cut through the storm-ridden sky like specters, their stealth matrix technology shrouding them against enemy radar.
They soared over the endless dunes, slicing through the torrential downpour that blurred the desert's unforgiving landscape.
Their eagle-like vision pierced through the rain, scanning for threats with a 360-degree sensor suite that ignored nature's fury.
The storm raged, lightning tearing across the heavens, illuminating their adaptive wings—sleek and dynamic, shifting in response to violent air currents, ensuring unwavering control.
From either side, their dual-mounted . 50-caliber rail guns gleamed ominously, tracking enemy positions even through the chaos, ready to unleash devastation at a moment's command.
Inside the helicopters, neural-interface controls synchronized seamlessly with the pilots' instincts, reacting as swiftly as thought itself.
Tactical displays glowed eerily in the darkness, painting their path, guiding them toward her.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the silence inside one of the helicopters.
"Open the gate."
The pilot couldn't help but protest anxiously.
"Y-Your Highness, we are flying at 13,000 feet above ground level at a speed of 140 miles per hour!"
"We will reach her location within two minutes and fifteen seconds."
"You don't have to—"
The voice resounded once again, cutting the pilot off mid-sentence.
"Hey."
"Did I ask for your opinion?"
The pilot felt a hand touching his neck—fingers tightening, slow and deliberate. Sweat began to form on his brow as he cursed himself for forgetting just who he was escorting.
Behind him stood a man draped in shadow—his presence suffocating, commanding, undeniably lethal.
A cigarette burned between his lips, the ember casting a faint glow over his sharp jawline, chiseling his features further against the dim cockpit light. He was 6'3" of sheer intimidation, every muscle taut beneath ruthless, crisp tattoos, each marking a victory carved into flesh.
His silver hair, wild and untamed, shimmered like liquid steel, strands catching flashes of lightning from the raging storm outside. But it was his blood-red eyes, cold and unreadable, that sent terror down the pilot's spine.
They weren't just looking—they were judging.
And then there was the cut on his left eyebrow, jagged and unforgiving, a permanent reminder that even gods bleed.
His grip tightened—not enough to choke, just enough to remind.
"Do you think I am the same as my siblings, huh?"
The pilot swallowed hard, forcing himself not to tremble. The engines roared, the desert storm howled, but the only thing he could hear was the slow drag of the man's cigarette and the unspoken promise of consequences should he dare to speak again.
He was Soren Ragnar. The second prince of the Ragnar Empire.
"My apologies, Your Highness. Please forgive me for my shortsightedness."
"Hmm." Soren Ragnar took a slow drag of his cigarette before releasing the pilot's neck.
"Consider yourself lucky that I haven't learned how to fly this thing. I find it too boring."
He tapped the pilot's cheek a few times, each one heavier than expected—his mere touch left the pilot's skin burning red.
"Do it."He ordered.
The pilot decided to answer with his actions.
Slide.
Soren Ragnar moved toward the open gate, where furious gales of storm and rain hit him—extinguishing the smoldering cigarette between his lips.
He tossed the remaining cigarette into the desert below before taking a step forward—and jumped.
"Let's see how special you are."
He muttered while falling, the thirst for battle awakening in him like a beast.
Huff. Huff.
Now that survival was so close—so painfully within reach—Isla's feet moved faster on their own, driven by pure instinct, pure desperation.
"Did you call for new playmates?"
The whisper brushed against her left ear, chilling her to the bone.
"Too bad. I won't be able to play with them."
Her legs faltered. Too sudden. Too fast.
Her body couldn't handle the strain of running at such a breakneck speed. She crashed.
Sand swallowed her whole—wet, suffocating, clinging to her skin like a second layer, coating her from head to toe. A mess. A ruin.
No one would recognize this version of her—the broken, desperate thing in the dirt. Certainly not the image of Head Researcher Isla, the woman everyone had respected and admired.
"Oooh, that was entertaining to watch."
That same damned voice entered her ear again—mocking, cruel.
This time, Isla was forced to look at him. She had no choice.
Still on the ground, she turned her head slowly—dread tightening around her throat.
And there he was.
Standing just a few meters away.
The same wild grin, stretched impossibly wide, the expression he always wore when massacring others.
"P-Please… Just let me go."
Her voice barely carried past the storm—hoarse, broken. Her eyes had begun to dim, vision blurred with exhaustion and terror.
"Heeeey!"
Kevin (????) exclaimed, his tone absurdly playful.
"Now, don't be like this. You're the one who started this game."
Isla shook her head frantically, pressing her palms against the wet sand as if she could somehow sink into it, disappear.
"Why… why are you going so far? I'm sorry! I really am! So please—just let me quit this game of yours!"
She pleaded—desperate, begging.
If anyone had seen this scene, they would have slapped themselves twice, just to make sure they weren't dreaming.
Because each person who had crossed the threshold between third- and fourth-level evolution carried pride—a deep, unshakable pride that intertwined with their will, pushing them to become rulers, protectors, and figures of dominance.
There was no such thing as a fourth-level evolved human without a Keeper Family beneath their protection. It was a symbiotic relationship, a system where the Fourth-level protector gained power in exchange for ruling a territory through their Keeper Family.
And yet, here was Isla, pleading for her life, tossing away everything—her pride, her status, her very existence—as if they were meaningless.
Kevin (????)'s brows furrowed slightly as he watched her.
Then, he moved—slow, measured steps, closing the distance.
"You see, I have two reasons for doing this."
He crouched beside her, unbothered by the storm, towering over her like a predator savoring its victory.
"First—I'm collecting something really, really important."
His fingers twitched slightly, as if itching to take whatever it was.
"Second—and most important—I don't like leaving my games unfinished."
His wild grin returned—bright, twisted, hungry.
Isla shuddered, every instinct screaming at her to run, but her body had already betrayed her.
Now, she was certain—without a shred of doubt—that the man in front of her was the vilest creature to ever exist.
"Y-You… a-are a monster."
She whispered the words in a trembling voice, barely able to breathe past the horror flooding her veins.
Kevin (????) leaned forward, his face dangerously close to hers.
Then, with an amused tone, he exhaled:
"Heh. Wrong."
His shining dark green eyes burned into hers.
"I'm keeping the real monster restrained right now."