Ethan Cole - The Unlimited System

Inside the sleek black SUV cutting through the night, Maya's voice broke through the silence like a gunshot.

"Turn around, Yamal!" she yelled, pounding her fists against the dashboard. "We can't leave him!"

Her breath came in ragged bursts. The forest blurred outside the windows, but all she could think about was the flames. The clash. The look Mark gave her before he told her to run.

Yamal's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, his eyes fixed on the road. "We're following Mark's orders."

"Orders?" she snapped. Her voice cracked under the weight of her emotion. "He's fighting Alexander alone. That's not a plan. That's a death sentence."

Ezra sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes hard. "Maya, listen. We don't have the numbers, or the strength, to help him right now. We'd only get in his way."

He looked at her through the rearview mirror, his voice lower but firmer. "Even with Steve, the four of us wouldn't last two minutes in that facility against Alexander. You saw what he is."

Maya leaned forward, grabbing the back of Ezra's seat. "So what? We just leave him to die?" Her voice trembled, but her anger held. "Is that what this team stands for now? We leave our own behind when things get hard?"

Ezra turned slightly, meeting her eyes. There was no anger in his gaze. Just pain.

"No. That's not what this is," he said quietly. "Mark made a choice. To give us a shot at stopping this properly. He trusted us to survive."

Maya shook her head. "You don't get it. He's more than just our leader. He's…" She swallowed hard. "He's family. And we're just driving away like none of this matters."

Ezra didn't respond right away. Then he turned in his seat, his tone sharper than before. "Do you think this is easy for us?"

She froze.

"You think I want to leave him?" he went on, voice rising with each word. "You think I don't feel sick knowing what he's facing back there?"

Maya looked down, her chest heaving. Her hands clenched on her lap, trembling.

"We're not abandoning him," Ezra continued, quieter now. "We're trusting him. Just like he trusted us."

The vehicle fell into silence, the sound of tires on gravel the only thing filling the space.

Yamal's voice came next, calm but weighed down. "Mark knew what he was doing. He's buying time. For us. For the others. If we rush back in now, we'll just hand the LaRues exactly what they want."

Maya stared at the floor, the words sinking in slowly.

"I know what you're saying makes sense," she murmured. "But it doesn't make it right."

She looked up again, tears at the edges of her eyes. "I can't sit here and do nothing."

Ezra looked at Yamal, then back at her.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Before Maya could ask what he meant, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small device. A soft hum filled the cabin as he activated it.

Her eyes widened.

"No. Ezra—don't—"

The pulse hit her before she could finish. Her body tensed, then went limp. Ezra reached back, catching her gently and easing her against the seat.

Yamal glanced at him through the mirror, frowning. "That was your call?"

Ezra nodded slowly. "Neural disruptor. Just a few minutes. She would've jumped out mid-drive if I hadn't."

Yamal exhaled. "You did the right thing. She's not thinking straight."

Ezra adjusted her seatbelt and looked at her, guilt flickering across his face. "She's going to hate me."

"She'll get it," Yamal said. "Not now. But one day."

Neither of them spoke after that. The SUV pushed on, deeper into the dark.

Ezra leaned back in his seat, his eyes distant. "He better make it out," he said softly. "He has to."

And though no one answered him, they all carried the same thought.

This wasn't what they wanted.

But this… was the only way.

***

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Mark's breath came in hard, measured pulls. Sweat clung to his back, soaking into his shirt beneath the armored suit. The air around him shimmered from the heat, and flickers of flame danced across his knuckles, casting twisting shadows along the scorched walls.

The chamber stank of melted steel and scorched circuits.

A half-circle of cloaked figures closed in, their steps erratic but coordinated. Their faces were hidden, but their glowing eyes pulsed with unnatural light. Each of them carried the same feature—an exposed right arm with smooth, metallic plating and embedded weapons humming with barely restrained energy.

Mark steadied himself, boots scraping against the stone floor. His voice was low but firm.

"You've crossed a line, Alexander. This isn't evolution. It's butchery."

Alexander stood at the far end of the chamber, untouched by the chaos. His suit remained crisp, not a speck of dust on it. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his smile was thin.

"Madness and genius are often confused," he said, almost playfully. "You see monsters. I see a prototype."

Mark's eyes didn't leave the encroaching figures. His hands tightened, flames spreading up his forearms. "They're unstable. Look at them. Whatever you've built—whatever they are—it won't last."

Alexander raised one hand lazily, gesturing at the nearest figure.

"Maybe not. But even flawed tools can break a man."

The signal was enough.

One of the cloaked figures surged forward, its metal arm glowing bright orange as it shifted shape—morphing into a jagged blade. It moved fast, too fast for something so heavy-looking. Mark slipped to the side, his movements clean and instinctive. He caught the figure off-balance and blasted a column of fire into its chest at point-blank range.

The figure crumpled, smoke rising from its cracked armor. Its right arm sparked and twitched before going still.

Before the body hit the ground, two more replaced it.

Mark clicked his tongue and rolled his shoulders. "Of course."

Another one raised its arm—this time transforming it into a cannon.

A bright pulse flashed.

Mark ducked.

The beam ripped past his head and scorched a molten groove across the floor. The air buzzed with residual heat.

Mark didn't wait. He pushed off the ground and leapt forward, his leg igniting mid-air. His spinning kick collided with the cannon-wielder's chest, sending it crashing into a row of crates stacked against the wall. Flames lingered on the figure's cloak, slowly eating through the fabric.

But again, two more emerged from the shadows, stepping over their fallen allies like puppets with no concept of fear.

They didn't speak. They didn't hesitate. And they didn't stop.

Mark backed up a step, his jaw clenched tight. 'No end to them.'

He swung his arms in a wide arc, summoning a fiery barrier to push them back. It gave him a breath—just one.

"Running out of tricks?" Alexander called out, arms still crossed. "Come on, Mark. You're supposed to be a legend."

Mark didn't answer. He couldn't waste energy on words. His eyes stayed locked on the group reforming around him.

Then one of them moved, it was different from the others.

Its arm shifted not into a blade or a cannon, but a massive hammer bristling with energy coils. It vibrated violently as it charged forward, the weapon leaving streaks of static in the air.

Mark braced. Just before the hammer struck, he sidestepped and dropped low, sliding beneath the swing. The weapon smashed into the floor behind him with a thunderous crash, cracking the ground open.

He flipped back to his feet, palm raised.

A focused jet of fire shot out, slamming into the figure's exposed core. The impact sent it sprawling, its cloak ablaze.

He didn't stop there. He followed up with a string of rapid punches—each one coated in flame, each one burning hotter than the last.

But the numbers kept closing in.

Even if they were crude copies of real Ascendants, each of them still hit hard, still moved fast, still had just enough intelligence to swarm him from every angle.

Mark exhaled slowly.

This wasn't going to be clean. And he couldn't afford to save energy any longer.

He clenched his fists. His flames turned blood-red.

Across the chamber, Alexander's eyes narrowed with interest.

"Now that's more like it."

Mark ducked just in time, another hammer slamming into the floor and sending shards of concrete flying. He countered with a blast of fire that scorched the figure's torso, but the others were already closing in.

Another figure raised its arm, which had transformed into a sharp, spear-like weapon. It lunged at Mark, the tip glowing ominously.

Mark caught the weapon with both hands, his flames melting the metal slightly, but the force of the attack pushed him back several steps.

"Persistent bastards," Mark muttered, gritting his teeth as he kicked the figure away.

Alexander's calm voice carried through the chaos. "You're wasting your energy, Mark. You know you can't win."

Mark glanced at him, his eyes blazing. "I don't need to win. I just need to destroy everything here."

Alexander's smile widened. "How noble. But that's not possible."

With a quick movement, Alexander created a stream of flames that rushed toward Mark. Mark responded with his own fire, and the two flames collided in a bright explosion that shook the room.

The cloaked figures were momentarily thrown off balance, giving Mark a sliver of an opening.

He rushed forward, quickly striking each figure in his way with precise, fire-infused hits. For a moment, it looked like he was making progress, using his greater skill and experience to keep up.

More figures came out of the shadows, and there were too many to count. Mark barely had time to react as one of them fired a concentrated beam of energy from its metallic arm. He managed to dodge, but the blast grazed his shoulder, the heat searing through his suit.

He staggered slightly, but his resolve didn't waver. "If this is your idea of a fight, Alexander, you're losing your edge."

Alexander's expression darkened slightly, his calm facade cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of irritation. "You talk too much, Mark. Let's see how long that bravado lasts."

Alexander raised both hands, flames erupting around him in a fiery aura. With a swift motion, he hurled a massive fireball directly at Mark. Mark braced himself, summoning his own flames to shield against the attack, but the force of the impact sent him skidding backward.

Before he could recover, one of the cloaked figures capitalized on the opening. Its metallic arm shifted into a bladed weapon, slashing toward Mark with deadly precision. He blocked the strike with his forearm, flames flaring up to deflect the blade, but the relentless assault continued.

Another figure joined in, its weapon morphing into a spiked mace. Mark ducked and weaved, his movements fluid but growing slower as exhaustion began to set in.

And then it happened.

Alexander, with his bright aura shining, quickly closed the gap between them. His fist, surrounded by flames, hit Mark's chest with great force.

The blow hit Mark hard and knocked him into the wall, creating a deep dent. He fell to the ground and coughed as pain spread through his body.

Alexander approached slowly, his steps deliberate and his expression smug. "You put up a good fight, Mark. I'll give you that. But it's over."

Mark struggled to stand up, his flames flickering weakly around him. He was breathing heavily, but he looked determined. "Not… yet," he rasped.