Page 15 of New World

Grak moved toward the pod, his massive hands running along its curved exterior, fumbling for a latch. His fingers slid over small dents, the scratches left behind from its emergency ejection. A flicker of frustration crossed his dull, glazed expression, but then his movements sharpened and he was wrenching the lid upward with a creaking groan of metal.

She stiffened when he paused. In the dim light, she could see his body tense. She didn’t need to see his face to know what he was looking at.

The ripped-out lining. The empty compartment where the survival gear had been. The evidence that someone had already been here.

A low, guttural chuckle slipped from Grak’s chapped lips, rolling into something darker. He turned, his body half-shrouded in the dim glow of the emergency lights—and spoke in English.

“I know you’re here.”

Mei’s fingers curled around the hilt of her katana.

“Come on, ancient one,” Grak coaxed, his eyes scanning the darkness. “The Legion is looking for the Ancients of the Gallant. They’d pay a damn fortune for you.”

Mei’s breath slowed.

Ancients of the Gallant.

The Legion.

Her mind filed away the information, but her focus remained on the immediate threat.

She watched as Grak’s thick fingers twitched, hovering near the weapon strapped to his belt.

Mei made her decision. She couldn’t risk him telling anyone else about the pod or her. Her mother’s soft words came back to her in haunting clarity.

“Let your enemy see what they wish to see. Someone who is weak, vulnerable, easily controlled. Then, strike with deadly precision. Do not give them a chance to understand what they are up against. And then become a shadow once more, because there will be others waiting. Those that are larger, more powerful than you, will always think they can control you, defeat you… but you are the viper. Small. Fast. Deadly.”

Her lips curved as her mother’s words flowed through her. She was small, fast, and deadly. She was the Green Tree Viper.

Grak’s eyes widened slightly when she stepped out of the shadows. Her mind calmed when a grin split his wide lips.

“Well, well,” he rumbled, his voice dripping with greed. “No one else on board knows about you or your pod. I would say this is my lucky day.” He rubbed his hands together, like a gambler with a winning hand. “And that, ancient one, makes you mine.”

Mei’s lips curved into a cool smile.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

And then—she moved.

Mei struck first. She stepped into his space, katana flashing upward with deadly precision. Grak barely had time to react—his body too sluggish, too slow—before her katana sliced through the air with a whisper of steel, parting fabric and skin in one seamless motion. The scent of blood—sharp, metallic—curled into her nostrils as Grak let out a guttural snarl, stumbling backward, his hand pressing against the thin, red line blooming across his chest.

Cursing, he fumbled for his weapon. Mei didn’t give him the chance. She sidestepped his wild swing, ducked beneath his reach, and drove her knee into his ribs.

A grunt of pain, but his thick hide and bone-structure made any physical contact with him pointless. Grak swung again, this time with more force.

Mei twisted, his fist grazing past her shoulder as she countered with a sharp elbow to his throat. He stumbled, gasping. She noted the weak spot.

He was bigger. Stronger. But she was faster.

Grak lunged, trying to grab her.

Mei pivoted, using his own momentum to flip him onto his back with a bone-rattling crash. He hit the floor hard, the air rushing out of his lungs. Before he could recover, Mei brought her katana up, poised to strike.

Grak froze. His bloodshot eyes darted to the blade hovering a breath from his throat. His chest heaved.

Mei stared down at him, unmoving for a split second before her hand moved with the grace of a dancer. The surgeon’s sharpness of her blade slid across the soft, vulnerable flesh.

She had been trained for this. Conditioned for it. And yet, the weight of the moment pressed against her ribs, as sharp as her blade. Not guilt. Not regret. Just the undeniable certainty that she had survived. Again.

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