Deviant: No Longer Human

"What… are they doing here?"

On the far end of the cordon, a line of black limousines was driving in—silent, smooth, slow. The crowd instinctively parted, whispers spreading like wildfire, phones rose, and cameras zoomed.

Valerie turned, voice clipped, smile cracking.

"What the hell is that? Who authorized this?" She leaned back from the mic and hissed, "How the fuck is anyone driving into my event?"

Reed didn't answer immediately. His jaw was clenched.

"Immobilize them already!" she snapped. "There's an army out there. Use it."

Reed finally turned to her, voice quiet, calm and terrified.

"We can't stop them."

Valerie froze.

"What do you mean 'can't'? Are they suicide bombers? Terrorists? What if I'm the target?! I was already almost assassinated! Do something!"

Reed didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on the convoy. On the number plate of the lead vehicle.

"0"

Just one number.

But it was enough.

"They're from Zero," he whispered.

Valerie frowned. "Zero...? That's some old ghost project, right?"

She was trying to remember, something buried, and classified.

And then it clicked.

A buried program.

An off-book network.

Three divisions:

Pantheon Network – Intelligence.

Valkyrie's Command – Special Forces.

Gaia's Facility – Forbidden Research.

Led once by the infamous Gabriel—until his death, followed by a mysterious collapse. The entire structure had vanished… supposedly.

No longer affiliated with any nation.

No trace of funding.

No official recognition.

But Reed knew. And the others did too.

"They're backed by guardians," he muttered, his face pale. "And they answer directly to Atlantia."

Valerie stiffened.

Atlantia.

The Eighth Continent.

A mythical landmass that most governments still pretended didn't exist. A small island surrounded by hundreds of miles of empty sea—so empty, not even ghosts come near. No satellites, no aircraft, not even time dared near it.

And it was the home of the one they no longer named.

"The last president... The Orange Patriot!" Reed whispered. "He said the Prince's name… just once. In a private meeting."

"The next day… he and his entire family were found hanging upside down, bloody and skinned.. alive, their tongues pulled out and used to hang them from the ceiling… inside their own home"

"No images. No statements. No leaks. The government sealed everything."

"No one told you, Madam President."

"Because no one wanted you making the same mistake."

Valerie's blood went cold.

And now… Zero was here?

___

Meanwhile, in Macau...

Splash!

Anran shot out of the water like a dolphin possessed, coughing up pool water, eyes glued to the press conference on the underwater TV.

"Haaack—What the hell?"

She stared at the screen.

Stared at Valerie's face.

And then her expression changed.

Confused.

Angry.

Offended.

Enraged.

She stormed out, dripping wet, in a swimsuit and flip-flops.

"STEALING CREDIT?! ARE YOU HIGH?!"

She marched down the hall like a sea goddess going to war with a towel cape flapping behind her. This wasn't just a lie—it was betrayal.

They already knew about the rifts.

They had made pacts, treaties and alliances—with gods, monsters, and ancient powers.

This wasn't Country M's victory — It was Wang Xiao's plan.

And she had brokered it.

Now, some camera-hungry president was grabbing credit?

"Genocide. I want genocide. I want fire. I want nukes," she muttered.

BANG! BANG!

She pounded on the door like a demon.

"Mom?!" Wenxi opened the door, stunned. "Why are you—were you trying to kill the door?"

Anran stuck her head inside.

"Where's your father?!"

Wenxi blinked.

"…Uh. Not with us."

Why? Because Wang Xiao had found a new daughter to "reconnect" with last night.

That scoundrel.

Anran didn't wait.

She turned.

Marched out.

Paused.

And then—

Collapsed on the hallway carpet.

"…They left… without me?"

Wang Xiao. Ji Xuehong. Luna.

Gone.

Already en route to Country M.

To send a message.

Kill a chicken... Scare the monkeys.

The slaughter was coming.

Live. On. Television.

But Anran?

Was left behind.

"Why… is my life… so cruel…" she sniffled, facedown on the carpet.

________

Back at the White House.

BANG!

The heavy limousine door slammed open with military precision.

The first figure to step out was a man of Asian descent—sharp buzz cut, dark analytical eyes, a suitcase clutched firmly in his right hand. His movements were crisp, mechanical. He adjusted his suit, buttoned it with one clean motion.

But he wasn't the main event.

He turned, walked a few steps forward—and opened the rear door with a slight bow.

From inside, an older man emerged.

Hair streaked with gray.

Face lined with the weariness of someone who had seen too many wars.

His bearing was unmistakable—an old general, the type who led soldiers not with speeches, but with survival.

Behind them, the driver exited too—a straight-haired Japanese woman, expression cold and unflinching. Her tailored black suit couldn't hide the danger in her frame.

She was Amaya—still serving loyally under the old command, her silent steps shadowing the others.

The old man inhaled deeply, almost savoring the open air.

"Haaahh…"

After months secluded within the fortress of Prometheus in Atlantia, breathing free again was almost luxurious.

His sharp gaze scanned the assembled lines of soldiers, the rows of reporters, the glittering cameras, and the stiff figure of President Valerie K. Hawthorne, standing a short distance away behind her Secretary of Defense.

"Takashi," the old man said, voice low but firm. "You remember what to do."

"Yes, sir."

The young Asian man bowed slightly—Takashi Yamamoto.

One of the last survivors of the Frostholm Incident—a battle so cataclysmic it had turned an entire land radioactive, scattering souls like leaves before a storm.

Gabriel's self-destruction.

The collapse of the old world.

He had been there when the Valkyrie's Command fought against the Hell Spirits and Gabriel's forces.

Out of four battlefield commanders—only two survived.

Helena Krajci—the blue-haired nomad who retired, broken after losing her arm—and Takashi, who didn't retire.

He evolved.

Wisdom without strength meant nothing.

Takashi learned to see the bigger picture—but factor raw strength above all else.

Now, he was Second-in-Command of Zero—the iron hand managing what remained of humanity's true elite.

Takashi moved forward, his footsteps silent on the polished marble.

Security tensed instantly.

Soldiers shifted.

Guns raised.

CLACK!

Reed Halvorsen, the Defense Secretary, tried to step forward—to block him—but was shoved aside like a rag doll without hesitation.

Reporters gasped.

The soldiers aimed their rifles fully now, safeties off.

But Takashi didn't spare them a glance.

His eyes—cold, piercing—locked onto Valerie.

She looked like she wanted to say something—her lips parted—but no words came out.

And the moment the cameras whirred.

Finally—

Takashi spoke, voice flat, emotionless and final.

"No questions… until the Prince arrives."

The words echoed through the open grounds, so cold they left frost in the ears.

He didn't shout.

He didn't threaten.

He just stated it.

And it hit harder than any gunshot.

Because everyone knew.

There was only one Prince.

Only one whose very name was no longer spoken casually.

The Eighth Prince.

And now—

He was coming.

The moment filled in dead silence.

For half a heartbeat.

And then—

Pandemonium.

"Wait—wait—did he just say—?!"

"Prince? Which Prince?!"

"Are they talking about the Prince?!"

Reporters shoved forward, jostling each other, cameras swinging wildly.

"Are you referring to the Eight Prince?!"

"The one who—who annihilated the African Confederation!?"

"The Prince who erased the entire Sun Dynasty overnight!?"

"The same Prince who executed an entire sovereign government?!"

A woman from the BBC gasped into her mic.

"Confirmation needed—are we talking about that Prince? The one whose aid turned the Alaska into slaughterhouse?!"

Another younger journalist added, voice trembling:

"The Sun Dynasty tried to resist…Their entire Dynasty vanished."

A veteran news anchor shook her head in disbelief.

"Wasn't it the Prince who dismantled the Bermuda Alliance too? And handed their government leaders' heads to their own citizens?"

Someone at the back near the cameras cursed under their breath.

"What the hell is he doing here?! Why would someone like that come personally?!"

"If he's really coming—should we even stay?!"

The energy shifted brutally.

Some reporters still tried to maintain professionalism—clutching their mics, faces pale, sweat beading—but their voices wavered.

The bravest ones still shouted questions toward Takashi:

"Sir! What's your relationship to the Prince?!"

"Are you with his personal guard?!"

"Why is the Eight Prince coming here personally?! Is this a negotiation—or a declaration?!"

"Is he here for an alliance—or for an execution!?"

"Please—confirm! Are we safe standing here?!"

Takashi didn't respond.

He simply stood there.

Motionless.

Like a mountain awaiting an avalanche.

The rows of soldiers who had proudly flanked the White House earlier?

Their fingers trembled on their rifles.

Behind the stage, the security chief was sweating through his uniform.

"Do we scramble evac protocol? Do we move the President?"

Reed Halvorsen shook his head slowly.

"It's too late."

Near the fence line, a soldier murmured to his partner, voice shaking.

"I thought he was just a myth."

His buddy didn't even look at him—he just clenched his rifle tighter.

"He's not a myth."

"He's the nightmare of myths."

The senior White House aides were panicking.

Phones vibrating uselessly. No one dared to speak above a whisper.

Valerie K. Hawthorne stood frozen at the podium.

A mask of calm.

But her hands—white-knuckled—gripped the sides of the stand like she was holding onto her soul.

She turned slowly to Reed, voice barely audible.

"What do we do?"

Reed's answer was simple.

Dry.

Broken.

"We pray."