Chapter 633: Chapter 633: Persistence (Part 3)

Above—

Charles couldn’t hold it anymore.

His injured wing trembled violently, feathers shaking as the strain finally caught up to him.

The balance he had been forcing through sheer effort began to fail, his body dipping lower in uneven drops.

He spread both wings wider, trying to slow his descent.

It worked—

For a moment.

Then the pain hit harder.

His face tightened, teeth clenching as the muscles refused to respond the way he needed.

The injured side gave out first, folding inward slightly before the rest followed.

His control slipped.

His body dropped.

Not a straight fall—but enough.

He hit the ground hard.

KRRSHH—!!

The impact dented the overturned sedan beside him, metal folding inward under the force as his body slammed into it and rolled off to the side.

The ground cracked beneath him slightly, debris shifting outward from where he landed.

A groan forced its way out of him.

His breath came uneven.

He tried to push himself up—one hand pressing against the ground, the other bracing against the car—but his arms shook under his own weight.

His wings twitched behind him.

Unsteady.

Unresponsive.

"Damn..." he muttered under his breath, forcing air into his lungs as his body struggled to obey.

He tried again.

Failed.

His head dipped slightly as he fought to steady himself.

———

Up on the roof—

The officers hadn’t moved from the edge.

They watched.

Every second.

Every movement.

Charles falling hadn’t gone unnoticed.

"Sir! Sir!" one shouted into his comms, voice strained. "What’s your status?! Shit—!"

Another officer turned away from the edge, scanning the rooftop, mind already shifting to the next step. "We need to get the remaining chopper down there fast and—"

The entrance to the roof suddenly slammed open.

All rifles snapped toward it.

Instinct.

Finger on triggers.

Then—

They stopped.

Olynk.

And his team.

Relief flickered across one face. "We thought—"

He didn’t get to finish.

Olynk stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the rooftop in a single motion.

The damage.

The bodies.

The destroyed chopper.

No Charles.

His expression tightened immediately.

"Where’s Mr. Monclaire?!" he demanded, voice cutting across the space.

An officer near the edge responded without delay, voice clipped, direct. "Fell off roof during engagement. Engaged hostile mid-air. Current status—ground level, sir."

Olynk’s jaw set.

"Then what the hell are you waiting for!" he snapped, already turning. "Start that chopper and prepare to exfil! Those things will be here any—"

He stopped.

His head turned back toward the door.

His brow furrowed deeper.

He heard it.

Movement.

Close.

Too close.

"Shut that door and plant some charges," he ordered immediately. "Now. The rest of you—move, move, move!"

"Sir!"

They moved.

Fast.

Not clean.

Not composed.

Hands trembled. Breathing uneven. Eyes darting as they stepped over bodies—boots slipping slightly on blood, gear scraping against broken surfaces as they rushed toward the remaining chopper.

Olynk followed but didn’t board.

He stood near the side, directing them in with rapid gestures, ensuring no one froze, no one lagged behind.

"Inside! Go!"

The charge was set quickly.

K-4.

Hands steady despite everything, planting the explosives at the door frame and around it before stepping back.

He moved straight to Olynk, placing the detonator firmly into his hand before climbing into the chopper himself.

Olynk stepped onto the edge.

Half in.

Half out.

The helicopter lifted.

WHRRRR—!!

Rotors cutting through the air as it rose, the platform beneath them shrinking by the second.

Then—

The door dented.

Once.

A deep inward bend.

THUD—!

Again.

Harder.

The metal warped further, edges buckling as something on the other side forced against it repeatedly.

The noise built.

Scraping.

Bodies pressing.

The frame shook.

Then—

It burst.

CRASH—!!

The door tore inward, hinges snapping as it gave way. The horde surged through the opening, bodies piling into each other as they forced their way out.

Limbs tangled. Faces twisted. Some fell forward immediately, tripping over those ahead of them, only to be crushed as more pushed through.

They didn’t slow.

Didn’t hesitate.

They flooded the rooftop.

Olynk watched them.

Expression flat.

Unmoved.

The chopper tilted away from the building, pulling back into open air.

His thumb pressed down.

BOOOOM—!!

The charges detonated instantly.

Fire and force tore through the doorway, consuming the clustered infected at point-blank range.

Bodies ruptured under the blast, fragments thrown outward across the rooftop and into the air.

The shockwave rolled outward, catching those still pushing through the entrance and driving them back into the structure.

The doorway collapsed inward, concrete and metal folding as the blast tore it apart.

Flames licked outward briefly before dying under the open air.

What remained—

Was broken.

Burning.

And still.

The helicopter pulled away.

Leaving it behind.

———

The explosion above didn’t end clean.

Debris followed it down in uneven intervals—shards of metal, fractured concrete, twisted pieces of the helipad tearing free and dropping through open air.

Some spun as they fell, others came straight down, heavy and fast, slamming into the streets below with dull, scattered impacts.

Fragments struck across the surrounding blocks, bouncing, breaking, skidding across ruined pavement.

None hit Charles.

But one came close.

A loosened beam—long, bent at one end—cut through the air and came down near the impact site Don had created.

It struck the street off to the side and collapsed into itself with a heavy crash, sliding across broken asphalt before grinding to a stop.

Dust still hung thick.

But it was thinning now.

Slowly settling.

Through it—

Don lay motionless.

His body was stretched across the shattered ground, slightly angled over what remained of the female infected.

His fist was still closed, buried in what had once been her head—now reduced to a crushed mass pressed deep into fractured road.

Blood and debris clung to his arm.

His chest rose and fell hard.

Uneven.

His entire body trembled in small, inconsistent motions, muscles firing without control as the strain from moments earlier lingered in his system.

His eyes were closed.

Unresponsive.

For a second—

Nothing moved.

Then—

A voice broke through.

Distorted at first. Distant.

Close.

"...Don... apologies... I had to disconnect from the Citadel systems..."

The comm unit lay just inches from his head, half-buried in dust and grit, its surface scratched from the fall.

Static flickered briefly through it before stabilizing.

"...UPSDF presence was approaching. Remaining connected would have risked exposure."

Her tone stayed level.

Urgent, but controlled.

"I’ve reconnected into the Monclaire systems and reviewed communication logs. The situation appears to be escalating beyond projected parameters."

A brief pause followed.

Wind moved through the street, pushing dust in low waves across the ground.

Loose fragments shifted, scraping softly as they settled into new positions.

Above, the distant thrum of rotors carried through the air—faint, but closing.

Smaller debris still fell.

Less frequent now.

But enough.

Tick—

Tap—

Somewhere close—

A subtle tremor ran through the ground.

Not violent.

But consistent.

Just enough to disturb what lay loose.

The comm unit bounced slightly against the cracked surface.

Once.

Then again.

"...what is your current status?" Winter’s voice continued, unchanged in cadence. "Do you require assistance?"

Don’s body reacted before his mind caught up.

A sharp inhale tore into his lungs as his eyes snapped open.

Air filled his chest too fast, too hard, forcing a rough cough from him as his body jerked slightly against the ground.

Instinct took over immediately—his arm pushed down, muscles straining as he tried to lift himself away from the infected beneath him.

He pulled—

Then stopped.

His gaze dropped.

What remained of her didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Nothing resisted.

His breath came hard through his nose, chest rising and falling as the realization settled in. His grip loosened slightly, fingers flexing as he pulled his fist free from the crushed remains.

His vision swam.

Edges blurred.

Sound came in uneven layers—distant, then close, then distant again.

"...Don... do you copy?" Winter’s voice cut through again, sharper now. "If you do not respond or confirm your status, I will engage appropriate measures to—"

He reached for the comm.

His hand didn’t land clean the first time, fingers brushing past it before tightening on the second attempt.

He pulled it up, bringing it back to his ear as he forced himself upright.

"I’m fine, Winter..." his voice came rough, breath still uneven.

He got to his feet.

Slow at first.

Then steadier.

His body protested immediately. A deep, spreading soreness settled through his limbs, heavier in his shoulders and chest.

Blood trailed down from his nose, a thinner line following from the corner of his left eye, both dragged slightly by the movement.

He ignored it.

His gaze moved.

The street around him was torn apart—craters, fractured pavement, debris scattered across every direction.

Bodies lay in uneven clusters, some twisted, others still, all caught in the aftermath of what had just passed through.

Ebon Crest stood behind it all.

Broken.

Scarred.

His eyes shifted again.

Charles.

Not far.

The man struggled near an overturned vehicle, one hand braced against the dented frame as he tried to push himself upright.

His wings hung uneven behind him—one steady, the other dipping lower, reacting slower when he tried to adjust.

Don moved immediately.

"If you are able to move," Winter continued, her voice cutting in without pause, "I strongly advise leaving your current location. UPSDF first response units are inbound, and drone reconnaissance has identified multiple hostile movements approaching your position."

Don quickly reached Charles, gripping his arm and pulling him up with a firm motion.

Charles grunted under the effort, his body tensing as he forced himself to stand fully.

His balance wavered for a second before settling, his good wing adjusting instinctively to compensate.

"Two large hordes," Winter added, "along with several smaller groups of what seems to be infected. Their movement patterns indicate convergence toward your location. It appears both are responding to recent activity."

That was enough.

Don shifted his stance, keeping Charles steady as both of them lifted their gaze upward.

The chopper was descending.

Closer now.

Louder.

WHRRRRR—~

Wind pushed outward from its approach, kicking up dust again in spiraling currents around them.

Charles watched it for a moment.

Then lowered his gaze.

A breath left him, slower than before.

"...maybe I was in over my head," he said, voice low, edged with something he didn’t bother hiding.

His jaw tightened after.

Don didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He adjusted his grip slightly, keeping Charles upright as his own eyes moved again—scanning, tracking, checking every angle he could despite the lingering blur in his vision.

He couldn’t relax.

Not yet.

Not until they were out.

The chopper dropped lower.

Closer.

The sound filled the space around them now, heavy and constant as it prepared to land.

Then—

Don’s gaze shifted.

Something moved.

Not far.

Through the settling dust.

His eyes focused.

Locked.

And widened.

"...no fucking way..."