Chapter 218: Protect. Purge. Destroy

The storm inside Six had not calmed.

Though his form had stilled, and his hand now rested quietly at his side, the war within him raged. The red transformation—an amalgam of hate, purpose, and boundless energy—gnawed at the edges of his sanity. The whispers that came with it weren’t voices, but instincts, sharpened to a blade’s edge and dipped in blood.

’Protect. Purge. Destroy.’

A mantra on loop. Simple. Brutal. Inevitable.

And it was focused entirely on one idea:

’Anything that threatens Rebecca... dies.’

’My Moon!!!’

The name echoed in his thoughts, deeper than love, older than memory. A truth carved into his bones, into the power wrapping around him like a burning cloak.

He didn’t remember when he lost control.

But his Moon meant everything to him.

His partner.

The light that governed his tides, the force that calmed his darkest waves, the one thing that, no matter how far he drifted, remained.

So now, even half-maddened by power, his path was absolute.

The broken, cursed plazas Ghosts, and toxic cloud of the Sierra Madre? Obstacles to be burned.

"Maine..."

His name, even though he was already dead, seared into Six’s mind like a wound that refused to close.

That bastard had dared hurt his Moon. Harm her. Left her wounded, endangering her life. One of them or both, it didn’t matter anymore.

Six couldn’t control himself anymore—not with the haze pulling at the corners of his vision in rage, distorting time, blending the realities of who his foes were.

But it didn’t matter in the end.

Because anyone who could threaten his Moon had signed their own death warrant.

Six stood frozen—his Zweih?nder lowered slightly, crimson energy still arcing off his armor, Cruel Sun’s dying embers flickering in the air like falling cinders. The plaza had grown still, but the screeching chaos above echoed louder than the Ghost People ever had.

The cursed air of the Sierra Madre recoiled from him.

Not because it could think—but because even death has survival instincts.

The toxins, the maddening whispers of the speakers, the forgotten cries of long-dead guests and damned workers—all of it seemed to shrink away as Six moved. Not walked. Not ran. Moved—like a force of nature. Like a flame given flesh.

The red aura that surrounded him no longer shimmered like fire.

It seethed, burning in layers: fury on the outside, pain beneath, and at its core—an aching, all-consuming devotion.

Rebecca was hurt.

His Moon was harmed.

And that alone justified annihilation.

Every step he took twisted the world around him: metal warped, air shimmered, the Ghost People lingering in the shadows fled or burned where they stood—unable to even scream before turning to ash. Their cursed, pseudo-eternal bodies had no defense against someone whose will alone could bend heat, mass, and pressure.

The very rules of the Sierra Madre—its traps, its curses, its silence—meant nothing to a being like this.

To Six, in this form, there were no rules.

There was only retribution.

The sky above crackled, not with thunder but with something deeper. The cloud swirled unnaturally, like even the weather wanted to give him space.

Because now, Six wasn’t just fighting to survive.

He was here to erase anything that dared to believe it could hurt what he cherished.

And for the Sierra Madre?

That meant its clock was ticking down.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Just a moment.

He’d been burning—mind tethered to something deeper, something older, something furious—but now?

Now he heard her.

Rebecca.

The second Rebecca? A chaotic distraction—but not a threat.

Well... one of them.

The team’s bickering? Irrelevant.

But he must eliminate all obstacles.

"Six!"

Rebecca’s shout was filled with panic as Six stood opposite her, his imposing towering figure standing like a beast ready to pounce, exuding a powerful aura like a moving mountain.

"Oh shit! Hot, hot, hot! The power armor is burning!"

Twig cried out, ejecting from his power armor, the steel of their power armor groaned and hissed as it strained against the rising temperature, forcing the rest of the crew to abandon their mechanical shells turned oven, like melting husks.

The oppressive heat radiating from Six’s crimson form warped the very floor’s air like a living furnace. Every breath the others took felt heavier, their skin prickling under the invisible weight of his burning aura.

Twig cursed under his breath as he scrambled away from the blistering heat, panting.

"Damn, Six a walking inferno! Someone get a fire extinguisher—or maybe a damn miracle!"

Boone’s eyes narrowed, his rifle lowered but ready. Raul wiped sweat from his brow, his usual calm rattled by the intensity radiating from their leader’s red-transformed state.

Rebecca’s voice trembled with both fear and determination.

"Six, please! This isn’t you! Don’t let your power consume you!"

But Six didn’t answer.

His towering figure, bathed in flickering crimson flames, loomed like a god of war. His gaze, locked onto the chaotic scene before him, was a storm of fury and protectiveness. The toxic mists curling in the Sierra Madre’s ruins seemed to curl back, terrified, as the very air thickened with raw power.

The battlefield had quieted, but the tension was suffocating—because now, with Six’s presence alone, the ground beneath them could ignite at any moment, and the next move could erupt into uncontrollable fire.

Rebecca’s shout echoed again, desperate and fragile, cutting through the heat: "Six, come back! This is us—you, me, them! We’re still here!"

But the burning silhouette barely shifted—his sword hung low but pulsing with energy, ready to ignite again.

The question hung heavy in the air: could Six’s heart still hear beyond the roar of his own blazing fury?