He didn't need the music to continue. He had memorized the beat.
The air in the Phobos base didn’t just smell like ozone and spent brass anymore; it tasted like static. He didn't need the music to continue
Thirty minutes in, the Slayer realized the rhythm was his pulse now. He stopped using his guns. The Super Shotgun was too slow for this tempo. He switched to the Doomblade, his movements becoming a blur of choreographed violence. He wasn't just fighting; he was conducting. Thirty minutes in, the Slayer realized the rhythm
The VEGA system had glitched. The anthem of his carnage was stuck in a temporal feedback loop, the same sixty-second window of earth-shattering bass and screaming industrial metal playing over and over. He switched to the Doomblade, his movements becoming
As the hour mark approached, the Slayer stood atop a pile of charred chitin and cracked skulls. The loop reached its final, most aggressive peak. The air around him began to glow—not from Argent energy, but from the sheer friction of his intent. The music finally cut to silence.