Months had passed since Ethan had faced the Golden Guardian. His body had mostly healed—bones set, skin reknit, muscles forged anew—but the scars ran deeper than flesh. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that golden glow. That godlike presence. That judgment.
But despite the trauma, Haven had gone on.
People laughed again. They rebuilt. Reapers patrolled. Patrol squads scouted. Life clawed its way back.
And then—just like that—everything burned.
The night was cold when the screaming started.
Ethan had just finished tightening the bandages around his side when the alarms rang out. He barely had time to grab his gear before the walls crumbled and shadows poured in—mutants, more than he had ever seen. Not the weak ones. These were evolved. Faster. Smarter. Angry.
Explosions rocked the city.
People ran.
People died.
By the time Ethan reached the watchtower, it was too late.
The Reapers? Gone.
The families? Torn apart.
The leaders? Ripped limb from limb.
He was the only one left.
And something snapped inside him.
He didn't mourn.
He roared.
With a blood-soaked growl, Ethan stormed into the armory and loaded everything he could carry—AKs, shotguns, grenades, drum mags, and one rusted, holy grail of death: an RPG.
He strapped it all to his back, face painted in ash and fury.
"No more running," he whispered. "No more mercy."
He walked through the burning remains of Haven, spraying everything that moved. Mutants fell in heaps. He didn't care about aiming—only purging. His rage was a storm, and bullets were thunder.
He fought until the streets were quiet again.
Then he turned.
The pit called to him.
Not with mystery. Not with fear.
But with purpose.
He descended without backup. Without hesitation. Without hesitation.
Knives in hand.
Every mutant he met inside was shredded, stabbed, or torn apart. He danced in the shadows, soaked in blood and vengeance.
Then, in the deepest chamber, the red orb awaited.
He stepped through it once more.
The Golden Guardian stood there on his throne of Therellum, untouched by time. His glowing eyes flicked open as Ethan approached, RPG raised and trembling with hate.
The golden titan smirked.
And Ethan fired.
BOOM.
The explosion rocked the chamber. Smoke and fire engulfed the throne.
But as the dust settled… the Guardian still stood.
Armor cracked.
Eyes burning.
A bruise on his chest—the first damage ever dealt.
He cracked his knuckles, slowly stepping down from his throne.
"You've grown," the Guardian rumbled.
Ethan, panting, face burned and body aching, tossed aside the smoking launcher. He unsheathed his knives again.
"I'm not done."
The golden mutant smiled.
"Good."
And then they clashed.
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