When Riku confird the summoning, a magic circle appeared before him, and slowly, the helicopter KA-50 erged.
"Woah."
The first thing that ca through was sound—an electronic hum that prickled against the inside of his skull, as though the System itself was weaving reality into shape. The circle pulsed with light, runes cycling in concentric rings, each rotation carving form out of air. tal skeletons blinked into existence: struts, pylons, the backbone of the fuselage. Then armor plating slid into place, polished black and nacing. Stub wings stretched outward, loaded with rocket pods and missile racks that clicked into being one after another like pieces of a nightmare puzzle.
And finally, the twin rotors. Two massive sets of blades overlapped above the fuselage. It was different compared to other kinds of helicopters that had a main rotor and tail rotor.
The Ka-50 was imposing in a way the Apache wasn't. Where the Arican gunship looked like a predator bristling with muscle, this Russian machine carried itself like a blade forged for killing. Sleek, single-seated, its angular armor looked less like plating and more like the shell of a shark. Its nose, slanted and sharp, held sensors and optics that seed like unblinking eyes. Every angle radiated nace.
Riku circled it once.
His fingers brushed along the cold skin of the fuselage. He traced the stub wing and stopped at the loadout: two pods packed with rows of S-8 rockets, each capped like sleeping warheads waiting to breathe fire. Beside them, the long rails of Vikhr anti-tank missiles—slender killers that could punch through any vehicle or armored barricade. Mounted beneath the starboard side, the 30mm Shipunov 2A42 cannon sat idle, its feed chute tucked like the jawline of a beast.
And on the outer hardpoints, slim rails held the Igla-V missiles, compact spears designed to swat anything that dared approach from above.
The cockpit canopy glead faintly under the fading light. With a push of a switch on the fra, the glass hatch unlocked with a hydraulic hiss. It rose upward, revealing the pilot's throne.
Riku climbed in.
The seat molded to him, high-backed and cushioned with armored bolstering. Between his knees rested the bright yellow handle of the ejection system—single-use, ant to be pulled only if death was seconds away.
His hands went to the controls as if by instinct. Cyclic in his right hand, collective lever to his left, pedals beneath his boots. Every inch of it familiar, not because he had ever flown before, but because the System had burned knowledge into him. The sixty points he had poured into Piloting weren't numbers—they were mories he hadn't lived. Muscle mory, neural shortcuts, checklists as natural as breathing.
"Alright…" His voice was steady now. "Pre-flight."
He reached to the overhead panel. Battery—on. Avionics blinked to life with a chorus of beeps and clicks. The HUD shimred across the canopy, painting symbols in pale green: artificial horizon, compass heading, altitude zeroed to ground level.
Fuel pumps—on. Pressure needles climbed into the green. Hydraulic systems—engaged. He pushed the cyclic forward gently, and the stick trembled under his hand as servos whined, alive.
"Engines," Riku whispered.
His thumb pressed the start switch for the first Klimov turboshaft. The APU spun up first, a thin whine that grew sharper, feeding life into the main turbine. A second later, the engine coughed and caught, fire roaring into the compressor, blades whirring in a rising howl. Gauges spun upward—RPM climbing, oil temperature stabilizing, exhaust gas temp settling in range.
The second engine followed, mirroring the first. Now the sound was no longer a whine but a roar, twin turbines thrumming through the cockpit, vibrating up Riku's spine. The coaxial rotors above him began to turn, slowly at first, then faster, until the night filled with the chopping rhythm of steel carving air.
The Black Shark shook dust off the overpass. Debris rattled across the concrete, and the Rezvani rocked against the downwash. Riku's heart hamred with every revolution.
"Hydraulics green, fuel stable, engine temps normal." His eyes flicked across the gauges, hands moving without hesitation. "Weapons check."
He tapped the console. The Shipunov cannon whirred softly as it cycled, its reticle painting itself on the HUD, ready to track wherever he pointed. He toggled through pylons—rocket pods, loaded and ard; Vikhr missiles, twelve, link stable; Igla missiles, four, standby.
"All systems nominal."
He took a deep breath.
The cyclic tugged in his palm, eager. The collective under his left hand thrumd, waiting for command.
"Ti to fly."
He pulled gently, easing the collective upward. The rotors bit deeper into the night. The Ka-50 rose. First a tremble, then a lift. The skids parted from the asphalt, and the entire machine floated, steady as a hawk.
The overpass fell away beneath him. The Rezvani shrank into a toy. It was damaged anyway so he'd abandon it. The city spread outward, a scarred map of broken streets, hollow towers, and fires still smoldering in the distance. The Ka-50 carried him upward, higher.
"Hana… I'm coming," he whispered, eyes narrowing at the horizon.
He tilted the cyclic forward. The Black Shark surged ahead, cutting through the air like a knife.
But the sound of the rotors of the helicopter attracted unwanted attention. Zombies down below were stirred from their stupor, their heads snapping upward as the thunder of the blades rolled over the city. They poured into the streets, clawing at each other, swarming toward the noise like moths to a fla.
Riku glanced down, the HUD magnifying the chaos below—hundreds of figures shuffling, sprinting, gnashing their teeth at the sky. His grip tightened on the cyclic. For a second, the temptation burned hot in his chest: to unleash the cannon, to rain fire and erase them all. But no—his mission wasn't here.
He leveled out, eyes fixed eastward, toward Tokyo Bay. Toward the resort. Toward Hana.
The Black Shark surged ahead.
"Hold on," Riku whispered, jaw clenched. "I'm coming for you."
And with that, the hunt began.
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