ELAND
The battlefield below wavered, a fractured mirage under the weight of Blake’s impossible shot. Eland’s gaze, sharp and unrelenting, absorbed every fragment of the scene, each detail etched with almost painful precision. Dust motes hung suspended mid-motion, as if time itself had faltered, caught in the wake of reality's brief unraveling.
Eland focus locked on the northern wall of Rax’s compound, or what was left of it—a grotesque tapestry of mangled metal, its remains twisting through space like the shattered veins of some mechanical beast. His [Paleoclast Mind] cataloged the chaos with merciless efficiency, preserving every jagged edge, every flicker of distortion, in perfect clarity.
The wreckage pulsed, alive with residual spatial energies, each surge tripping alarms in his neural interface. Crimson warnings scrolled across his vision, their urgency almost a physical weight pressing against his awareness. Eland dismissed them with a practiced flick of his will, though unease coiled at the base of his neck. The air itself seemed wrong, saturated with raw, untamed power that buzzed against his senses like an electric storm just waiting to break.
Remarkable. Eland fine-tuned the sensitivity of his vision with a deliberate pulse of mana, sharpening his focus on the destruction before him. The raw force on display was staggering for someone of his tier, but the precision—threading spatial manipulation so deftly through those precise structural weak points—was something else entirely.
"His control is admirable for his level of advancement," Zephyr noted through their private channel. "Though the mana expenditure readings are concerning."
Eland hummed in agreement, his massive frame shifting slightly as he tracked the movements of Rax's forces through the chaos. The scavengers scattered like insects whose nest had been kicked over, their previously orderly patrol routes dissolving into panicked improvisation. Eland could see the tell-tale glow of cybernetic augmentations beneath their ragged armor - and something else, something that made his instincts prickle with unease.
A sickly purple glow threaded through the augments of Rax's fighters, a signature that made Eland's stomach turn. He'd seen that energy pattern before, back when he'd tracked artifact smugglers through the Outer Rim. That particular flavor of spiritual rot belonged to Malrik's work—crude but effective grafts that turned desperate people into disposable weapons.
"Zephyr, run a spectral analysis on those emissions."
"On it," she replied curtly. She knew Eland's history with the Aeon.
Eland's throat tightened. A century hadn't dulled the memory of what Malrik's "volunteers" had become—flesh and metal fused into screaming abominations that begged for death even as they attacked. The fact that his influence had reached this backwater meant something worse than Rax's petty tyranny was taking root.
"We need to adjust our approach," Eland said. "If the Grafter is in play, none of this pageantry matters."
A cry of pain cut through his thoughts. Eland's head snapped toward the sound, his spiritual senses flaring. There—near the breach, partially buried under a section of collapsed wall, a rebel fighter struggled weakly.
He moved without hesitation, using his Ecliptic Stride to cover meters with every step. Golden light began to emanate from his hands as he approached, telekinetic energy gathering in precise measure. The debris shifted under his influence, lifting away from the injured fighter with careful control.
"Hold still," he said softly, kneeling beside them. "Let me check for spinal damage before we move you."
The fighter—barely more than a teenager, Eland noted with a pang—stared up at him with wide eyes. Blood trickled from a cut on their forehead, but his quick scan showed no critical internal injuries. Just shock and some nasty bruising.
"You're... you're the offworlder," they whispered. "The one working with Mara."
"Indeed." Eland retrieved a medical kit from his belt, selecting an appropriate combination of healing compounds. "This may sting slightly, but it will accelerate tissue repair and reduce inflammation."
As he worked, he sensed movement behind him. A minor flex of his Resonance and Perception, and he saw it—a shadow detaching itself from deeper shadows, weapon raised. One of Rax's scavengers, trying to take advantage of his apparent distraction. Eland was certain he had more Perception than anyone on this battlefield by at least 40 points. There would be no sneaking up on him.
He continued his ministrations without turning, but his mind raced through options. The scenario rules prevented him from striking first, but perhaps...
He shifted his weight slightly, telekinetic energy ghosting out to probe the unstable pile of debris nearby. A subtle push here, a gentle nudge there... The scavenger took another step forward, and the precariously balanced wreckage chose that moment to collapse with a thunderous crash. Eland heard a curse and scrambling footsteps as his would-be attacker retreated.
"What was that?" The injured rebel tried to sit up, but Eland's gentle pressure kept them still.
"Just some settling debris," he said smoothly, finishing the application of medical compounds. "The structural damage is still propagating through the area. Now, let's get you somewhere safer."
With meticulous precision, Eland cradled the injured fighter in a web of telekinetic support, ensuring their weight was evenly distributed to prevent worsening their wounds. Each step away from the breach felt like progress, yet his thoughts circled back to the infuriating rules that had bound his hands. The restrictions grated against him like a dull blade, but he couldn't deny their purpose. Someone of his power level intervening outright would tip the scales too far, and the Aeons—those meddling entities wagering on the fates of mortals scurrying through this war—would not take kindly to such a disruption.
Still, seeing Blake wield such overwhelming force while he himself was shackled by the need to hold back gnawed at Eland. The tension churned within him, a clash between the primal urge to protect and the cold logic of adhering to the rules.
"Your stress levels are spiking," Zephyr's voice chimed through his thoughts, laced with her usual amusement. "Are these ridiculous rules chafing that hard?"
Eland clenched his jaw, wrestling down the surge of irritation her teasing tone sparked.
"The rules exist for a reason," Eland murmured under his breath as he carefully settled the wounded fighter onto a cot in the hastily arranged medical station behind rebel lines. His tone was steady, but the words tasted bitter. "Our role is to guide and support, not to fight their wars for them."
"Even when their wars come at a higher price than necessary?"
Before Eland could respond, a series of explosions rocked the battlefield. His enhanced vision picked out the source immediately—a fuel depot near the compound's center, its containment systems compromised by the cascade of failures Blake's attack had triggered. The blast wave approached with devastating speed, threatening to shred the dozen rebels caught in its path.
Eland's hands snapped up without conscious thought, golden energy surging forth to form a curved barrier of pure force. The explosion struck it, its ferocity dissipating harmlessly against the shimmering shield. His expression remained calm, untroubled, as the barrier absorbed the impact with unyielding strength.
That was big, he thought. He had missed what had caused the explosion.
The shield glimmered faintly but maintained its integrity without strain, effortlessly containing the blast until it had fully dissipated. With measured control, Eland lowered his hands, his senses confirming what he already knew: the rebels' life signs were stable. They were safe.
"Nice defense," Zephyr commented. "Though I note you didn't hesitate to intervene there."
"Defensive actions are permitted," Eland replied, already moving toward his next objective. "And—"
Pain lanced through Eland's arm like molten metal, drawing a sharp hiss from between his teeth. Black and gold lines traced up from his fingertips, following the paths of his veins in a sickening display. His neural interface screamed warnings of foreign energy infiltration, but he hardly needed the alerts to know something was wrong.
The agony pulsed in perfect synchronization with his heartbeat, each throb a reminder of his transgression. Through eyes narrowed against the pain, he saw the text materialize before him:
[ Careful, Professor Tur. That was pushing things. ]
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The warning carried serious weight. Eland recognized the signature of an Archon's power—it was as inviolable as the Demiurge itself. And if Aureon was able to act against him, he had indeed crossed the line. The System wouldn't allow the Chronicler to injure someone otherwise. The message faded even as the pain began to recede, black and gold lines retreating like tide marks on a shore.
His arm trembled slightly as the last traces of punishment ebbed away. The meaning couldn't have been clearer if Aureon had appeared personally to deliver it. The rules of the scenario were absolute, and even defensive actions had their limits. He'd crossed that line, and the Archon had been watching.
"Eland, are you-" Zephyr's voice carried a rare note of concern.
"I'm fine." Eland flexed his fingers, testing the mobility of his arm. The pain had faded completely, leaving only a phantom memory of that burning rebuke. He resumed his stride across the battlefield, trying to leave the memory of those burning veins behind him.
The message had been received. He would be more careful about the limits of his involvement. For now, observation would have to suffice.
He paused mid-stride as his spiritual senses picked up life and movement from a partially collapsed bunker nearby.
"Please," one of them whispered, voice cracking. "We didn't... we didn't want any of this."
He focused, marshalling his Willpower and Intent, until he could identify the trapped soldiers. They were Rax's men.
Eland stood very still, aware of the weight of the moment. The tactical choice was clear—even unarmed, they represented potential threats. They could relay information about rebel positions, or retrieve their weapons once he passed. The safest option would be to neutralize them, even if only temporarily.
But he could feel their fear. It was the same fear he'd witnessed on countless worlds torn by conflict...
"There's a maintenance tunnel thirty meters east," he said quietly. As he spoke, threads of gold lifted debris from the injured soldiers. "Follow it to the outer perimeter. Once you're clear of the fighting, head for the neutral settlements in the south. Don't stop until you're well away from here."
The young scavengers stared at him for a long moment before struggling to their feet. They shuffled past him without looking back, their footsteps fading quickly into the background chaos of battle.
"An interesting choice," Zephyr observed.
"I've made enough of the hard choices in my time," Eland replied, resuming his movement through the battlefield. "I've earned the right to show a little mercy."
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Eland kept his massive frame still in the shadow of a fallen hull section, golden energy held in careful check as he observed the unfolding carnage. A knot of Mara's fighters—six of them, all showing signs of exhaustion—had become pinned down by three of Rax's enhanced warriors. The disparity in power was painfully clear. Where the rebels moved with purely human speed and precision, their opponents blurred between positions with unnatural grace, cybernetic limbs gleaming with that sickly purple light he'd noted earlier.
His Perception picked up the minute details: the way the enhanced fighters' movements followed unnaturally perfect arcs, the faint whine of overtaxed servos, the barely-visible flickers of unstable mana discharge around their augmentations. This wasn't just crude implementation of technology—it was dangerous. The integration between flesh and machine strained against fundamental limits of human physiology. These warriors were burning through their own life force to maintain their enhanced capabilities.
A rebel fighter went down with a cry of pain, clutching a shoulder torn open by hypersonic projectiles. The sight made Eland's massive hands clench, golden light briefly flickering around his fingers before he forced it down. The scenario rules bound him like chains of crystalline logic: no direct intervention unless attacked. He could not simply reach out and crush these abominations of technology and flesh, no matter how his instincts screamed for action.
But there are other ways to influence a battlefield, he reminded himself, mind already racing through possibilities. His eyes swept the architectural mess of the compound, analyzing stress points and structural weaknesses. The scenario rules prevented direct attacks, yes—but they said nothing about environmental manipulation.
Two more warriors emerged from a side passage, moving to flank the rebel position. Eland's spiritual senses reached out, probing the unstable wreckage above them. A precisely calibrated pulse of force—barely enough to register on any sensors—and tons of twisted metal came crashing down, blocking the reinforcements' advance.
The impact sent vibrations through the entire structure, dust and debris raining down in thick clouds. Eland seized the opportunity, weaving threads of golden light through the particulate matter. The dust began to swirl in strange patterns, creating flickering mirages of movement that drew the enhanced warriors' attention away from their prey.
"Precision working," Zephyr commented through their link. "Though I note you're skating very close to the line of what's permitted."
Eland kept his silence, his attention locked on the delicate intricacies of his next move. One of Rax's fighters pivoted sharply, eyes narrowing on a particularly convincing illusion conjured by Mara’s team. Eland seized the opening, threading a near-invisible pulse of telekinetic energy into the fray. The fighter’s weapon—a heavily customized plasma thrower—jerked imperceptibly as it struck an unseen plane of force, the impact nudging it a mere two centimeters off course. The adjustment was so subtle, so precise, that the soldier didn’t register the shift until they squeezed the trigger. The blazing burst of plasma went wide, missing its mark entirely.
The rebels were adapting quickly, using the confusion to reposition. Good. They weren't lost in panic or paralyzed by their opponents' overwhelming advantage. Eland felt a flutter of pride at their resilience, even as he continued his delicate manipulations of the battlefield.
A fallen section of wall here, rising at just the right angle to provide cover. A piece of debris there, floating briefly into a line of fire. Each intervention measured precisely against the scenario's restrictions, walking the knife's edge between assistance and direct involvement.
But one of the twisted cyborg soldiers—their leader, judging by the more extensive modifications visible through torn armor—was beginning to notice the pattern. Their head snapped toward Eland's position with inhuman speed, cybernetic eyes glowing with that corrupt purple light.
"There!" The voice was distorted, more mechanical than Skaeldrin. "The alien! He's manipulating the battlefield!"
The leader charged toward Eland's position with terrifying acceleration, cybernetic legs propelling them across the debris-strewn ground faster than any unaugmented Skaeldrin could normally move. The sight would have been impressive if it wasn't so grotesque—the warrior's modifications were clearly overtaxed, leather-like skin splitting around glowing purple circuitry with each explosive movement.
Eland stood his ground, finally allowing his carefully contained power to manifest fully. Golden light blazed around him like a nascent sun, casting harsh shadows across the battlefield. The scenario rules were clear: once directly engaged, he could defend himself. And this scavenger was very clearly about to attack him.
"You!" The leader skidded to a halt about ten meters away, servos whining in protest. "I've seen your kind before—beings who think they're above the rest of us, hiding behind their tricks and illusions instead of facing us directly!"
Eland blinked, genuine confusion breaking through his combat focus. Did this fool truly not recognize what he was? The power differential between them was vast—even with their cybernetic augmentations, these warriors were barely operating at the level of a novice cultivator. And yet...
The warrior didn't wait for a response, charging forward with a roar that was equal parts man and machine. Purple light blazed along their arms as they swung a mono-molecular blade in a deadly arc. The attack was technically perfect, optimized by combat programs and enhanced muscles to strike with maximum force and precision.
Eland didn't move. Instead, he simply reached out with a carefully measured burst of telekinetic force, catching the blade mid-swing. The warrior's momentum carried them forward another step before the resistance registered, their augmented strength straining against Eland's power.
"Your conviction is admirable," Eland said quietly, golden light pulsing as he maintained the telekinetic barrier. "But these modifications you've embraced... they're killing you. Surely you must feel it?"
"Shut up!" The warrior disengaged, cybernetic legs coiling before launching them into a blindingly fast series of strikes. Each attack came from a different angle, each powered by straining servos and burning circuits. "We will see our people elevated! What would some outsider know about—"
The sentence cut off in a grunt of pain as one of their arm modifications sparked violently, purple light fluctuating. Eland saw the opening and took it, not out of aggression but mercy. Golden energy wrapped around the warrior's cybernetic limbs like restraining bands, immobilizing them mid-attack.
"I know more than you might think," Eland replied, his tone remaining gentle even as he began his work. With precise applications of telekinetic force, he began dismantling the warrior's augmentations. Not violently—he took care to minimize tissue damage as he separated machine from flesh. The purple light flickering through the cybernetics grew erratic, then began to fade.
"No!" The warrior thrashed against his hold, but their strength was already fading as each modification went offline. "You can't... I need that arm! I need—"
"What you need," Eland interrupted, completing his work with a final pulse of golden energy, "is to remember your who you were before this all started."
The last cybernetic enhancement went dark, leaving the warrior swaying on unsteady legs. Their eyes—natural eyes now, the gleaming purple replacements having been carefully removed—were wide with shock and something close to relief. Before they could collapse, Eland reached out with his telekinesis one final time, delivering a precise strike to a cluster of nerve endings.
The warrior crumpled, unconscious but very much alive. Eland lowered them gently to the ground with his power, already scanning the battlefield for his next necessary intervention. The remaining warriors had noticed their leader's fall, but seemed hesitant to press the attack. Perhaps seeing their supposedly invincible commander so thoroughly defeated had shaken their resolve.
"Technically within the rules," Zephyr noted, her tone carrying a hint of approval. "Though I suspect Aureon might find reason to object if you repeat that performance too often."
"Sometimes the most important victory," Eland replied softly, watching as Mara's fighters began to press their advantage against the demoralized warriors, "is showing an enemy there's another way."
The golden light around him began to fade as he relaxed his stance, but his senses remained sharp. The battle was far from over, and there would likely be more difficult choices ahead. But for now, he had found a balance between the scenario's restrictions and his own principles. Sometimes the most effective intervention wasn't about raw power—it was about showing others the cost of the path they'd chosen.
And the cost of dealing with Malrik the Grafter and his poisoned gifts was never one worth paying.