The figure beneath the archway shifted almost imperceptibly. "Thank you for your compliment, sir," the deep, resonant voice replied, its tone calm yet carrying the weight of stone. "We found you heavily injured within the impact crater. Yet, it seems you healed completely within six minutes. An astonishing rate." Those luminous gold eyes, piercing the perpetual gloom shadowing the face, fixed on Shinji with unnerving focus. "It suggests you hail from a world renowned for highly regenerative abilities?"
Shinji forced a casual chuckle, the sound brittle in the vast quiet. "I guess so, hahaha." Inside, his mind raced. Merus's warning echoes: 'Never tell them.' He met the golden gaze, projecting an easy confidence he didn't feel. *Act natural. Just a guy from a tough planet.*
The figure inclined its head slightly, the movement economical. "I see. That is... marvelous." There was no hint of disbelief, only a warrior's pragmatic acceptance of observed fact. A beat of silence hung, filled only by the distant cry of some soaring creature. "Oh, how rude of me," the voice continued, the apology delivered with the same stoic calm. "I am Tamago. Head of the Eastern Region of Suchumus."
"Head?" Shinji echoed, feigning polite curiosity. "Eastern Region?"
Tamago nodded once, a sharp, precise motion. "Yes. Suchumus is divided into four sovereign regions, each governed by a Head and protected by dedicated Guardians. Our villages and strongholds lie within their borders." He gestured vaguely towards the sprawling landscape. "This structure, coupled with our planet's... unique properties, makes us one of the most protected worlds in the entire multiverse. Gods find no purchase here." The final statement carried a distinct edge of pride and warning.
"Interesting," Shinji murmured, filing the information away. The structure offered both sanctuary and complexity. Four powers. Four potential points of contact... or conflict.
Tamago's gold eyes remained fixed on him. "Did you come here seeking refuge from such entities? Or perhaps merely for a visit?" He paused, a fractional tilt of his head suggesting genuine, if detached, hospitality. "If it is the latter, allow me the honor of accompanying you."
Shinji's mind flashed back to the sterile confines of Merus's ship, the God's voice low and urgent: 'If they question your powers... never tell them. Saganbo's soldiers could be anywhere, undercover. Reveal nothing. If pressed, attribute it to your homeworld. Your goal is training, refuge, anonymity.'
He met Tamago's unnerving gaze. "I'm actually here seeking refuge," Shinji admitted, keeping his voice steady, "and to train. I've heard the training regimens possible on Suchumus are incredibly beneficial."
Tamago remained silent for a moment, the stillness profound. "I see," he finally rumbled. "But why bother with training?" The question wasn't dismissive, merely probing, like a physician assessing a symptom. "If survival is your primary concern, refuge alone should suffice."
Shinji shrugged, the movement feeling stiff under the heavier gravity and Tamago's scrutiny. "I just... want to get stronger." He kept it simple, vague. A universal desire, easily believed.
Tamago seemed to accept this. "Oh. You must have your reasons." He didn't press. "Very well. If training is your aim, the finest instructor I know resides in the North. Yamato. He is the Northern Head."
"Yamato," Shinji repeated. "So he's quite far, then? From the East?"
"Significant distance," Tamago confirmed. "Traversing the Inter-Regional District will require approximately eight days. We will utilize Riders for speed, while also transporting essential supplies."
"Riders?" Shinji asked, unfamiliar with the term.
"Our fastest planetary transport," Tamago explained. "Swift, durable, and capable of navigating the varied terrain between regions."
*Eight days.* Shinji kept his expression neutral, but internally he groaned. *Eight more days confined, moving, exposed... after weeks in that cursed ship.* "Oh, I get it," he said aloud.
"Understand," Tamago continued, his voice taking on a harder edge, "the Inter-Regional District is neutral ground, but perilous. Thieves and opportunists prey upon travelers. We will be accompanied by my personal guards. Fierce warriors, elites trained since birth. Their appearance may be... intimidating, but their purpose is our protection. They will deter most, and eliminate any who attempt to steal our valuables."
Shinji nodded, mentally bracing himself. *Elite guards. Thieves. How strong are 'thieves' here compared to Earth thugs... or a Monarch?* He had no frame of reference, only the gnawing sense of vulnerability beneath his fatigue. "Alright then," he said, forcing resolve into his voice. "Should we get going?"
"Indeed," Tamago replied, turning back towards the archway. "Time is a resource best not squandered."
Six Days Later - The Inter-Regional District
The Rider was less a vehicle and more a living platform sculpted from some iridescent, chitinous material. It skimmed low over the rugged, alien landscape; a vast expanse of wind-scoured plateaus, canyons choked with luminous purple fungi, and forests of obsidian-black trees that whispered in the constant, dry wind. Shinji clung to a grip-bar, his muscles screaming. Suchumus's gravity, relentless and unforgiving, combined with the Rider's constant jolting and swaying, was grinding him down. Every bump vibrated through his still-recovering bones, amplifying the deep cellular fatigue left by his total regeneration. Sweat plastered his vibrant yellow and green hair to his forehead despite the cool air whipping past.
"I'm so tired..." Shinji gasped, the words ripped away by the wind but audible to the figures near him. He glanced at the two Acrosian guards flanking the Rider. They stood effortlessly, legs braced wide, bodies swaying with the machine's motion like extensions of it. Their copper armor gleamed dully; their faces, obscured by helmets resembling stylized, horned beetles, showed no sign of strain. Muscles corded beneath their shadow-cloth uniforms spoke of immense power. "Aren't you guys tired?"
One guard tilted his helmet fractionally towards Shinji, the dark eye-slits revealing nothing. "Not at all," a synthesized, toneless voice replied, devoid of any exertion. "We are completely adapted to this environment and transit. Elite conditioning."
Shinji looked towards Tamago, who stood near the front, surveying the horizon like a carved monument. The East Head seemed as immovable as the distant mountains, his shadow-cloth robes undisturbed by the wind or motion. "What about you?"
Tamago didn't turn, but his deep voice carried clearly over the whine of the engines. "I am also adapted. Fatigue is not a factor." He offered no further comfort.
"Sucks to be me, I guess," Shinji muttered, lowering his head against the wind, focusing on just breathing, just enduring. The vast, alien beauty had long since faded into a monotonous, exhausting obstacle course.
Suddenly, the Rider's constant thrumming whine dropped in pitch. It slowed, then settled onto the rocky ground with a soft hiss, its skids finding purchase on the ochre-colored stone of a wide, desolate plateau. The abrupt silence after days of constant noise was jarring.
Shinji blinked, pushing himself up straighter, his senses prickling. "Huh? Why did we stop?" He scanned the desolate plateau. Wind whistled through jagged rock formations. Nothing moved.
Tamago turned, his expression unreadable within the gloom, but his posture radiated sudden alertness, a coiled tension Shinji hadn't seen before. "There should be..." he began, his hand moving towards the hidden recesses of his robe. "...thieves. Prepare yourselves. Let's dismount and assess the thre—"
The sound was less a crack, more a sickening, wet thump, like a ripe melon struck by a sledgehammer. Tamago's words cut off. His body jerked violently. A fist-sized exit wound erupted from the center of his chest, spraying dark ichor, fragmented copper plating, and pulverized bone across the iridescent hull of the Rider. For a split second, his luminous gold eyes widened in pure, shocked incomprehension. Then, like a puppet with its strings severed, the East Head of Suchumus crumpled bonelessly to the dusty ground.
Shinji stared, frozen, his mind refusing to process the sudden, brutal erasure of the powerful being who had greeted him. *What th—*
The thump came again. Shinji felt it more than heard it;a massive, concussive impact dead center in his own chest. Agony, white-hot and absolute, exploded through him, obliterating thought. He looked down, dazed, seeing the torn fabric, the blossom of crimson already soaking through. His vision tunneled violently, the harsh Suchumus light dimming to grey static. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. The heavy gravity seemed to triple, dragging him down like an anchor. *Shot... through the... heart...*The fragmented thought was his last before consciousness fled like a snuffed candle. He slumped sideways, collapsing next to Tamago's still form, his hand inches from the spreading pool of dark blood.
The two elite guards reacted with preternatural speed honed by decades of combat. Before Tamago's body even hit the ground, they had whirled towards the direction the shots had come from; a cluster of jagged, wind-sculpted mesas several hundred meters away. Their weapons, previously concealed, snapped into their hands: heavy-caliber, multi-barreled energy cannons humming with contained, lethal power. They dropped into synchronized defensive stances behind the bulk of the Rider, their synthesized voices laced with a cold fury that cut through the whistling wind.
"WHO ARE YOU, BASTARD?!" one guard roared, his cannon tracking across the rocks with inhuman precision.
From the distant crags, a voice drifted back, amplified, cold, and utterly devoid of remorse. It cut through the air like a shard of ice:
"Just an ordinary sniper... looking for some money."
As the voice faded, a figure stood up from behind a spire of rock. He was tall, lean, radiating lethal grace even at this distance. His most striking feature was his hair: waist-length, shockingly white, yet shimmering with threads of molten gold and deep, fiery crimson. It cascaded down his back like a blizzard infused with embers, catching the twin suns' light and seeming to dance with an ethereal, dangerous life of its own, adding an undeniable aura of menace and mystery. He wore a form-fitting tactical vest of matte black, constructed from some advanced, segmented material that promised defense without hindering movement. A long, sleek rifle, still smoking faintly at the muzzle, was held loosely in one hand.
Before the guards could acquire a solid lock, the sniper moved. He flowed. One moment he was atop the mesa, the next he was a blur of white hair and black vest darting between cover with impossible, silent speed. The guards opened fire simultaneously. Bolts of searing blue energy ripped across the plateau, vaporizing rock where the sniper had been milliseconds before. He seemed to anticipate their shots, his movements a fluid dance of evasion; ducking behind outcrops, rolling through dust clouds, using the terrain with masterful precision. He wasn't just fast; he was unnervingly prescient.
"Flank him! Close distance!" barked the lead guard, his cannon blazing. They broke cover, moving with terrifying Acrosian speed, zig-zagging across the open ground, laying down suppressive fire. The sniper didn't return fire immediately. He focused on evasion, drawing them out, forcing them to commit.
Shinji groaned. Consciousness returned like a blow from a hammer made of ice and fire. The agony in his chest was a fading memory, replaced by a deep, unsettling warmth spreading from his core. He blinked, vision clearing rapidly. He looked down. The hole in his tunic was still there, ragged and blood-stained, but the flesh beneath... was whole. Smooth. Unblemished. He touched it. Only a faint tenderness remained. *Healed. Already? Faster than before...* He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his body feeling strangely... energized. The deep fatigue was still present, but overlaid with a sharp, alert buzz. *Voidheart Surge?*
He saw the guards charging towards the distant rocks, their forms blurring with speed. He saw the streak of white hair vanish behind another outcrop. He saw Tamago's body, horrifically still.
Rage, cold and pure, flooded him, washing away the last vestiges of disorientation. He killed him. Just like that.
The guards were almost upon the sniper's last position. They moved in perfect tandem, one going high, the other low, cannons spitting coherent death. The sniper emerged from cover not with his rifle, but with a small, disc-like device he slapped onto the rock face. A blinding pulse of concussive energy erupted, not aimed at the guards, but at the cliff base above them. Tons of rock sheared away with a thunderous roar, crashing down in a deadly avalanche. The guards, caught mid-leap, were forced to divert, their charge broken. In that split-second of chaos, the sniper was gone again, not deeper into cover, but past them, using the dust cloud as a screen. He moved like a ghost, his white hair a fleeting banner, heading not for escape, but back towards the Rider; and the valuables.
He reached the Rider just as the guards, recovering with inhuman agility, turned and saw his intent. They raised their cannons, but they were a fraction too slow, their positioning compromised by the avalanche feint. The sniper didn't aim at them. He simply raised his rifle with casual, lethal efficiency and fired twice in rapid succession. Thump. Thump. Two perfectly placed shots, impossibly fast, drilled through the armored chest plates of the elite guards. Dark ichor bloomed. Their weapons clattered from suddenly nerveless hands. They staggered, gold eyes wide behind their visors with shock mirroring Tamago's, then collapsed like felled timber beside their fallen leader.
Shinji stared, frozen for a second longer, the cold rage turning to icy disbelief. *Impossible. Weren't they supposed to be elites? Tamago's personal guard! They had moved like lightning, fought with precision... and been dispatched like amateurs by this... this hair model with a gun.*
The sniper turned, his unnerving gaze sweeping past the bodies and locking onto Shinji, who was now scrambling to his feet. Those eyes, sharp and calculating beneath the cascade of fiery white hair, widened almost imperceptibly. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his otherwise impassive features.
"Hold on," the sniper said, his amplified voice cool, analytical, cutting through the settling dust. "Didn't I shoot you through the heart like, thirty seconds ago?" His gaze flicked pointedly to the bloodstain on Shinji's chest, then back to his face, completely unharmed. "How are you still breathing? And how did the wound just... close?" The last word held a note of professional curiosity mixed with dawning suspicion.
Shinji squared his shoulders, the cold fury solidifying into a hard knot in his gut. The strange energy hummed beneath his skin. "None of your business," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "But you're gonna pay for what you've done. For him." He nodded towards Tamago's body.
The sniper tilted his head, his long hair shifting like liquid metal and flame. "Well, whatever," he shrugged, the motion fluid and unconcerned. He raised his rifle with terrifying casualness. "I'll just shoot you again. Simpler that way."
Shinji dropped into a loose fighting stance, the ingrained reflexes of a lifetime of martial arts kicking in, amplified by the strange energy coursing through him. "You're acting like that's so sim—"
THUMP.
The impact slammed into Shinji's chest again, a brutal hammer blow of kinetic force. He gasped, staggering back a step, feeling the familiar, horrifying tear of flesh, the bloom of wet warmth. He looked down. Another hole. Another bloodstain spreading. Agony flared, sharp and bright. *Damn it!*
The sniper didn't wait. He turned his back on Shinji as if he were already dead, striding towards the Rider's storage compartments. "Let's see what we've got..." he mused aloud, his voice conversational now. He rummaged efficiently. "...A ring. Some trash in here... Ohhh, there we go." He pulled out a heavy, reinforced case. Opening it, he revealed stacks of gleaming, iridescent hexagonal coins. "Tons of money. 870 Galories." A predatory smile touched his lips. "Those are worth... like 120 Space Dust. I'm gonna be really rich." He began stuffing coins into pouches on his vest.
Shinji gritted his teeth. The pain was already receding, replaced by that intense, cellular warmth. The hole in his chest itched. He could feel the edges knitting together at an alarming rate. Faster. Much faster than the first time. He focused, not on the pain, but on the sniper's exposed back. He remembered the guards' speed, the sniper's own preternatural reflexes. *He's fast. Really fast. But he thinks I'm down. He's distracted.* Shinji drew on the strange energy, the Voidheart Surge, focusing it not on strength, but on silence. On becoming a shadow. He remembered stalking prey in the dojo, the lessons of his father. He pushed off the ground, not with a shout, but with a silent explosion of force.
He crossed the ten meters in a blur the guards would have admired. The sniper, attuned to threats, began to turn, his eyes widening in genuine shock this time. But Shinji was already there. He drove his fist, fueled by grief, rage, and the amplified power of three near-death experiences, straight into the sniper's ribs.
The impact was sickening. Shinji felt bones yield beneath his knuckles. The air blasted from the sniper's lungs in a surprised OOF! He was lifted clean off his feet and hurled backwards like a ragdoll. He slammed into the iridescent hull of the Rider with a resounding CLANG!, cracking the chitinous material, before crumpling to the ground in a cloud of dust and spilled Galories.
Shinji stood over him, chest heaving, the bloodstain on his shirt already shrinking, the skin beneath visibly smoothing. The strange energy thrummed within him, potent and undeniable. *I concealed my presence. I hit him. Hard. I certainly got stronger!*
The sniper coughed, pushing himself up onto one elbow, his face contorted in pain and utter disbelief. His magnificent hair was dusty but still seemed to shimmer with outrage. He clutched his ribs, wincing. "The hell...?" he gasped, staring at Shinji like he was an impossible puzzle. "I just shot you twice through the heart! Are you... immortal or something?!"
Shinji offered a cold, feral smile, the adrenaline and the surge of power momentarily eclipsing his grief. "Who knows?" he retorted, his voice tight.
The sniper's eyes narrowed, the professional curiosity now warring with intense irritation. "Well then!" he snarled, ignoring his injured ribs. In a movement faster than Shinji could fully track, the rifle came up. Not aimed center-mass this time.
Aimed at Shinji's head.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The sound was deafening, a rapid-fire staccato that shattered the plateau's silence. Not the heavy thump of before, but the sharp, high-pitched report of hypersonic slugs. Shinji felt impacts hammer his skull, his face, his neck, his chest; a relentless barrage focused on his head and heart. He saw muzzle flashes, felt the searing impacts, the brutal violation of bone and brain matter. Consciousness didn't fade slowly; it was obliterated by overwhelming trauma. He collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been shredded, blood pooling rapidly around his ruined head and torso.
The sniper lowered the smoking rifle, breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. He stared at the pulped mess that had been Shinji Kazuhiko. "Those," he panted, "should be more than a hundred rounds. No way... no way he stays down after that..."
He watched, rifle still half-raised, as the impossible happened. The grotesque wounds began to steam. Pulped tissue writhed and reformed. Shattered bone snapped back into place with audible clicks. Torn skin stretched and sealed over the rapidly vanishing carnage. Within seconds, the horrific damage was gone. Shinji lay whole again, chest rising and falling steadily, the only evidence of the onslaught the blood soaking his clothes and the dusty ground.
Shinji's eyes snapped open. Clarity returned instantly, sharper than before. The cellular warmth was intense, a furnace banked deep within. *Merus didn't mention this... He said I get stronger physically with each near-death, but... the regeneration itself is getting faster!* The sheer speed of healing from that level of destruction was terrifying. Seconds. Not minutes. Seconds.
The sniper took a step back, genuine awe momentarily replacing his customary cool. "That... confirms it," he breathed, his voice losing its amplified edge, sounding almost normal, stunned. "You're Immortal. With... somehow accelerating Regenerative abilities..." The way he said it held a dawning realization of the sheer, terrifying anomaly before him.
Shinji pushed himself up, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt... powerful. Charged. The fatigue was still a background hum, but it was drowned out by the surge of Voidheart energy and the cold fire of his anger. He met the sniper's stunned gaze. "Or," Shinji said, his voice dangerously calm, laced with a dark humor that surprised even him, "probably it's just that your aim sucks."
The insult snapped the sniper out of his shock. A flicker of outrage crossed his face, quickly masked by a predatory grin. He straightened, wincing only slightly, his waist-length hair settling like a mantle of defiance. "Don't be ridiculous, kid," he retorted, his voice regaining its cool confidence, tinged now with a professional's pride. "I'm the man who never misses." He tapped the insignia on his black tactical vest; a stylized coin over crossed rifle barrels. "The Money Hunter. Shirou. Remember the name before you fade again." He raised his rifle, not with haste, but with the absolute certainty of a master. "Well then," Shirou said, his golden-crimson hair catching the light as he sighted down the barrel, his finger tightening on the trigger, his icy gaze locked onto Shinji's newly healed forehead, "You better not miss your chance to live."