Re-Awakened :I Ascend as an SSS-Ranked Dragon Summoner-Chapter 350: Day 3 in hell (Life is Kruel)

A transport ship descended through Sirius Prime’s atmosphere like a falling star, its hull scarred from battles fought across three worlds. Inside the cramped passenger bay, the Widow sat with predatory stillness, her regenerated tail coiled around her feet like a sleeping serpent. Across from her, a single-horn pilot nervously adjusted his controls, stealing glances at the creature who had torn through human defenses like paper.

The ship’s landing thrusters kicked in with a metallic groan, sending vibrations through the deck plating. Through the viewports, the landscape revealed itself in stark detail: a facility that sprawled across kilometers of barren rock, its surfaces gleaming with alien technology and human engineering fused into something that belonged to neither species.

But it was the perimeter that made the single-horn’s breathing hitch.

Bodies. Hundreds of them, scattered like broken dolls across the approach routes. EDF soldiers in tactical gear, their weapons still clutched in death grips, faces frozen in expressions of confusion and terror. They hadn’t died in a firefight—they’d died trying to understand what was killing them.

The Widow’s eyes tracked the carnage with clinical interest as the ship settled onto its landing struts. "Efficient," she murmured, more to herself than her pilot.

The boarding ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss, revealing the facility’s entrance in all its horrific glory. Blast doors stood open like the maw of some mechanical beast, and at every threshold—

"Mother preserve us," the single-horn whispered, his voice barely audible over the ship’s cooling engines.

Harbingers. Dozens of them, arranged in pairs like some macabre honor guard. But these weren’t battle casualties. Each massive form bore wounds that spoke of deliberate self-destruction: fists buried in their own chests, skulls caved in by their companions’ strikes, faces crushed beyond recognition. The blood had dried dark and thick, painting the facility’s walls in patterns that hurt to look at.

The Widow emerged from the ship with fluid grace, her boots clicking against the metal decking as she surveyed the carnage. Her expression was unreadable, but something in her posture suggested she was seeing something she hadn’t expected.

"What happened here?" she asked, her voice cutting through the heavy silence.

The single-horn pilot followed her down the ramp, his movements careful and reverent. "The... the telepath, Mother. The one that Commander Kruel uses. It did this."

The Widow’s head turned slowly, her predatory gaze fixing on her subordinate. "A human did this?"

"Yes, Mother. When we first captured it, it tried to turn our minds against us. Made our own kind tear each other apart before the Commander could... could make use of its abilities."

For a moment—just a moment—something like surprise flickered across the Widow’s features. A human telepath had invaded Harbinger minds and forced them to commit mutual annihilation. The implications were staggering. Their species had conquered several worlds, subjugated dozens of alien races, and never once had they encountered a psychic force capable of overriding their neural architecture.

"But the Commander wasn’t affected," she said, and it wasn’t a question.

"No, Mother. Commander Kruel’s mind is... protected. He was the only one capable of resisting control and overpowering the human, making it serve our purposes instead."

The Widow nodded slowly, her tail uncurling as she processed this information. A human powerful enough to break Harbinger minds, but not strong enough to resist superior will. It explained the surveillance network, the perfect coordination of their planetary assault, the way human resistance had crumbled from within.

They walked past the pairs of corpses, their footsteps echoing in the facility’s corridors. The architecture here was a fusion of human engineering and Harbinger technology, surfaces that gleamed like black glass interspersed with displays showing incomprehensible data streams.

The final blast door opened onto something that defied description.

The chamber stretched upward into darkness, its walls lined with thousands of displays showing human faces, human lives, human secrets laid bare. At the center, suspended in a rig of metal and cables, hung the source of their surveillance network: a human male, his body broken but kept alive by alien technology, neural interfaces boring into his skull like mechanical parasites.

But it was the figure standing before the displays that commanded attention.

Nine feet of scaled muscle and intelligence, Commander Kruel dominated the space like a force of nature contained in flesh. His three horns caught the chamber’s ambient light, casting shadows that seemed to move independently of his massive frame. Unlike other Harbingers, he wore clothing that spoke of civilization rather than conquest: a simple shirt and shorts that suggested fashion over function, as if he considered armor beneath his station.

Most disturbing of all was his tail—or rather, the lack thereof. Where other Harbingers sported appendages that could serve as weapons, Kruel’s was barely more than a stub, almost vestigial. It marked him as something different, something evolved beyond the standard classifications.

He turned as they entered, and his gaze fell on the Widow with casual authority. No deference, no acknowledgment of her status as ’Mother’ to the lesser castes. Just the measured attention of one apex predator recognizing another.

"Widow," he said, his voice carrying harmonics that human ears weren’t designed to process. "I trust your mission was... educational."

"Commander," she replied, inclining her head slightly—a gesture of respect rather than submission. "The target has been secured as requested."

"Yes, about that." Kruel turned back to his displays, hands clasped behind his back like a professor preparing to deliver a lecture. "I received word about Xallon’s performance on Sirius Beta. Apparently, one of ours, a three-horn fell to an S-ranked lightning user."

The Widow’s expression didn’t change, but her tail tightened almost imperceptibly. "Xallon was... overconfident."

"Overconfident," Kruel repeated, the word dripping with contempt. "A three-horn Harbinger, defeated by a single human with electrical abilities. How remarkably disappointing."

He gestured to the suspended telepath, who convulsed slightly as neural interfaces sparked with activity. Around them, objects began to orbit in tight patterns—debris and tools caught in psychic currents beyond human understanding.

"We’ll deal with that particular failure later," Kruel continued. "For now, I’m more interested in the specimen you brought me. The one with the blade that negates our natural regeneration abilities. Is that correct?"

"Yes," the Widow replied, her voice carefully neutral. "The boy was... challenging. His weapon can stop our healing completely."

"Interesting." Kruel’s massive head tilted slightly, studying her with eyes that held too much intelligence for comfort. "And what is your assessment of using him as we have this one?"

The Widow’s posture straightened, and for the first time since entering the chamber, genuine emotion crept into her voice. "With respect, Commander, I question the wisdom of that approach.",

Kruel’s attention shifted to her completely, his bulk turning with predatory grace. "Oh?"

"Using their own kind to control entire populations—it’s brilliant strategy, no doubt. But we are Harbingers. We are conquerors, not puppet masters. We don’t need inferior species to do our conquering for us."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the suspended telepath seemed to still, sensing the shift in the chamber’s atmosphere. The single-horn pilot took a half-step backward, recognizing the warning signs of impending violence.

When Kruel spoke, his voice was soft—dangerously soft.

"Inferior species," he repeated, savoring each word. "Tell me, Widow, what happened when we seeded their homeworld decades ago? What was supposed to be a cataclysmic event that would render them extinct?"

The Widow’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond.

"They adapted," Kruel continued, his voice gaining volume and intensity. "They evolved. They gained abilities that rival our own natural gifts. They took our weapon—our seed of destruction—and turned it into their strength." He stepped closer, his massive frame looming over her. "What more evidence do you need that these beings, annoying as they are, possess something we have never encountered before?"

His hand gestured to the displays around them, thousands of human faces staring back with unseeing eyes. "Every species we’ve conquered has fallen the same way—overwhelming force, superior technology, brute dominance. But these humans..." He paused, studying the feeds with something approaching admiration. "They require finesse. They require understanding. They require us to be better than simple conquerors."

The Widow absorbed this lecture in silence, her predatory tendencies warring with intellectual acceptance of his reasoning.

"Remove the boy from his transport pod," Kruel ordered, his attention already shifting to other matters. "Prepare the interface chair."

The single-horn hurried to comply, his movements quick and efficient. Within minutes, Noah’s unconscious form was being carried into the chamber, his body still bearing the marks of his battle with the Widow but somehow... different. His musculature seemed more defined, his skin bearing a faint luminescence that hadn’t been there before.

They placed him in a chair that was twin to the telepath’s restraint system, though configured for conscious subjects rather than permanent bondage. Noah’s head lolled forward, his breathing deep and regular despite the trauma his body had endured.

Kruel approached the suspended telepath, his massive frame casting shadows across the human’s broken form. "How frustrating it is," he mused, "that our remote mind-control capabilities have become so strained. This vessel’s power has limits, and we cannot risk pushing it beyond its breaking point. Losing contact with three entire star systems would be... inconvenient."

He reached out with one clawed finger, tilting the telepath’s head upward until their eyes met. "Which is why this must be done manually. You understand what is required, don’t you?"

The telepath couldn’t speak—the neural interfaces prevented that level of motor control—but his eyes conveyed understanding. And something else. Something that might have been anticipation.

The psychic assault began immediately.

Noah’s body went rigid in the chair, his eyes snapping open to reveal nothing but white. His hair stood on end as electricity coursed through his nervous system, his back arching against the restraints as the telepath’s consciousness invaded his mind like a virus seeking a host.

Kruel moved to stand before a large display that showed the interface from the telepath’s perspective—a swirling maelstrom of thoughts and memories and defenses that comprised Noah’s mental landscape. For several minutes, he watched the intrusion process with clinical interest, waiting for the familiar signs of capitulation that marked successful mind control.

But the display remained chaotic, formless. No clear pathways emerged, no obvious weaknesses presented themselves for exploitation.

"Curious," Kruel murmured, his massive arms crossing over his chest. "The delay is attributable to the specimen’s enhanced nature, no doubt. The telepath grows weak from continuous connection, and this new subject appears more... resilient than typical humans."

He turned to address the Widow, who watched the process with fascination. "No matter. We will simply maintain the connection until resistance crumbles. Eventually, all minds break."

What none of them realized was that the telepath had already succeeded.

* * *

Noah found himself standing in a place that wasn’t a place, surrounded by walls that weren’t quite walls, breathing air that tasted of memory and electricity. The space felt familiar yet alien, comfortable yet threatening—like standing in his childhood bedroom after decades of absence.

Across from him stood a figure in EDF tactical gear, his face bearing the weathered lines of someone who had seen too much combat and too little sleep. The uniform was regulation perfect despite obvious signs of wear, and his posture spoke of military discipline barely containing desperate exhaustion.

The man snapped to attention and delivered a crisp salute. "Staff Sergeant Bruce Hilton , EDF Special Operations Division. Serial number 7749-Delta-Kilo."

Noah blinked, his consciousness still struggling to understand his surroundings. "Where... what did you do to me? Are you working with them?"

"You’re unconscious, sir. In immediate danger. But with your help, we can both escape this situation and prevent further casualties."

"How do I know I can trust you?" Noah’s voice carried the wariness of someone who had learned that survival meant questioning everything.

Webb’s expression softened slightly, and when he spoke, his voice carried intimate knowledge that shocked Noah "Noah Eclipse, age 19, SSS RANKED Re-awakened soldier though you hid that for a period of time. Your girlfriend is Sophie Reign, daughter of Minister Reign. You two nearly got caught in her apartment during your academy days when her father decided to make an unannounced visit to her off campus house,"

"Stop," Noah said quickly, his face flushing with embarrassment. He looked around the space again, pieces clicking into place. "If I’m unconscious, then this is... we’re in my mind."

"Correct, sir."

Noah studied the soldier before him, noting details that didn’t quite fit. The perfect uniform despite obvious signs of prolonged stress. The military bearing that couldn’t quite hide bone-deep exhaustion. The eyes that held too much knowledge and too much pain.

"How did this happen?" Noah asked, his voice quieter now, carrying the note of someone who suspected the answer would be worse than the question.

Sergeant Bruce’s shoulders sagged slightly, and for a moment, his military composure cracked to reveal the broken man beneath.

"Sir," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "it’s a long story. But the short version is I did all this," he said, the delivery exposed him. He was on the verge of tears.

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