Exhaustion clung to Adam like a damp shroud as he stumbled into his room. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud, a sound swallowed by the heavier thud of his body collapsing onto the bed. A ragged sigh escaped his lips. The memory of his sparring match with Eddie in the training grounds flooded back – the raw, untamed power that had surged within him, a potent elixir coursing through his veins. He’d felt invincible, a thrill so intense it still vibrated in his bones.

He sat up, his gaze falling on his right hand, a silent question in his eyes. He tried to recapture the sensation, the memory of that power. A faint red glow flickered in his pupils as he stared, the image of the fireball he'd unleashed burning bright in his mind's eye. The feeling returned, a low hum of burning energy building in his arm, a coiled serpent waiting to strike. He closed his eyes, focusing, pushing more energy into his arm, compressing it, feeling the familiar pressure build. It was close, so close to the feeling he'd experienced that day, the day he'd shattered the barrier. But this was only a shadow of that power, a pale imitation of the overwhelming force that had been ten times more intense, a raw, untamed inferno.

He focused, pouring more energy into his arm, compressing the volatile power to prevent a premature eruption. Then, he felt it—a familiar surge, a torrent of energy flowing through his limb with the same breathtaking intensity as before. He opened his eyes, his breath catching in his throat. His arm bones glowed with an eerie orange light, visible beneath his skin, a terrifyingly beautiful spectacle. He stood abruptly, staring at his hand in awestruck amazement.

The glow faded as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a searing pain that shot through his arm, a white-hot agony. His bones fractured with a sickening crack that ripped through the silence of the house, a sound both sharp and horrifying. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of pain, instinctively clutching his arm, only to wince as the movement intensified the agony. He let go, collapsing to his knees, the weight of the pain nearly unbearable.

A wave of relief washed over him as his hand began to heal, the fractured bones knitting themselves back together, the damage mending with unnatural speed. He watched, mesmerized, as his arm returned to its normal state, the pain receding like an ebbing tide. He stood, legs still shaky, examining his hand. "Man, that hurt," he muttered, the words a low groan against the lingering ache. The memory of the backlash from his previous attempt to unleash that power flooded back, a stark reminder of the price he paid for such strength.

"Tomorrow's training, and next week is the tournament," he mused, a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach. "I wonder who I'll face first. I need rest," he added, his voice weary. "It's going to be a big day tomorrow." He let himself fall onto the bed, the soft mattress a welcome relief against his aching body. His thoughts, however, remained restless, circling the daunting task of the erasing process, the weight of it pressing down on him even as sleep finally claimed him.

*The Black Dragon Assassins' Base*

The flickering neon sign of "Atlas Storage Solutions" cast a sickly yellow glow on the rain-slicked street. To the casual observer, Warehouse 47 was unremarkable, just another anonymous box in the city's industrial sprawl. But behind the corrugated iron and grimy loading dock hid a meticulously crafted fortress. Inside, a labyrinthine network of corridors, concealed behind false walls and cleverly disguised doorways, led to the heart of the Black Dragon Assassins' operation.

The flickering fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the concrete floor of the warehouse, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the stale air. Number 14 stood before Number 7, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the worn linoleum. The silence was thick, broken only by the rhythmic drip of a leaky pipe.

Number 7, his face half-hidden in shadow, remained seated behind his desk, his expression unreadable. Finally, Number 14 spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "Seven... the mission... it failed."

Number 7's head snapped up, his eyes like chips of flint in the dim light. "Failed? Explain." His voice was low, a dangerous rumble.

Number 14 swallowed hard. "The team sent to intercept Anna... they were overwhelmed by the Daughters of Death. Anna is in their custody."

Number 7 leaned forward, his expression unchanged. "And the information?"

Number 14 wrung his hands. "We... we didn't get it. The Daughters of Death were prepared. They anticipated our move."

A muscle twitched in Number 7's jaw. He leaned back, his gaze intense. "This changes everything. We need to find another way to locate Adam.

Number 14 hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. "But Seven... why Adam? He's just another power holder, isn't he? We have far stronger individuals within our ranks."

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Number 7's lips curled into a grim smile. "Ordinary? Fourteen, Adam possesses Ragnar, a god of immense power. Ragnar's one of the most powerful gods of a bygone era. The Founder has devised a method to extract Ragnar's power from its vessel. This power... it's not just about strength, Fourteen. It's about dominance. The Daughters of Death are gaining ground. Securing Ragnar will give us the edge, the power to finally crush them and claim supremacy." He leaned back, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "We must find Adam."

Number 14 stared, speechless, the implications of Number 7's words slowly dawning on him. The hunt for Adam was no longer just about acquiring a powerful asset; it was about securing access to a god's power and achieving ultimate dominance over their rivals.

*DMR*

Sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, painting a warm stripe across Adam's face. He stretched, a groan escaping his lips as he felt the familiar weight of the shackles on his wrists and ankles. "These things make sleeping a torture," he muttered, the words thick with sleep-roughened frustration. "Waking up every hour, tangled in metal… feels like my training's already started, and it's not even official yet."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool black and white tiles of the floor a stark contrast to the warmth of the blankets. The shackles dug into his skin with every movement, a constant, irritating reminder of the training regimen. He made his way to the bathroom, the familiar routine of brushing his teeth a small comfort in the otherwise tense atmosphere. The shower offered a brief respite, the warm water washing away some of the grime and frustration, though the shackles remained, a cumbersome weight on his wrists and ankles, hindering even the simplest movements.

He toweled himself dry and quickly changed into fresh clothes and shoes. The simple act of dressing felt like a monumental task, each movement deliberate and slow, hampered by the restrictive metal. He prepared a quick breakfast, the food tasting bland and unappetizing, his appetite dulled by the anticipation of the day ahead. He ate quickly, his movements efficient and economical, his mind already focused on the training.

He slung his black backpack over his shoulders, the familiar weight a small comfort in the sea of discomfort. Stepping out of his room, he paused, his gaze falling on the shackles. "I can't even run at full speed with these things on," he muttered, his gaze falling on the shackles binding his wrists. But the words were barely out before he was a blur of motion, a streak of dark clothing flashing across the landscape. He moved with terrifying speed, the shackles surprisingly light against the raw power surging through him. He hadn't intended to use his full speed; the thought of the potential damage to his surroundings had held him back. Even so, the shackles, while not truly heavy, would induce fatigue far faster than normal.

He arrived in the city, the sudden deceleration a jarring shift from the adrenaline-fueled sprint. He slowed to a stop on the sidewalk, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the city's cacophony a stark contrast to the quiet intensity of his run. He looked up at the towering skyscrapers, a maze of steel and glass, feeling a wave of disorientation wash over him. "Which way is it to Eddie's place again?" he murmured, his voice barely audible above the city's hum.

He scanned the sparse crowd, the few pedestrians moving with a strange, almost vacant quality. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. These people… they were all victims of the Erasing Process. They were all going to die, their lives extinguished without them ever knowing what was happening, their memories wiped clean, their identities stolen. The weight of that knowledge settled heavily on his shoulders, a crushing burden far heavier than any physical shackle. The city, once a vibrant tapestry of life, now felt like a graveyard, each person a silent testament to the horrors he was fighting against.

Adam sighed, the weight of his unspoken anxieties settling heavily on his shoulders. He continued his journey towards Eddie's house, his steps measured and deliberate. He reached the dwelling and rang the doorbell, the sound echoing in the stillness. Silence. He rang again, a longer, more insistent press of the button, but still, no answer. A knot of unease tightened in his stomach. "Where could he be?" he murmured to himself, the question hanging in the air. "Could it be that he went to train with Tilda without telling me?"

The thought spurred him into action. He turned, his mind already racing, and set off towards Tilda's house, the route instantly clear in his mind. He remembered her directions, a mental map etched into his memory. He didn't bother with the streets, instead opting for a more direct route. He leaped across a building, the movement fluid and effortless, landing silently on the rooftop. From his vantage point, he scanned the surrounding area, his eyes sharp and observant. The familiar layout of the city unfolded before him

He spotted it then, a flash of white paint against the backdrop of the city's muted tones. A large house, a balcony visible from his vantage point, precisely as Tilda had described. He leaped from the rooftop, landing lightly on the ground, the impact barely disturbing the dust. He continued his approach, his pace quickening with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. He reached the yard, his hand hovering over the door handle. He hoped, with a sudden surge of anxiety, that he hadn't made a mistake. He didn't want to endure the awkwardness of confronting a stranger. But then, a faint but unmistakable aura, a familiar blend of energies, reached him—the subtle emanations of both Eddie and Tilda.

He rang the doorbell, the sound swallowed by the stillness of the house. No answer. "Did they really start without me?" he muttered, a prickle of annoyance mixing with the unease. He hesitated only a moment before slowly pushing open the door. He stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the living room. "Hello?" he called out, his voice echoing in the spacious room.

The faint auras, stronger now, guided him towards a door at the far end of the room. He pushed it open, revealing a scene that stole his breath. It wasn't just a training ground; it was a landscape transformed. Before him lay a clearing, sparsely dotted with short, stunted trees, the earth beneath them bare and hard-packed. But it wasn't the landscape that held his attention. In the distance, a powerful aura pulsed, a vibrant beacon of energy that drew his gaze, a palpable force that hummed with raw power and an almost terrifying intensity. It was unlike anything he had ever sensed before, a presence that both thrilled and unsettled him. He felt a pull towards it, an irresistible urge to approach, to understand the source of this overwhelming energy.

Then he saw them. Eddie and Tilda, locked in combat. Eddie, his movements a blur of controlled power, leaped back just as Tilda lunged forward, a golden sword in her hand with impossible speed. With a fluid, almost balletic grace, Tilda swung the sword. In an instant, the blade shimmered, transforming into a torrent of molten gold that solidified into a massive golden hammer, radiating heat and power. She swung the hammer with devastating force, the blow impacting the ground where Eddie had stood a mere instant before.

A thunderous boom ripped through the air, a shockwave radiating outwards, sending Eddie spinning through the air before he crashed heavily onto his back, the impact jarring even from Adam's distance. Dust and debris erupted from the crater where the hammer had struck. Adam watched, his expression a mixture of awe and grim satisfaction. "So they did start without me."