He cranes his neck to look up at us and smiles. “Welcome,” he says. Noticing the tunnel we’re standing in front of, he lowers his eyes and frowns, mockingly demure. “Please, do not be offended by the sight of my failures. They were not fit to carry my gifts. Like you all, they were not ready for prog—”
No more goddamn words.
I pitch a fireball at him. I don’t expect it to hit; it’s just meant to cover my approach. I fly forward, reckless, as fast as I can. Behind me, I can feel the others moving forward too. This is it.
Kill or be killed.
Setrákus Ra raises his hand, and a plume of ooze shaped like a shield extends from his palm. My fireball is absorbed. Doesn’t matter.
With him distracted, I fling my dagger at him. I use my telekinesis to boost its speed.
The blade buries itself in his shoulder, punching right through his armor. A wound that he won’t be able to heal thanks to the Voron and no more Legacies thanks to my Dreynen.
Except, it seems too easy. Almost like he wanted me to hit him.
“Very good, John,” Setrákus Ra says smugly. “You’ve mastered Dreynen.”
Nothing happens. He still floats. He still smiles.
“You’ve cut me off from that piece of Lorien still living within me. I won’t be able to take your Legacies,” Setrákus Ra continues conversationally. “It won’t matter.”
Setrákus Ra pulls the dagger out of his shoulder and whips it back at me. I fly aside and, behind me, Nine catches the weapon with his telekinesis.
“I am beyond that now. Beyond Legacies. Your powers derive from a primitive being with no rhyme or reason. My Augmentations are of my own choosing, limited not by an outside Entity, but only by my own genius. Which, I might add, is staggering.”
The wound on his shoulder doesn’t heal. Instead, it fills with the black ooze.
I barely have time to process this information as I propel myself forward, enraged. If Dreynen won’t work, there are other ways.
Brute force.
I slam into Setrákus Ra with my shoulder. He barely budges. Quickly, I light my Lumen, my fists spouting white-hot flames, and throw one punch, two punches, three punches. He moves his head just enough to the side each time, his speed impossible.
The next punch he catches. I smell burning flesh as his hand covers mine. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“After all these years,” Setrákus Ra says, the two of us face-to-face, “do you still not understand?”
Five crashes into Setrákus Ra’s back and starts to stab him. He jams his blade through Setrákus Ra’s throat, into his back, through his cheek.
Each wound is quickly sealed over by black ooze.
Setrákus Ra’s free arm rotates around in the socket 180 degrees. His hand turns over like he’s double-jointed, and, without turning away from me, he grasps Five by the throat. Now he’s holding on to both of us.
“You could never win,” Setrákus Ra finishes his thought. “You were only sent here to die.”
Then he crushes my hand. I feel every finger break, every knuckle get compacted. The pain is excruciating. He flings me away from him with such force that I lose control of my flight. Luckily, Nine leaps up in the air and catches me around the waist. Marina, positioned on the ledge, creates an ice floe on the lake of ooze where Nine and I can safely land.
Nine stares at me, wild-eyed. “John, what . . . what the hell are those powers?”
I swallow hard, trying to quickly heal my hand, grimacing as the compacted bones pop back into place. “I don’t know.”
Meanwhile, Setrákus Ra swings his arm around to its normal position, still holding Five by the neck. Five has given up on stabbing the Mogadorian and is instead desperately prying at Setrákus Ra’s fingers.
“You,” Setrákus Ra says. “One of my greatest disappointments. The power I could have given you, boy. . . .”
Setrákus Ra holds up his hand. His fingertips shimmer, each of them tipped with a razor-sharp claw. He wants us to see this. He’s toying with us.
I pull at Five with my telekinesis. I sense that Nine and Marina do the same. We aren’t strong enough to drag him from Setrákus Ra’s grip.
There’s a piercing screech of metal, and then Five starts to scream. Setrákus Ra drags his clawed fingers over Five’s face, slicing through his steel skin like it was butter. Then he peels it away, like taking off a mask, and tosses the metal chunk of face aside.
Five’s not screaming anymore. I’m not sure if he’s conscious or even alive.