Wolf Ant Siege
A sand wind blew in.
The desert winds were bone-dry, laden with grit that could scour the skin raw in moments.
It had nothing to do with Zeon.
Sand couldn't harm him.
To him, sand was his body.
His control was limited to a certain range, but even that was enough to shield him fully in the wasteland.
The scorching sun and night's biting chill were handled by the robe draped over his body.
Made from the underbelly of a sand gator, it was thin and light yet possessed exceptional insulation.
By day, it blocked the heat to keep him cool; by night, it trapped his body warmth.
Thanks to it, his stamina drained far less.
As he trudged after Dayton, Zeon glanced around.
Sand, sand, and more sand in every direction.
No landmarks or ruins to mark the way.
Standing in the heart of that vast emptiness drove home just how insignificant humanity truly was.
Zeon eyed Dayton, striding far ahead.
Dayton never paused or looked back—he just kept marching forward.
No one aimlessly wandering the desert could move in such a straight line.
Only someone with a crystal-clear goal could press on like that.
Days into their journey together, and Dayton had never once spoken of his objective or past.
At sunset, when they rested, he'd always plant Clayon in the sand before him and converse with it.
At first, Zeon had pegged him as a mad old coot.
Chatting with a sword defied all common sense.
He knew ego swords existed, but they were so rare even Neo Seoul had scarcely any. So he'd doubted Clayon was the real deal.
But after days of the same routine, he was starting to believe Dayton was genuinely talking to the blade.
The man who raged like a beast against desert monsters softened when speaking with Clayon.
Sometimes, his eyes would mist with melancholy. But come dawn, as they trekked onward, that feral glare returned.
His gaze burned with madness and a rage vast enough to shred the world entire.
Whatever had forged him that way, today too he cleaved through the desert's harsh winds.
Zeon chewed jerky steadily, trailing in Dayton's wake.
After devouring the sand gator's gall bladder and meat, his body had transformed dramatically.
All flab melted away, leaving lean, corded muscle.
He could march endlessly without fatigue, enduring grueling slogs without complaint.
Without Dayton, he'd never have known of sand gators—or the gall's miraculous effects.
What kind of man is he? What's his story, crossing this desert alone? And why the hell is he dragging me along?
The questions piled up endlessly.
The surest way to answers was to ask Dayton outright. But that was about as likely as the desert blooming.
Nothing about this is straightforward.
Gulp!
Zeon swallowed the well-chewed jerky.
His mouth felt sticky.
He rummaged inside his robe and pulled out a leather waterskin.
Made from sand gator hide, it was lightweight, stretchy, and held a surprising volume.
He'd filled it to the brim before the last oasis vanished.
He sipped only when absolutely necessary, rationing every drop.
"Ahh!"
One gulp quenched his thirst completely.
As he strapped the skin back to his waist—
Tsss!
His senses picked up stealthy movement.
Something deep in the sand was closing on his position.
Zeon focused.
Ten signatures in total.
Converging on him from all sides.
About ten meters out, in a perfect circle around him.
Proof his detection range had expanded. But there was no time to celebrate.
Preparation came first.
They advanced slowly but steadily, tightening the noose—then burst forth.
Glossy titanium shells like plated armor, scissor-like mandibles split in two, six legs, a pair of antennae.
Ants.
But far larger than any ordinary sort—man-sized behemoths.
Wolf ants.
They hunted in packs like wolves, savage and relentless.
The deadliest threat to desert caravans.
Spot one, and a nest was nearby.
An ant den, teeming with hundreds of workers, larvae, and worse.
Once they snagged prey, they dragged it home to feed the queen and young.
Their bite injected a special venom.
The horror? It paralyzed the body while leaving the mind fully aware.
Victims felt every rip and tear, fully conscious.
Hence the saying: better suicide than face wolf ants in the sands.
Zeon had heard the tales endlessly back in the slums. He recognized them instantly.
Clack!
The wolf ants chittered their jaws, advancing.
Their inorganic eyes and gleaming shells dazzled in the sun.
Zeon didn't panic. He unleashed Sand Blaster.
Shhh!
Five streams slammed into their heads.
The ants reeled from the impact. But unlike horned hyenas, no holes punched through.
Their titanium shells had held.
That impenetrable armor was their terror.
Most attacks simply glanced off.
D-rank Awakener strikes barely scratched them.
Hence why those below D-rank fled on sight.
Zeon, oblivious to that, pressed the attack.
Furious, the wolf ants charged with heightened ferocity.
"Chaa!"
Zeon backpedaled, firing Sand Blaster repeatedly.
Boom boom!
Streams hammered their skulls.
They staggered but endured.
Zeon sensed he couldn't win like this.
He dashed back with Sand Step, targeting one, blasting focused.
Splat!
Its head finally exploded.
"Yes!"
Fist clenched, Zeon unleashed a barrage.
Pop!
Splat!
Each hit burst a head like fireworks.
Traveling with Dayton had exponentially boosted Sand Blaster's power—enough to bridge rank gaps.
Confidence surged.
Then—
Kieee!
One wolf ant emitted a piercing ultrasonic screech.
As if mocking Zeon's fear.
"Shut it!"
He nailed its head with Sand Blaster.
Splat!
Shattered.
Three left.
Finish quick and catch up to Dayton.
Trouble struck then.
Tssss!
Dozens more signatures flooded his senses.
"What the—?"
Wolf ants erupted from the sand.
Over a hundred.
"Fuck!"
Zeon reeled at the unimaginable swarm.
That screech—it was a rally call.
They encircled him perfectly.
Chitter chitter!
The sound of bloodlust unleashed.
They surged.
"Shit!"
Sand Step evaded the rush.
Clack clack!
By a hair, Zeon dodged the mandibles and blasted a head.
Ant ichor and blood splattered him.
The sight only enraged the rest.
"Raaah!"
Zeon roared, battling on.
Then, in his peripheral—a hulking figure atop a distant dune.
Dayton, Clayon planted beside him, watching the fray.
"Wolf ants swarm when one falls. All of 'em come runnin'."
These weren't the last.
Dying ones still screeched, summoning more.
Dayton's senses confirmed a horde racing in.
The nest—an ant den—must be close.
Pop! Splat!
Zeon blasted desperately.
Heads exploded with each shot.
"Still short. Way fuckin' short."
Dayton scowled in dissatisfaction.
Zeon had awakened a peerless gift.
In a sand-choked world, sand mastery was divine favor. Yet he hadn't grasped its depth or versatility.
That came only through trial by fire.
The world judged Awakener strength by rank badges alone.
Martial this, magic that—F weaker than D, S supreme.
They slotted potential into boxes.
Skills taught? Safe, standardized paths over self-discovery.
No path to full potential.
Collide head-on. Skirt death's edge. Face your lacks. Ponder fixes.
That was true growth, in Dayton's eyes.
Neo Seoul's elite disagreed.
Too slow, inefficient. So they shunned him.
"Thick-headed bitchins! Blind to why the world's fucked, lost in power games."
A century since the Sixth Extinction.
Most survivors gone; few remained.
Dayton was one who remembered the horror.
He'd witnessed it all: the outbreak, the carnage, the futility.
Civilization crumbled overnight. Transferred monsters ravaged Earth.
Family, friends—devoured before his eyes. Helpless rage consumed him.
Awakening saved him, but the nightmare never faded.
Some urged forgiveness.
Bullshit.
How forgive himself?
A century on, he couldn't absolve the man who'd watched his wife die powerless.
He called all bitchins, but he was the biggest.
Dayton watched Zeon with manic intensity.
Zeon thrashed amid the ants.
Sand Step to dodge, Sand Blaster to strike.
Standard playbook.
Zeon thought it optimal. Dayton knew better—far from it.
"Prove you can survive solo and earn your keep, bitchin'!"