The Calamitous Bob 234: Hellbringers (Patreon)

Mages peered up, distracted from their spells. Soldiers stole upward glances when they were not fighting. Archers and crossbow wielders sometimes felt the weight of mana on their shoulders. Knights rode aware of the death that could fall on them at any moment while commanders wondered if an errant attack would destroy the sons and daughters of their cities in single instants. Above the Plain of the Gods, demigods fought for supremacy. Oleander struck in seamless hurricanes of blade strikes, each one capable of cracking a mountain, each one either parried or blocked by an impenetrable shield of black mana. Meanwhile, the dragon/elemental pair threw back spells to shatter cities.

[Combined repertoire: meltdown]

A curtain of black and red mana scorched the very air, forcing Nero back. Though he tried to cut the spell, the fragments reassembled to cocoon him in a death embrace, forcing another set of strikes and a quick escape. 

[Combined repertoire: salvo]

A torrent of black mana spheres, tainted rocks, and dark fire spears expanded in a cone that spared nothing. It was dense enough that an insect could not have escaped. Nero parried what he could, the rest landing on his armor but a zip to the side and counter forced the two Harrakans to dodge. The battle resumed. 

“Desist!” Oleander screamed.

A mocking series of images replied to his senseless demand. A black dragon, fast and deadly. Wise. A paragon of flawless technique and control. A human with feathery wings like a farm creature, waving a stick around. The more experienced among them felt a voice in their head.

How in the name of all of Nyil did you dare attack Judgment with this pathetic swordwork?

How did you even presume you had a chance without that magical cheat stick?

Charlatan!

They moved at impossible speed over the battlefield, sometimes high, sometimes low, evenly matched, and everyone on the ground prayed that they would stay away, for they knew that proximity meant death.

***

Viv was not panicking but it was a close thing. Her mind was so focused on staying alive she didn’t even have the time to swear in French. Oleander was fucking monstrous. Even as a sixth step sword master he was out there. Endless stamina. Absurd speed. Every strike threatened to obliterate her. It just never stopped. Only her training, powers, fate-driven instincts and the persistent help from ‘Always a Chance’ and ‘Vive la Revolution’ kept her ahead of the onslaught. Truly Oleander was the “hidden boss of the DLC” as her friend Gevaudan would say. She had to use her true aspects even though it made her vulnerable because at this stage, having an immaterial body wouldn’t make a lick of difference. If he hit her, she was dead.

[True aspect of the Guardian]

[High Sequence: Triple Aegis]

Viv blocked another flurry of strikes, Arthur weaving between another two. He moved closer. She was ready.

[Meteor]

Her shield exploded in Nero’s face like a grenade. Fragments ruptured his skin, drawing blood. He cried, dashed back and carved the world with wild slashes. Arthur dodged another four in quick succession.

Lousy flier!

You know what flies better than you?

Fish!

Fish with wings!

I saw them; they exist!

Fish with wings fly better than you!

Nero roared. He used a skill. Spears of red energy surged towards them. She felt something guide them

[Remonstrance]

“Oh shit.”

Viv instinctively felt Arthur’s intent when the dragon flew directly at the attack that would surely mince them. She opened a portal in front of them and behind the attack, bypassing it completely but she felt her spell crack behind her. Nero’s attack had demolished it.

Arthur breathed fire at the surprised Nero, though he recovered very quickly. Arthur swiped him with a powerful wind blade that knocked him down. Viv was in range. 

[Guillotine]

A cage of concentrated annihilation closed on him. He failed to break the blade at his back.

Then Viv was through, and Arthur came around with a sharp turn. Nero hadn’t reacted. He floated above the field, face lost, fingers rubbing his back.

They came back red.

“I… bleed. I bleed?”

Had he lost it? A powerful cross of linked blasts forced Arthur to veer away.

“I bleed!”

His eyes turned to her. They were mad with rage but that was not what stopped her.

For the very first time, it felt like he truly registered her existence. He was really looking at her.

“You will regret this! [Shadow Dance!]”

[True Aspect of the Guardian.]

Arthur moved through the world with aerial grace, dodging strikes by a hair. Viv was focused on their backs to block what couldn’t be avoided. The shadow dance was strange, rich with fire mana that left a burning taste in her mouth. It was as if limbs grabbed at her between two sword slices. Nero was close. They weren’t going to make it. In a fit of inspiration, Viv switched to the offense.

[True Aspect of the Destroyer]

[High sequence: Hyperbeams]

Ray of pure black, too fast to miss at this range, hit Nero in the eyes. Only his abnormal reflexes allowed him to parry the blow.

[High Sequence: Astra Swarm]

He disappeared behind a deluge of exploding bubbles. Unfortunately the next attack broke through them.

“That thing can swallow a company,” Viv complained.

But he was after them again. Viv alternated between attack and defense, attack and defense. Switching aspects was tiring her mind, but fate guided her. She couldn’t let them be hit even once. Nero’s dueling wasn’t that much better compared to Solar. It was just more damaging and very, very persistent. She needed to do more. It wasn’t going to end like this, just as that asshole woke up with his bullshit god-given powers and despite his cracked soul. Pressure grew into pain behind her ears, more than she’d faced in a long time.

Mother?

She had to be able to face him. Fate needled her on. They would not back out.

“Keep going.”

You are in pain.

“Everyone is watching us, She-Who-Feasts-and-Collects. We can’t let them down.”

You are right, mother.

We can be tricky.

But dragons never run.

Except my brother!

Viv ignored that last part. The two of them turned for another faceoff. They went straight at him, surprising the champions. The pain hit something and then, fate coalesced in her chest.

This was it.

It is finally time. You knew this was coming. You have adopted one, slain two, befriended more. You have taken upon their fear. You have felt their magic. They respect you, and the strongest of them sacrificed his life so you could guide the two species closer. You have unlocked your fourth and final aspect.

[True Aspect of the Void Dragon: You gain access to all three aspects at a lesser power. You gain proper wings and the instinct to use them. You gain ‘scales’: your coating becomes extremely resilient in true form. You gain a breath attack. While transformed, fate mana becomes easier to perceive.

Black mana ballooned in and around Viv. She looked at Nero. Her confidence surged as the power around her rose to a crescendo. 

***

Nero had difficulty processing how the bitch wasn’t dead yet. He was pouring everything he could into killing her but she was such a stupidly hard nut to crack. Worse, he was bleeding. And he wasn’t healing. Not as fast as he should. There was something terribly wrong with her spells, the way they made his danger sense scream. Danger sense was a skill he hadn’t had a use for since the Shadowlands. Now it wouldn’t stop. He dodged another hell of sharpened stone loaded with black mana. Something was happening. He could feel it in his blood.

The witch was changing. Her armor was expanding, merging into a wide form. The anchors on her back lengthened, thickened. Scaly skin covered them until they formed wings that reminded Nero of Judgment, black as night. The wing caught them with a clack. They mirrored the dragon’s much larger wingspan. 

The witch blocked his next assault with much more ease, and she managed to counter at the same time. Now a continuous barrage of spells smashed into his form, adding minor injuries to his skin through the ravaged armor. He was on the backfoot. His inspection skills nudged him. 

Harrakan mother-daughter dyad. Danger level: disaster.

Nero frowned. Surely, not to him? They couldn’t kill him, right? 

Something cracked in the mask of bored, absolute certainty that had led his actions since he had begun his conquest.

He couldn’t possibly die, right?

***

Finally.

“Maybe the moment is poorly chosen?”

Oh but humans can’t grow wings.

Oh but that’s not how my skills work.

Oh but you have to wait, daughter.

So many excuses!

I always told you. What did I say?

“We’re fighting for our lives here!” Viv screamed, blocking yet another blade while Arthur dove under two others.

I said if you eat enough meat and believe in yourself, your wings will grow, and what happened? Hmmm?

“Daughter!”

I was right! 

I am always right! 

I said you needed proper wings and for ten years you ignored me and now you have finally grown proper wings just as I said you should and would!

“You’re going to be so insufferable…” Viv moaned.

I am always riiiiiight!

In her heart, Viv couldn’t really be mad. Arthur was right. Dragon wings were fucking badass. Even if they were just the canards to Arthur’s much larger wings for now. She didn’t know shit about aerodynamics but surely, it would help?

In front of them, Oleander caught a boulder in the face.

“I have had enough of this!” he erupted.

Obviously fed up, Oleander dove towards the Harrakan lines. Viv and Arthur dove after him but not too fast. Only one thought burnt through Viv’s brain.

She needed, needed to trust her allies. She also needed a break to replenish her reserves. ‘A light that never dims’ was working overtime to heat up her core. More mana that she’d ever wielded thundered through her conduits. And still, it wasn’t enough to match Oleander. She needed the pause.

Her friends were elites in their own right. They deserved her faith.

Oleander veered down towards the Enorian army of all people, which was fine. Sidjin could handle any location on the battlefield. The champion of Maranor threw a slash at the shield protecting King Sangor and his son. His attack was stopped but he broke through the magical membrane to land in front of them. The shock of his arrival threw dust and grass in the air, and the bodyguards in disarray. They couldn’t stand against his aura.

When the dust settled, both men stood facing him with their blades in their hands.

“You traitors are nobodies. You will die nobodies,” Nero spat. 

He threw a contemptuous slice. To his surprise, a growing briar blocked most of his attack, and what remained was stopped by both men working together on a decent parry. He didn’t have the time to strike again. Danger screamed for him to move. He did. An instant later, a titanic claw swiped the air where he had stood. He struck back and was blocked by a sword as tall as most spears. He was now standing in front of a titan of steel and silverite, mask carefully engraved to show vague contempt. 

The golem pulled back and took a defensive guard. Oleander’s mind worked hard. He was stronger, but the witch was coming. Did he have the time? Should he try to kill one, then flee? The golem barely managed to block his next thrust, but the follow up was blocked by yet another sword emerging from a portal.

The witch or one of her servants was teleporting elites around the battlefield to slow him down. Redoubling his efforts, he realized he could simply not break through the new man’s defenses. Only after a few quick exchanges did he realize that his own strikes were stopped by an artifact.

“You… the sword…”

“Lots of raw power in this body of yours,” the man replied conversationally. “Not a lot of spirit. Barebone technique. You’ve been relying on brute force for too long, right? Let me show you real fencing, boy.”

The man disappeared, accelerating beyond anything Nero would have thought possible. Only his skill and a centuries of battle experience allowed him to turn and block — and even that failed. The blade caught him in the ribs, near the heart. His armor did almost nothing to stop it. Pain carved a narrow line along his rib, and then he was pushed out and rolling on the ground.

Nero stood back up immediately but the mysterious man was still standing where he was. He then jumped back to avoid a black meteor, then flew away, hand reaching for his flank. He was wounded. It wasn’t closing very fast. Cracked ribs too, perhaps.

But still, he was alive.

“I am The Immortal. You cannot possibly kill me,” he growled.

His intimidation lashed out, only to hit a wall of absolute certainty that shielded even those behind. The man returned to the default stance for the old Baranese dueling style as if he wasn’t facing a demigod. Nero was sure of it: this man was impossibly good.

“I may not be able to kill you, boy, but I will watch you die with great pleasure.”

Nero wished he could hone his skill against his foe. Unfortunately, he had other concerns. There were no more spells coming from his side, which meant something was wrong with his mages, and he needed to find out what. As he landed among his confused troops, Crest appeared. He looked freshly healed but his robes still bore the marks of combat.

“Report,” Nero ordered.

“Our mages have fallen to some illness. They have terrible rashes, and they cough like their lungs is on fire. There is blood. The healers are doing their best, but as a result, our losses…”

A shadow fell over Oleander. It was the most uncomfortable sensation he’d experienced in recent memories. Even Judgment strikes had not stung so painfully. 

It was doubt.

“Pull back for now. Night will fall soon. We will resume our attack tomorrow.”

“As you will.”

***

With all the grace of a king among blade masters, Eron sheathed his sword. The artifact hummed contentedly after drinking the blood of an Ascended. He let out an anxious breath.

“Neriad’s bollocks, this blow would have skewered a gods-cursed dragon.”

//Durability assessment: impossible.

He and Junior watched the human-fowl hybrid fly away on twilight wings. 

“We can slow it down, but how do we even defeat that?”

//She will find a way.

//There is always one.

//Even if it means grinding him bit by bit.

Horns blew. In front of them, the Maranorian retreated, leaving many dead behind. The sun was setting on the first day of battle.

Param still stood.

***

It was night. Lak-Tak surveyed the battlefield in front of him with immense satisfaction. Where fallow fields waited before, now it was a pit of craters and corpses striated by the damage of potent spells and skills, a truly apocalyptic scar on the face of Nyil, a show of what destructive power left behind. And he was a major contributor. And it was just the beginning. 

He ignored the squads of Sisters of Enttiku collecting the bodies, as well as the roving bands of hadals on their way to a good night out. They knew not to approach the central area of his main target.

The Maranorian army was camping five leagues away, covering the land like lice. He felt personally insulted that they would think themselves safe at such a short distance.

“What are we waiting for?” his second in command clicked.

Lak-Tak took a deep breath of smokey air charged with the pungent scent of human blood and offal. 

“The empress reminded me that the Maranorians are starving, thus, we should wait until they are cooking but before they eat for maximum impact.”

His fellow yries nodded slowly, large eyes shining with the understanding of the empress’ endless petty malice. Truly a worthy leader. He had killed more humans under her command than the rest of the yries race had done throughout history, he believed. The world, the Deep One, was watching him. It was molding him, just like the dead god molded the humans.

“Report.”

His second bowed.

“Thermobaric shells loaded, sir. Calibrations required.”

Lak-Tak signaled to his radio girl. The shivering human looked at him with eyes full of fear.

“All batteries, fire spotting rounds. Sound alert!”

The radio girl and other human servants protected their ears. He pulled the cord of his own gun. A deafening explosion followed. Pretty little red flowers bloomed in the distance: a perfect triangle around that son of a depth worm Oleander and his disgusting tent. Gaudy thing. He sighed with satisfaction.

“Forward observers report that the target has been suitably surrounded, sir,” the radio girl squeaked.

Lak-Tak liked it when the humans called him sir. Also, he didn’t need the forward observers. The Maranorian shitstains were close enough that his eyes would do.

“My brothers,” he intoned. “The time has come! Join me in holy communion!”

With jolly hoots, the yries swallowed globules of blue rose and fire wasp honey — not much since the empress kept complaining. He shoved a clean spoon under the nose of the radio girl.

“Safe dosage. Try it.”

With widened eyes, the girl hesitated, but other human servants accepting the communion convinced her. She gasped after only a few seconds.

“By the light gods, it’s… it’s all around us! Is it the world? Is it alive?”

“Contemplate later, radio human. First, convey the rest of my orders.”

Extended arms reached for the sky to mimic the hallowed limbs of the deep one. A hooting cry pierced through the night. They were only waiting for him to announce the beginning. Lak-Tak grabbed the speaker with tears of emotion rolling down his hairy cheeks. It was the most beautiful moment of his life.

“My brothers, and you humans I guess, rejoice! All praise the deep one! All praise logistics! And all praise Harrak! All batteries,” he choked out. “Fire for effect.”

The night became day. Smoke trails turned the heavens above the Maranorian camp into a foggy cloud. On the third volley, the basic shield above Oleander’s massive tent failed. On the fourth, it was a raging inferno.

“Objective destroyed, sir!” the radio girl exulted. “Should we keep firing?”

“Of course we keep firing, but not on the tent. All batteries commence barrage fire on scheduled positions.”

The concentrated fire stopped. Three wide bands of flaming death expanded in several directions away from the wreck of Oleander’s sleeping spot. 

“A shell for every human,” Lak-Tak whispered. “A life for every bloom.”

***

The column of heavily armed temple guards walked quietly. It had been several minutes for the voices of dissent to quiet down, since those death tubes had started delivering carnage at the positions they’d just left.

The captain didn’t like where this war was heading, however, Neriad had always said that war was a terrible tool that could only be used for righteous causes. He didn’t feel qualified to criticize a nation fighting for its survival, especially since they had not targeted civilians yet. That aggression, however…

Sensing something, the captain raised a fist. His column stopped as one. Shields rose. Weapons were made ready. He looked around.

In a craggy hill in the distance, sisters of Enttikku piled bodies in a cart. They looked absolutely exhausted.

This wasn’t it.

Then he saw it. One of those bald fuckers in thin black armor was standing nearby, his yellow eyes impassive behind a stoic mask. A similar woman with thin black hair combed back joined him, then another. Several dozen of those hadal creatures popped out of nowhere all around. 

The captain’s inspection revealed they were still young — mostly second and third steps. He was surrounded but not outnumbered, and certainly not outclassed. It wouldn’t matter if the death tubes spotted them. With a huff of annoyance, the captain stepped forward.

“I am Captain Jet, with the Sheem Temple of Neriad. My business is with your dark mistress. We are not here to fight. Let us through.”

For a moment, there was silence. Tension rose. Behind him, mana stirred as templars prepared their skills. And then the hadals started disappearing, again, one by one, until only the first was left. And then he, too, was gone. They hadn’t uttered a single word. 

“Let’s keep moving.”

***

In the in-between, Viv shook her soul to find two hovering, planet-sized ones nearby. The first was immense and radiated golden light. The second, much smaller, shone a delicate purple. It was lean and sad but comforting, like a hug after grieving, like watching rain falling through a window. Both bobbed when she noticed them.

She found herself sitting in the middle of Neriad’s garden shed. The sun shone on his training arena right outside and the thousands of swords planted there. Efestar quietly poured her a glass of wine.

Viv crossed her not-arms.

“To what do I owe the honor?”

“Ahem,” Neriad began with obvious embarrassment. “You know I’m your patron god and I like you very much, yes?”

“Out with it.”

“I would like, that is, as the god of righteous war…”

“It’s about the gas isn’t it?”

“I would very much ask you to stop using mustard gas. Yes.”

“Goddammit.”

One could escape Earth, but not Geneva.

“Look,” Neriad continued. “It’s unnecessarily painful and horrible to behold, even more so than most other weapons. I know that you are fighting for survival and I know what your shell production looks like. You don’t need to gas the Maranorians. Even though it’s a little bit funny. The mages who live will block gas from now on anyway. Please? For me?”

“You’d better incarnate if all goes wrong or something.”

“Viv.”

He placed his massive himbo hand on her shoulder. His golden eyes shone with a benevolent radiance.

“You don’t need me. Kick ass.”

***

Viv had caught a wink — maybe half an hour of rest before her attention was needed again. Her monstrous stats meant she wasn’t tired yet and wouldn’t be for a long while. Nevertheless, she missed those days when disturbing her with bullshit was punished by a prompt defenestration. She was growing mellow in her old age.

“What is this time?” she grumbled. “Are the yries off their tits again?”

“That would hardly be news, your majesty. No. Viziman templars of Neriad wish to talk to you,” Bes smoothly announced. “Since they appeared with their gear and part of their baggage, I assume they intend to switch sides.”

“Oh, well. Can’t look hundreds of third step career warriors in the mouth, really. Lead on.”

She walked outside of her bunker — clearly visible tents were for dumbasses. Her villainous vizier took her right side, hands folded behind his back like her cursed shadow. His and Lady Azar’s relationship was remarkably spiky, mostly because they didn’t trust each other at all. 

“Squads of hadals are attacking peripheral army formations, milady. They report success.”

“I hope they don’t collect trophies. Rumors of cannibalism might start.”

Bes leaned forward, dark eyes peering into her soul.

“An excellent suggestion to lower enemy morale, milady. I shall convey your remarks.”

“Not but, like, seriously.”

It took a good five minutes to walk through layers of fortifications and security checkpoints simply because she couldn’t fly and leave Bes behind. The two of them arrived in front of the last layers of wall to find a good four hundred heavily armed warriors standing in sullen silence. Viv directly stomped towards the apparent leader — a grumpy old man with a mace as big as Marruk’s. He looked at her without fear.

“Good evening. You wanted to speak to me?” Viv asked in Viziman.

“Yes. I am captain Jet, elected leader of those templars behind me. All of us came here because King Oleander told us that you were a necromancer.”

Nestra frowned.

“I’ve done some really dubious stuff in my days, but I never dabbled in necromancy. Unless you count regrowing limbs but then I can only do it with divine help from the light gods.”

“If the light gods allow it,” the Viziman replied with a little snark, “I believe I shall do so too.”

“Right. So, you joining?”

The captain’s brows rose. He exchanged a few whispers with his subordinates. 

“Can you swear on your soul?”

“I never practiced necromancy in the sense you mean, with Enttiku as my witness.”

Technically it was the Goddes of Death who had reanimated Abe, not her. The oath settled easily. The temple guards exchanged glances.

“We thought it would be harder,” Captain Jet admitted.

“Oleander is a twat. We’re here to stop him. Welcome to the team.”

Suddenly, a cloaked figure appeared next to Viv. She wasn’t surprised, but Jet and Bes almost jumped out of their skin. The mask emerging from the darkness was one of contrition.

“Irao?”

“I made a small mistake.”

Viv gave a long-suffering sigh.

“You tried to stab Oleander, didn’t you?”

“... no.”

“After I expressly told you not to do it.”

“I didn’t stab him. I threw a knife at his back. While he was distracted putting down fires.”

There was silence. Viv crossed her arms, frankly unamused.

“Irao.”

“No time. It didn’t stick. He is on his way here.”

The old assassin’s mask turned thoughtful.

“He sounded in great pain.”

“Gods dammit Irao. Alright. You guys better go directly to the priest village with the other templars. Bes will show you the way. Irao, we’re not done with this discussion. Arthur? Arthur!”

She flew up. Captain Jet watched the empress’ advisor walk away.

It wasn’t what he had expected.

“Well?” the vizier asked, voice dripping with condescension. “Are you waiting for a formal invitation, perhaps?”

Above them, the two Ascended deadlocked themselves into a running duel until dawn chased 

***

“Things went well yesterday,” Jaratalassi began. “Today we will face Oleander’s more experienced troops. I expect them to attack the more vulnerable elements of our formation: the wings.”

“My people will stand,” Marruk said with absolute certainty.

“I’m less worried about the kark. Barran and the merl endured the brunt of the enemy’s assault yesterday. The Hopecrusher will sense that blood has been spilled. We need to shuffle the formation a little.”

“If I may,” Orkan said.

The inquisitor now stood with confidence, his twin blades sheathed at his side. Viv appreciated how much he had grown since Denerim had become the avatar of Neriad all those years ago. Now, the Hallurian warborn had gained the serenity required to wield his talent with calm. Early gray hair at his temple served as reminder of the cost of using his tattoos — though he seemed otherwise fine.

“The Templars of Neriad cannot give them all in the streets of the priest village. The yries do not need us to hold it. We would perform better on flat ground. Baran could contract their formation to allow us to position ourselves between them and the merl, on the left flank.”

Viv watch the way the yries tribesmen’s ears twitched. Today, one of the larger female yries stood among their leaders. A powerful shaman, from her aura.

“We will honor the agreement,” she clicked. “We will fight. Help us if we bleed.”

“Then it’s decided. The templars will hold the flank of the merls,” Jaratalassi concluded. “Before we finish, do you have any comment on yesterday?”

“Our pakar need more water,” Marruk said. “The constant attacks makes them overheat.”

“The artillery is too slow to answer attacks in our sector,” Queen Rosea added.

Jaratalassi listened to all, backed by efficient administrators. Supplies were moved and formations were adjusted as the Paramese alliance learnt to work together better. 

***

Nero has failed for the first time since the hangings. The thick cloud of disinterest he’d been cruising on opened and dispersed, but of course, this is no longer his home world and the clouds can’t get thick enough for that here. He has failed to defeat the witch decisively. He has failed to do so because… because…

Because it was two on one. It was unfair. 

Here he was, fighting for the future of mankind, for order, for this light-forsaken world. Here he had sacrificed everything he had in order to make people stop squabbling, to unite them for a peaceful future where humans didn’t wrestle in the dirt with beastlings for scraps of what nature had to offer, and for what? He stood alone. Who could he rely on?

Absolutely fucking no one. 

All those who followed him milled around doing fuckall while he flew in and fought. Their enemies were blind enough to ally with subhumans and flying lizards. They were unconscionable race traitors. And who did he have on his side to oppose that? Incompetent idiots. Well. That ended today.

“Is this the elite of humanity? Is this what the champions of Maranor aspire to?” Oleander spat at the assembly gathered before him.

Crest looked down with the rest of the leaders, except the sneering Shadowlanders who had yet to seriously fight. In a way, it was the most human Oleander had felt in decades. That fire, that anger, albeit misguided. It was that old energy again. The same that had carried them through so much hardship. It had taken a lot to awaken it, but now it was there.

“They’re the last defenders of the last city of the last kingdom to resist us. They’re already doomed, so why are you hesitating?”

Crest knew why they were hesitating. The first day had gone in a catastrophic way. They had no official numbers but there were thousands of fatalities and many more still wounded. The Enorians and some templars had defected, brought in by lies and coercion. More importantly, they had seen Oleander move in and he had not won. He had been pushed back. The two champions seemed evenly matched.

“Get out there and fight. Heroism will be rewarded in the kingdom, after we have peace. Cowardice will not be forgiven. When this is all over, I will remember each and every one of your contributions. This is your one chance to be on the winning side of history, so get out there and take it.”

And Crest would do his best for the last time. And after that he was done.

***

It was morning. The second day of the battle for mankind was about to begin. Viv didn’t have to wonder what was going to happen this time. There would be no probing attacks, no stupid tricks. No politics. Nero flew at the head of his army, his best soldiers carefully spaced and protected by elites and mages. Behind them, his own cadres had formed a tighter dome protection and this time, there would be no gas attack. The Maranorians still had faith in their cause. More importantly, they had no choice. Without supplies their backs were against the wall.

Viv had always been told to leave her enemies a way out, or the illusion thereof. No one fought as fiercely as a cornered rat. But she also needed Nero to draw the Slayer, as Judgment had advised, and for that, she had to squeeze him.

He flew closer and she rode out to meet him, clashing over the hellscape of the battlefield before the armies could. His armor was no longer as pristine as the day before. Ash tainted his appearance, perhaps from the destruction of his tent, or perhaps from a deeper, more metaphysical response. Paradoxically, he felt more alive than before, even in the way his mouth twisted into a rictus of hatred.

“How many more people must die before I can kill you?”

“You know, five more days like yesterday and I’ll have absorbed or killed your entire army.”

“I’ll rip your fucking head off.”

Viv’s face turned into a sneer of anger. She let that fury flow through her veins. Her intimidation spread like a wave of heat.

“Remember. You brought this upon yourself. The pendulum’s swinging back and I’m gonna ride it like a wrecking ball. Welcome to the find out phase, Nero.”