The streets of Paleview were in full meltdown.

Buildings cracked like dry bones, streets split open with rifts pulsing dark energy, and civilians poured through the ruins like ants fleeing a magnifying glass. Screams and sirens tangled in the air. Gunfire cracked from shattered rooftops. A city once proud now sounded like the inside of a blender mid-breakdown.

Then the lightning came.

Not the kind the weather forecast warned about. This was a single flash of white-blue wrath descending from the heavens like judgment day forgot its manners.

BOOM.

The ground exploded near City Block 12. Asphalt rippled. Dust shot up in a mushroom bloom.

Out of that controlled chaos stepped a man.

Half his face was hidden behind a sleek black mask that extended just high enough to frame his glowing, sharp blue eyes—eyes that didn't dart around in panic but instead narrowed with quiet interest. His yellow hair fluttered from the force of the impact, and his sci-fi suit—pristine white with jagged streaks of electric blue—glowed in time with his heartbeat.

The civilians barely registered him. They were too busy running for their lives to notice the guy who had just fallen from the sky like a divine thunderpuncture. Plus with all the strange things going on, one more made less of a difference to be noticed.

But the insectoids noticed.

They froze mid-hunt, antennae twitching, glossy eyes snapping toward the epicenter of the impact like radar pinging a threat. A low, synchronized clack rang out as their mandibles snapped open and shut, sharp enough to shear bone and loud enough to echo down the alleyways like warped castanets.

There were at least twenty of them, maybe more, surging from the shadows and shattered storefronts. Each one moved with sickening grace—too fast, too fluid—segmented limbs clicking as they skittered on needle-thin legs tipped with hooked claws that scraped deep grooves into the concrete. Their exoskeletons gleamed under the broken city lights, black as tar and slick as oil, as if the night itself had grown teeth.

The stench hit next—like rotting meat left in a sunlamp, cut with the coppery tang of something acidic. It clung to the air, thick and choking, making the wind feel heavier than it should've.

They hissed, high and shrill, in perfect unison.

And then they charged—a wave of hissing, clattering, chitinous horror, rushing forward like a plague with purpose.

Derek tilted his head slightly and whispered, "Appraisal."

[Target: Insectoid Ravager Variant]

Rank: F-

Threat Level: Insignificant

Estimated Time to Eliminate: 12 Seconds]

"Insignificant?" Derek smirked behind the mask, his voice vibrating through the internal speakers. "That's almost insulting. Are we sure this isn't just the tutorial stage again?"

He unsheathed Voltfang with a smooth metallic sound that echoed like thunder snapping its fingers. The blades hummed in anticipation, static crawling across the metal.

" I am probably looking as cool as hell "

The air around him shimmered with static as he moved. Not a run. Not a dash.

He simply vanished.

And reappeared mid-air, spinning, slicing, dancing with blades that left streaks of lightning with every cut.

Insectoid heads rolled before their bodies realised they'd been bisected. Sparks and dark fluids mixed in the air. One tried to leap—only to get bisected by a reverse spin that looked more ballet than battle.

He landed, slid across the cracked pavement, twin blades held wide, a satisfied sigh slipping past his lips.

Another dozen insectoids charged. Derek just cracked his neck.

"Alright. Let's crank this to eleven."

[Activating Skill: Thunderclap Strike]

The moment he vanished again, the air imploded with sound.

Derek stood at the heart of the cracked pavement, lightning still rippling off his suit in snaking arcs. The insectoids screeched, their horde charging in with murderous rhythm, claws raised, mandibles gnashing.

He rolled his neck.

"Alright, bug boys… time to test the new gear."

He surged forward, the Tempest Walker Mk I igniting with a burst of thunderous energy. In one blink, he vanished—a white and blue streak cleaving through the swarm.

The first insectoid never even saw him. One clean arc of Voltfang sheared through its thorax with surgical precision. The creature split in two, its upper half sparking from residual charge as it flopped to the side in a hiss of acidic blood.

Another lunged from his right.

Too slow.

Derek's Thunderclap Strike detonated against it—a sweeping flash of kinetic electricity that sent the creature flying backwards in several crispy pieces, limbs still twitching in confusion.

He ducked a claw, flipped backward off a cracked car roof, and speared another insectoid mid-air, both blades piercing it in an X. He wrenched them free with a flourish, blue arcs crackling across the ground like dancing spirits.

The swarm pressed closer, but so did his fury.

Every step was amplified, his suit pulsing in time with his rage. Blades blurred into afterimages. Sparks rained with every kill. It wasn't a fight—it was art in motion, a storm made flesh.

Ten bodies.

Fifteen.

Acidic blood coated the streets, sizzling on concrete. The air reeked of ozone and cooked exoskeleton. The last insectoid tried to turn. To flee.

Derek didn't let it.

He hurled one of the twin blades like a bolt from the gods, impaling it through the back and pinning it to a crumbling wall. The creature twitched once—and then fell still.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Derek exhaled and struck a pose on the wreckage of a streetlamp like he was waiting for the camera to pan in. Smoke curled off his suit. Sparks still trailed from the swords. His chest rose and fell in time with the quiet crackle of fading lightning.

He held that position.

Waited.

Any second now.

Applause?

Cheers?

Civilians flooding in to lift him onto their shoulders, chanting his name?

He looked around.

Nothing.

The street was deserted. Not a single soul. Just broken glass, burning cars, and a nearby neon billboard flashing a rerun of an ad for toothpaste.

"…Seriously?" he muttered, standing upright and sheathing his swords. "That was, like, at least a 9.5 on the spectacle scale. Minimum."

His voice echoed off the broken walls.

"You'd think someone would've been hiding behind a dumpster with a phone yelling, 'Yo, that dude just Mortal Kombat–finished a bug with lightning swords!'"

Nothing but the hiss of steam from a ruptured pipe.

He kicked a loose chunk of insectoid. It rolled with a sad little plink.

"Superhero movies lied to me."

Somewhere, in the far distance, a siren wailed. A dog barked.

He sighed and walked off into the chaos, muttering, "I swear, if I ever do get a crowd, I'm milking the hell out of it."

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