Interstellar: Return of the Villain
Chapter 221: Level-eight

Chapter 221: Level-eight

Morrun sat slumped on the worn-out couch, his arms and legs tightly bound, no chance of escape.

He didn’t even bother struggling. He knew that if Lyra’d left him here like this, then she knew he was no threat.

Morrun had been around long enough to recognize when he was outmatched and when it was smarter to wait.

Then it hit him—the heavy, metallic smell of blood seeping out from the bedroom.

Morrun’s sharp senses caught the wet, sick sound of flesh being torn.

A chill slithered down his spine, but he stayed calm, calculating. That woman, with her reckless confidence, must’ve taken those potent strength-boosting herbs meant for level-nine Peculiars. She was only level seven; those herbs could have catastrophic effects on her.

A spark of ambition ignited in his eyes: She had rare artifacts, powerful items that could be worth the risk, if he could just find a way to grab them...

Morrun leaned forward, testing his restraints, eyeing the bedroom door. But as soon as he moved, the chains around him seemed to awaken.

Thorny metal vines snaked out, slicing into his skin, coiling around his neck, ready to choke him out at the first sign of resistance.

"Thinking of trying something?" Her voice slithered from the shadows, cold and unforgiving.

Morrun froze, sweat breaking out on his brow as he sank back onto the couch.

Blood trickled from his arms, pooling beneath him, staining the fabric as the merciless chains held tight.

Time stretched on, each second dragging.

Then, from the floor below, came voices—firm, filled with raw power.

He could feel the surge of superhuman energy, the unmistakable energy of high-ranking Peculiars.

Any hope he’d clung to drained away. He knew these intruders meant business, and escape was no longer on the table. He could only sit there, caught in the jaws of fear and bitter frustration.

It was like being a cornered animal, with predators closing in from every side.

Footsteps approached, pausing right outside the door.

Three sharp knocks shattered the silence, followed by a breathless stillness. And then, with a thunderous crash, the door burst open.

Morrun’s heart sank.

’This is it,’ he thought bleakly, a flicker of dread clouding his thoughts.

But before he could process what was happening, a blinding green light blazed to life, flooding the room. The light was so intense it blanked out his vision, casting everything into icy white.

Frost raced across the walls and ceiling, locking the entire complex in a sheath of ice, spilling out into the street and sending pedestrians running in shock.

A crushing wave of psychic energy rolled outward, blanketing everyone nearby.

Civilians dropped like flies, overwhelmed by the suffocating pressure, while the level-nine Peculiars in the building stumbled, fighting to stay conscious.

Morrun’s mouth dropped open as he took in the destruction. And then, he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He twisted in a panic, summoning what was left of his power to as Lyra had told.

Ansel and his men snapped back to attention, glancing around, but there was no sign of HER.

Ansel didn’t give chase right away. Instead, he turned toward the bedroom, drawn by the thick scent of blood hanging in the air.

Inside, he found the wreckage of a brutal struggle, the walls and floors marked by Lyra’s desperate attempt to break free.

His jaw tightened as he surveyed the room, every scratch and splatter a testament to her fight.

"So, you actually managed to escape," he muttered, teeth clenched. "We’re not done yet. After her."

The level-nine Space Twister led his team in hot pursuit.

Reality around them warped and bent as the squad rushed forward, while Ansel sighed, a weary weight settling on him.

His soldier caught his expression and mistook it, attempting to reassure him. "Sir, no need to worry. Morrun’s just a teleporter—not much of a threat."

Ansel shook his head. "It’s not him," he replied quietly. "Just... thinking about choices."

In the eyes of the Shedd family, he was a destroyer. To the Alliance, an outlaw. He carried his regrets and acceptance alike.

Meanwhile, in a dark, forgotten alley, two figures appeared, startling a scrawny cat rummaging through a trash bin. With a startled yowl, the cat bolted.

"Alright, I’m done," Morrun muttered, leaning against the grimy wall, his earlier composure crumbling.

His hair was a mess, his clothes torn and caked with dirt and blood, and he could feel the last dregs of his power slipping away.

They’d been fleeing for nearly an hour, putting a thousand miles between themselves and the treat they left behind. Yet the Space Twister’s relentless tracking clung to them like a dark shadow, reaching across the vast distance.

Every time they thought they’d lost him, his presence reappeared, creeping closer.

Lyra looked like a ghost beside Morrun, her face pale and drained from blood loss.

Despite her weakened state, crystal-green tentacles of light swirled around her, casting an ethereal glow that made her seem almost otherworldly.

She could feel the waves of spatial energy drawing near, like a looming tidal wave. She pressed her lips into a thin line, her expression hard.

"How close are we to the Legion of Nebulae’s garrison?" she asked quietly.

Morrun’s face went slack, then twisted in terror. "The... the Legion? You can’t be serious!" He studied her with fresh suspicion, his eyes narrowing. "You’re not military, are you?"

In their line of work, authority was dangerous, and nothing was more terrifying than direct contact with the military.

Lyra’s voice was cold as ice. "Don’t waste your breath," she muttered, stifling a cough that nearly doubled her over.

She was in no shape to fight head-on.

Morrun’s eyes darted between her and the street behind them, torn between his fear of her and the deadly soldiers closing in.

But he had no choice—he led her deeper into the maze of back alleys.

Meanwhile, Ansel, sensing their target’s direction, clenched his jaw. "We cannot let them reach the military zone."

"Leave it to me." The Space Twister’s voice was sharp with focus as he summoned his power, warping space around him in a burst of energy.

Just as Morrun was preparing to teleport, a surge of space energy froze him in place. He gasped, a look of horror flashing across his face. "No... we’re trapped!"

Lyra, unable to move, pivoted to a new plan.

She channeled Schedar, her power morphing into a storm of razor-thin needles that filled the air like deadly rain. The needles shot toward the Space Twister, aiming to slice him apart.

The old man’s scalp prickled as he focused, locking the needles in place mid-air. But his relief was short-lived; under Lyra’s psychokinetic control, the needles began to twist and writhe, slipping through his spatial bind.

Forcing himself to act fast, he bent space, sending the needles off course just in time.

He barely had a chance to breathe before the needles reversed, homing in on him again.

Only a burst of reflex kept him from being shredded.

At that moment, he understood why Ansel had sent so many elites to capture her—this woman was a force of nature.

Morrun watched in awe, speechless. Lyra was pushing a Space Twister to his limit. If he’d known she was this powerful, he never would have dared cross her.

A sound like tearing fabric filled the air, and Morrun’s breath caught.

Around them, the very sky and ground seemed to split, reality fracturing as if ripped apart.

Lyra’s figure blurred in the distortion, veins standing out on her face as green light blazed around her.

With a surge, she’d broken into level-eight.

In a flash of energy, Lyra tore herself free from the spatial lock just as a dimensional rift lunged toward her.

Schedar surged across her body, her blade blazing like a comet as she dodged the rift and swung down with deadly precision.

The Space Twister’s eyes went wide as he tried to close the space between them, but Lyra’s blade was already slicing through. His face paled as her strike met its mark, piercing his chest, sending him hurtling to the ground below.

Lyra hovered in mid-air, perched atop her shield, blood flecking from her blade.

She was still, expressionless, as Ansel and his soldiers rounded the corner just in time to see the end of the battle.

A stunned silence settled over the crowd, but Ansel’s face grew darker, more intense, as he studied her.

"You pulled them all out, didn’t you?" he muttered, voice laced with a grudging respect. "That’s why you’re this strong now."

For the first time, a wary glint flickered in his eyes.

Lyra returned his stare with a calm, defiant smile. In her armor, she looked as cold and efficient as a machine.

"Thanks to you," she replied with quiet triumph, "I’ve just removed the last one."

An electric sense of freedom pulsed through her body—every muscle, every bone felt unchained, light as air.

It was a sensation she hadn’t felt in over a decade, a weight lifting as though she could dissolve into the air itself.

The level-nine Peculiars who had arrived with Ansel turned ashen as the brutal scene unfolded. One of them muttered, "She just killed a level-nine Space Twister... Vice Admiral Shedd, this is way beyond the call!"

"Exactly! We didn’t sign up for a death sentence. We need hazard pay—triple, at least!" another chimed in, panic evident.

But Lyra barely registered their complaints, her lips curling into a sneer. With a flick of her wrist, her armor dissolved, and Schedar shifted seamlessly into twin blades that glinted under the harsh light.

Ansel tensed, realizing a beat too late the danger was about to turn deadly.

In a blur, Lyra moved, a cold breeze brushing past as she advanced.

With one swift slash, the level-nine fire Peculiar’s head separated cleanly from his shoulders, hitting the ground before he could even summon a spark.

The Peculiars, who only moments ago had been the hunters, stood paralyzed, blood draining from their faces as they confronted Lyra’s blood-splattered, unyielding expression.

Her eyes gleamed with a fierce, dangerous light—one that promised only death.

They barely had time to process before they lunged at her, abandoning all thoughts of pay or retreat.

They had the upper hand in raw power, but Lyra’s brutal agility and sheer speed defied all logic.

The Peculiar with aerokinesis whipped up a fierce tornado, the swirling dust and debris consuming everything in its path.

Yet, not a single speck seemed to touch Lyra.

She dropped low, body almost parallel to the ground, and then she launched forward like an arrow, covering dozens of meters in a blink.

In a single, fluid motion, her right blade sliced cleanly through a massive stone fist raised by the Geokinesis Peculiar.

Without hesitation, she spun and drove her left blade straight through his armor, severing his arm in one smooth arc. He staggered back, clutching the bloody stump, eyes wide in horror.

From behind, a barrage of metal spikes shot toward her.

Without even looking back, she deflected them with a precise strike of her blade, the force so intense it cracked her hand, fresh blood trailing from her palm.

Her weapon slipped from her grasp, and her attacker thought he’d gained the advantage. But mid-fall, her sword morphed into a slender knife, whipping back toward him with deadly speed.

It embedded in his chest, piercing his heart before he could react.

In the next breath, Schedar snapped back into Lyra’s hand, a lethal extension of her will.

In thirty ruthless minutes, she’d taken down five level-nine Peculiars, leaving two dead and one critically wounded.

The last two exchanged terrified glances before fleeing, all semblance of loyalty shattered.

Lyra’s bangs, damp and streaked with blood, clung to her forehead, framing eyes that burned like embers in the crimson reflection of the scene around her.

She turned slowly toward Ansel, meeting his gaze. His face was a storm of emotions—hatred, fear, and a deeper, unnamed dread lurking beneath it all.