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Chapter 4

FOUR

"Dragek. Are you ready?" Ashrael stood opposite him, watching him in that intense, silent way, where he could feel just a sliver of the other Silent One's ka'qui as it danced in and around his awareness.

Analyzing him.

Dissecting him.

How irritating.

Dragek put his shields up, blocking Ashrael's insidious presence.

He couldn't be underestimated. He was one of the very few beings in the Universe that could enter the transcendent state between worlds that granted him pure invisibility.

The qim.

Dragek could wield qim too, but it took him an immense amount of effort, to the point where he'd feel drained for a long time afterward.

He suspected Ashrael was much more proficient at entering the transcendent state of qim. The Silent One was infamous, feared throughout the Universe as the deadliest assassin to ever come out of The Program.

His kills would easily number in the thousands, if not the tens of thousands.

Of course, Dragek was lethal too, but he was yet to achieve complete mastery of his powers.

There was more training to do. There was still room for him to expand and strengthen his ka'qui. Perhaps he could even equal Ashrael, if not surpass him.

That bastard.

Of course Dragek wanted to surpass him.

Idly, he wondered whether Ashrael could walk through dreams.

His thoughts turned to the human female he'd encountered while his consciousness was detached from his body.

Strange creature. He remembered her human innocence, her alluring state of dishevelment.

And then she'd decided he couldn't possibly be real, and she'd grown reckless and impertinent.

If she was able to see him in her dreams, then she possessed more than a small degree of the Talent. The discovery of Ashrael's mate proved that some humans were also capable of wielding the ka'qui, but there was no way she would have been specifically trained in its use.

She was too naive. Too unguarded.

She thought he was a figment of her imagination, for her amusement only.

If only you knew, foolish human.

"What is that expression, hmm?" Ashrael's quiet voice sliced through his thoughts like a Callidum blade. "That isn't a look I'd associate with you, Dragek Katach. "

He used the old word, katach , semi-ironically. In the Old Language, it meant Ruler. It was said that those who possessed the ability to wield the ka'qui were more closely related to the ancient rulers of Kythia, the Zor.

What irony, then, that they'd been enslaved and mindbound to the infernal Mistresses—agents of the Kordolian Empire.

"Nothing," Dragek grated, flexing his fingers as a sudden thirst for violence was awakened within him. "Maybe I'm just happy to be out of the Mistress's cursed grip."

He didn't dare reveal the existence of the strange human yet. For all he knew, her appearance could be some sort of trap.

"I can relate." Ashrael's tone softened ever so slightly. "It's a strange feeling at first," this seemingly unfettered freedom. Seamlessly, he switched to mindspeech. The sound of words coming out of a mouth that shouldn't be capable of producing any sound at all. Perhaps it's best that we've fallen under the control of one such as him— Tarak. He raised his arm—the artificial one, a highly sophisticated cybernetic limb. If Ashrael hadn't revealed what it was, Dragek would have no idea it was an implant. The skin covering the framework was a perfect match. But the arm itself was monstrously powerful—much more so than the Silent One's already lethal other arm.

Dragek had found out the hard way. He stared at the older man in confusion. What in the Nine Hells is he going on about now?

See this arm? It's thanks to him. He took it away and returned it with interest. Like you, I once had a neural immobilizer—a death-switch. It was implanted in this arm. At first, I was incensed, but over time, I came to understand its necessity. Tarak leaves nothing to chance. If there was ever a leader the likes of us should serve under, it's him.

Dragek seethed as he remembered the humiliation of being bested, of falling to Tarak al Akkadian's lethal sword after infiltrating the Kordolian compound on Earth. Even though he was faster than the general and equally skilled in certain combat styles, Tarak was more experienced and wily, and he had that infernal super-regeneration ability.

When the general had incapacitated him and immobilized his body so he could no longer carry out his Mistress's commands, part of Dragek had felt a certain kind of relief.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, it was far preferable to serve Ashrael and Tarak al Akkadian than the woman who had controlled his mindbond.

She'd been callous and empty, a true servant of the old Kordolian Empire.

Well, she was dead now.

"I will comply with your schemes for now," he said coldly, sneaking out a tendril of his ka'qui to test Ashrael's deceptively quiet aura. "But I have no interest in swearing allegiance to another master in this lifetime. I just want a chance to take my revenge. If you are the vessel, I'll be your blade."

Ashrael smiled: an empty, bleak smile. "You would take revenge against the empire that wronged you?"

"I would. I would see them destroyed; every last one of them obliterated into dust."

"Good. We have use for a tool like you, but the time you spent as a captive has dulled your edge a little." He folded his arms and gave Dragek a stern, appraising look. Like him, Ashrael was shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose trousers. The bastard was in supreme physical shape. The difference between them was minuscule, but it was enough for Ashrael to be able to beat him—for now. "It doesn't matter, though. I'll get you honed in no time. Let's go."

Without warning, he shot forward, fist clenched and aiming for Dragek's face.

Fast.

Kaiin's Hells.

Dragek snapped his head to the side just in time to see Ashrael's fist flying past his face, grazing his cheek.

Dragek countered with a savage kick, aiming for his opponent's knee.

But Ashrael was already moving, hooking his leg around Dragek's, bringing them both to the floor. Dragek landed on his back and started to roll, hooking his arm around Ashrael's neck, attempting to get him into a choke.

Ashrael slipped out.

Dragek rolled again and jumped to his feet, putting his hands up in a defensive stance. Ashrael came in, the sheer speed of his movements turning him into a blur.

He struck.

Dragek blocked.

He struck again, this time putting the full power of his cybernetic left arm into the blow.

Dragek blocked again. He felt the crunch of bone as he absorbed the massive impact with his forearm.

You infernal monster.

He danced back and attempted to deliver a savage kick to Ashrael's side.

The Silent One dodged. Then he struck back.

Dragek evaded, moving a little faster than before. It was true; his body was stiff and a fraction slower than usual, but his instincts were still the same, sharpened by revolutions of brutal training.

He found his rhythm, syncing with Ashrael's. Their sparring turned into a free-flowing dance: a graceful choreography of violence that grew faster and faster, more and more brutal. The moves were familiar, but none had ever executed them with such brutal precision as his opponent.

Dragek was sparring with a master—one he was determined to equal and then surpass.

He was so very close, but in their world, close meant death.

Close wasn't good enough.

He had to become perfect.

Strike. Punch. Turn. Block. Kick.

They danced.

Their ka'qui flowed around them: two powerful, savage auras colliding… and sometimes swirling in unison.

He lost track of time.

And suddenly, he was filled with euphoria because this was the opponent he'd always dreamed of.

Assassination was a thankless task, devoid of honor. Dragek had always envied the warriors of the military, who fought real battles. His opponents were often unguarded and unaware; asleep or completely oblivious to his approach. And when there was some sort of resistance—bodyguards and the like—it was often short and sharp and bloody.

He left a trail of dead in his wake.

Very few could match his skills.

But Ashrael was one of a handful that could best him.

Dragek took blows and returned them with equal viciousness. His mouth curved into a smile. The feeling of pure, raw combat was exhilarating.

He smashed his elbow into Ashrael's face, causing a tendril of blood to seep from the Silent One's nose.

Ashrael snorted and shook his head before launching into a blistering barrage of blows, putting Dragek on the back foot.

He went on the defensive, drawing Ashrael into his retreat. If he didn't think of something soon, that bastard would get the upper hand.

He had to take a risk.

He reached the wall of the training chamber, a solid mass of Qualum ; not quite hard or soft, not warm or cold. Suddenly, his back was pressed up against the solid surface.

Ashrael was relentless. His fist shot forward. Dragek ducked, dropping to his haunches.

Boom! Ashrael's modified arm connected with the surface of the wall, pounding the spot where Dragek's head had been only a heartbeat earlier.

The air around them reverberated with the force of the blow. If Dragek had hesitated even for a moment, he would have gotten his skull smashed in.

In a wild, unorthodox move, he lunged forward and tackled Ashrael, wrapping his arms around his lower body, bringing him to the ground. He slammed him face-first against the wall and wrapped his arm around his neck, attempting to choke Ashrael out.

He squeezed harder.

But his opponent never yielded.

Good try, katach. You nearly had me.

All of a sudden, their roles were reversed, and Dragek was the one on the floor. Ashrael's modified arm was cutting off his air, turning his second-sight into a blur.

How the fuck did he do that?

How had he moved so fast?

Dragek snarled in frustration as he found himself slipping into unconsciousness.

Not yet. You're not ready to defeat him yet.

But your time will come.

Filled with fury, he slipped away into oblivion.

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