4 YEARS AGO
Two kilometers of no man's land separated the Imperial Forward Base Kestrel from a labyrinthine stretch of Raxian-controlled ravines. In that blighted strip of charred earth, a sizzling hail of plasma fire cascaded over a shimmering barrier of light.
Vylaas crouched at the center of the maelstrom, right hand extended, left braced against scorched earth. The transparent dome of energy radiating from his palm vibrated with each impact. Around him, a platoon of Imperial soldiers huddled in the meager shelter of the barrier, weapons drawn, faces etched with exhaustion. Beyond the dome, broken terrain offered little cover—just fractured rock and the blackened stumps of what had once been forest.
"They're flanking east!" A sergeant shouted over the barrage, voice tinny through his helmet's comm. "Coming through the ravine!"
Vylaas didn't turn his head. "I see them."
He felt rather than saw the approaching squad—twelve Raxian shock troops using the ridgeline as cover, their heat signatures blooming in his tactical overlay like crimson ghosts. Maintaining the forward barrier with one hand, he swept his left arm toward the eastern approach, fingers curling as if grasping something invisible.
The ground beneath the advancing Raxians rippled, seemingly solid rock becoming momentarily fluid. Not enough to kill or maim—just enough to upset their balance, to break their charge. Several stumbled; one fell. Their neat formation shattered.
"Chimera," Vylaas subvocalized through the neural link, "eastern barrier, thirty seconds."
Eastern approach covered. Combat analysis suggests you're operating at 73% efficiency. Consider rotating the primary barrier twenty degrees clockwise to optimize coverage against the current barrage pattern.
Vylaas adjusted without reply, feeling the strain in his shoulders ease slightly as the barrier shifted. Sweat trickled down his neck despite the environmental controls in his armor—lighter than standard combat gear, reinforced at vital points but designed for mobility. The white-and-blue field medic insignia on his shoulder plate was visibly scorched.
A gap opened in the enemy fire. Not surrender—just a pause to adjust their aim, to bring heavier weapons forward.
They're moving a Harbinger unit into firing range, Chimera warned, highlighting a massive heat signature in the tactical display. Estimated time to target lock: forty-five seconds.
Vylaas exhaled slowly, focusing on the barrier. "Tell me something I don't know."
I've identified seventeen different indigenous insect species unique to this region that—
"Not now," Vylaas muttered, a ghost of a smile crossing his face despite everything.
The Imperial soldiers opened fire, providing cover as their comrades began a controlled retreat. Vylaas remained in position, maintaining the barrier until the last soldier had moved. Only then did he begin to back away, one careful step at a time, keeping the shield between his troops and the enemy.
A sudden surge of energy—bright, coherent, deadly—lanced toward them from the Raxian lines. The Harbinger had fired early, its particle beam cutting through the air with a sound like tearing metal. Vylaas pivoted, left hand rising to meet the attack. He couldn't deflect that much energy—not directly—but he could redirect it.
The beam struck his secondary barrier and curved, its trajectory bending like light through a prism. Instead of cutting through the Imperial line, it carved a smoking furrow into the already scarred earth twenty meters to their left.
The energy feedback from that particular trick burned through Vylaas like wildfire in dry brush. His muscles trembled as the particle beam's raw power flowed through him and into the ground. His connection with Chimera flickered momentarily—a dangerous sign.
Mana reserves at thirty-seven percent, Chimera reported, voice staticky in his mind. Serious residual damage detected in your left arm.
Vylaas felt it—nerve endings screaming as the beam's bleed-through scorched pathways through his body. His teeth clenched so hard he tasted blood. The barrier wavered like heat haze over hot pavement.
"I'm fine," he lied between heaving breaths.
You have several micro-fractures in your radius and ulna. Your definition of 'fine' is alarmingly imprecise.
Another barrage hit the barrier. Vylaas's knees buckled. The world tilted sideways.
"Just... have to… keep the shield up," he whispered.
Another salvo of plasma fire washed over the barrier. Vylaas felt the impact in his bones, a jarring resonance that made his teeth ache. The shield flickered, its edges wavering.
"Sergeant Kell," he called, "prepare to fall back to the secondary position!"
The sergeant, a veteran with salt-and-pepper stubble and a prosthetic eye, nodded sharply. "Sir, if we give up this ridge—"
"We'll hold the valley mouth," Vylaas finished. "More defensible. Narrower front. This is too archon's damned exposed!"
A sudden movement caught his eye—a Raxian soldier breaking cover, sprinting across open ground. Not toward them, but parallel to the line, heading for a better firing position. Without thinking, Vylaas extended two fingers, a pulse of concentrated force leaping from them toward the runner.
The energy struck the Raxian in the ankle, lifting him off his feet and sending him tumbling. Not enough to kill—just enough to incapacitate. The soldier landed hard, rolled, and lay still.
"Sir!" One of the soldiers called out. "Movement, northern approach!"
Vylaas turned, already extending his awareness. What he felt made his blood run cold—not a squad this time, but a full company, at least sixty Raxian soldiers converging on their position.
They're attempting to encircle us, Chimera observed unnecessarily. If they succeed, retreat to the secondary position will become untenable.
Vylaas made a swift calculation. "Sergeant Kell, adjust heading. We're moving southwest, using that ridge for cover."
"Southwest?" Kell frowned. "But the secondary position—"
"Is compromised," Vylaas finished. "We need to circle around. Take the long way back."
The sergeant hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Yes, sir. You heard the prince—southwest, double time!"
As the soldiers began to move, Vylaas expanded the barrier, stretching it to cover their new path. The strain was immediate and intense, like hooks pulling at his skin. Maintaining a stationary shield was difficult enough; expanding it while moving required exponentially more focus and energy.
They'd gone perhaps twenty meters when the Harbinger fired again. This time Vylaas barely had time to react, throwing all his concentration into the barrier. The particle beam struck the shield dead center, its energy splashing across the surface like water hitting stone.
For three agonizing seconds, the barrier held. Then, with a sound like shattering glass, it began to fail, fracturing into jagged shards of light.
"Down!" Vylaas shouted, dropping to one knee. As the barrier collapsed, he reached deep, pulling mana from reserves he usually left untouched. With a surge of Willpower he rallied his [Dauntless Bastion Spirit], willing his usual domain—what he thought of as his Bastion's aura to change. This technique was still untested, but he had developed it far enough to gain acknowledgment from Demiurge.
[Spiritual Domain: Ripplewarp Redoubt]
The air around him shimmered, distorting as if seen through heat haze, and took on a faint cobalt sheen that intensified with proximity to Vylaas.
The remnants of the particle beam, still carrying enough energy to vaporize armor, twisted in mid-air. Its coherent light scattered, dispersed into a thousand harmless motes that rained down around the Imperial soldiers like harmless fireflies.
Vylaas felt something warm and wet on his upper lip—blood from his nose, running freely now. The strain of such precise manipulation took a toll, even with Chimera helping to distribute the load.
You've overextended, Chimera cautioned. I recommend immediate disengagement.
"Not an option," Vylaas replied through gritted teeth. He pushed himself back to his feet, swaying slightly before finding his balance. "Sergeant, keep moving. I'll cover the rear."
Kell hesitated, eyeing Vylaas's bloodied face. "Sir, your condition—"
"Is irrelevant," Vylaas cut him off. "Move. That's an order."
As the soldiers resumed their retreat, Vylaas turned to face the advancing Raxians. They were closing rapidly, emboldened by the collapse of the main barrier. The leading elements were less than a hundred meters away now, close enough that he could make out individual features through their faceplates—determined eyes, set jaws, the look of soldiers who believed victory was at hand.
Defensive options limited by current energy reserves, Chimera reported. Recommend focused application rather than broad-spectrum barrier.
Vylaas nodded, already formulating a plan. He couldn't maintain another full dome, but he didn't need to. What he needed was to slow them down, to buy time for his soldiers to reach better cover.
He spread his hands, palms facing outward, and exhaled slowly. The air in front of him shimmered, not with a solid barrier this time, but with dozens of small, concentrated distortions—spatial lenses, each no larger than a dinner plate, floating at various heights and angles.
Within this modified domain, he had far greater control over the spatial and warp affinities that he could access through Chimera, and the cost of such abilities was split between his Mind and Spirit. This amount of complex shield work would normally be taxing not just his Mana but his Focus as well—but he could feel the burden on his mind lessening as his Resolve helped pick up the slack.
The approaching Raxians hesitated, clearly unfamiliar with this defensive formation. Then, apparently deciding it posed no threat, they resumed their advance, weapons at the ready.
The first plasma bolt struck one of the lenses and ricocheted, its trajectory altered by the spatial distortion. It struck the ground harmlessly. A second bolt hit another lens and reflected back toward the Raxian line, forcing the soldiers to scatter.
Vylaas began to back away, maintaining the field of lenses as he moved. Each incoming shot that struck a lens was redirected—some into the ground, some into the air, some back toward the enemy. Not with lethal accuracy—Vylaas was careful to ensure the reflected shots landed near the Raxians, forcing them to take cover, but not directly on them.
Clever application, Chimera observed. Though continued manipulation at this level will accelerate neural fatigue.
"Just need to hold them for five more minutes," Vylaas replied, his voice strained. "Until our people reach the ridge."
A Raxian grenade arced through the air, its trajectory bringing it down behind Vylaas's lens field. Without hesitation, he closed his right hand into a fist, creating a localized spatial compression around the grenade. The explosion was contained, its force directed upward in a thin spear of fire and smoke rather than outward in a lethal radius.
The effort cost him. His vision blurred momentarily, the world swimming in and out of focus. He staggered, nearly losing his concentration on the lens field.
Vylaas, Chimera's voice held an unusual note of concern. Your neural activity is approaching dangerous levels. If you continue at this intensity—
"I know," he cut her off. "Just a little longer."
The Raxians were adapting now, targeting the ground beneath the lenses rather than the lenses themselves. Explosions erupted along the perimeter of Vylaas's defense, throwing dirt and stone into the air, obscuring visibility.
Through the dust and smoke, a Raxian soldier charged, having circled around the lens field. He was young—painfully young, his face visible through a cracked faceplate, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination. His rifle was raised, aimed squarely at Vylaas's chest.
Time seemed to slow. Vylaas could have killed him easily—a focused pulse to stop his heart, a spatial distortion to tear him apart molecule by molecule. The power was there, waiting to be used.
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Instead, he extended his left hand, fingers splayed. The ground beneath the charging soldier shifted subtly, creating a barely perceptible dip. It was enough to throw off his balance, sending him stumbling forward. As he fell, Vylaas twisted his hand, creating a gentle vortex of controlled force that caught the soldier, spinning him away from the Imperial line and depositing him roughly but safely back toward his own forces.
The young Raxian landed in a sprawl, clearly dazed but unhurt. He looked up, confusion replacing the fear in his eyes as he realized what had happened—and what hadn't happened.
For a brief moment, their gazes locked across the battlefield. Vylaas saw recognition dawn in the soldier's eyes—not of his identity, but of his intent. Then the smoke closed between them, breaking the connection.
The ridge is secured, Chimera reported. Imperial forces have reached defensive position.
Vylaas exhaled slowly, relief washing through him. "Begin final withdrawal. Maintain the lens field as long as possible."
He started to back away, keeping his focus on the defense even as he retreated. The Raxians pressed forward, but cautiously now, wary of the unpredictable reflections from the lens field.
They were nearly at the ridge when the Harbinger fired again. This time, Vylaas had no warning—just a sudden, searing light cutting through the smoke. The beam struck one of his lenses and split, fragments of deadly energy scattering in all directions.
Vylaas threw up his hands, creating a final, desperate barrier—not around himself, but around the nearest Imperial soldiers who were still exposed. The shield formed just in time, deflecting a portion of the scattered beam that would have cut through their position.
The price was steep. Pain lanced through Vylaas's mind, a white-hot spike driving into his consciousness. The lens field collapsed entirely, the carefully maintained spatial distortions dissipating like smoke in a high wind.
Focus and Resolve critically depleted, Chimera's voice seemed to come from very far away. Hang on, Vylaas. Help is coming.
Vylaas felt himself falling, his legs no longer able to support him. The world tilted sideways, the sky and ground changing places in his vision. He was dimly aware of hands grabbing him, of being dragged backward toward the ridge.
"—the prince! Get him to cover!"
"Medic! We need a medic here!"
The voices faded in and out, disconnected from any sense of time or place. Vylaas tried to speak, to tell them he was fine, that he just needed a moment to recover, but his mouth wouldn't obey his commands.
A face swam into view—Sergeant Kell, his expression grim. "Hold on, sir. Just hold on."
----------------------------------------
Vylaas strode down the polished corridor, fingers tugging at his dress uniform's high collar. The fabric still smelled like antiseptic from the medical ward he'd left twenty minutes ago.
"This timing isn't coincidental," he muttered.
"Statistical analysis confirms your suspicion," Chimera replied inside his mind. "Summons arrived 3.2 minutes after your discharge was processed."
Vylaas smoothed a wrinkle from his sleeve. His body still ached, the skin beneath his uniform mottled with fading bruises. He'd barely had time to shower before the message arrived—urgent meeting, full dress protocol, immediate attendance required.
"They're making a point," Vylaas said. "Letting me know exactly where I stand."
He checked his reflection in a passing viewport. The face looking back seemed older, harder than he remembered. His hair was regulation-neat but hastily combed.
"Their power play lacks subtlety," Chimera observed.
"That's the point of power plays," Vylaas responded. "They're not supposed to be subtle."
He straightened his shoulders, adjusted the collar that constantly seemed to press against the thin scar at the base of his skull—the physical reminder of Chimera's integration point—and pushed through the double doors.
The transformation of the typically utilitarian space hit him immediately. Imperial banners hung from support struts, their black and silver fabric rippling under recirculated air. The central tactical table had been pushed aside, replaced with a small raised platform. The room's usual harsh lighting had been softened, focused now on the dais where a gleaming commendation plaque caught the light. Rows of chairs held a carefully curated audience—mid-ranking officers and support staff, enough to make whatever was happening official, but not enough for true public recognition.
Security protocols have been escalated within this room, Chimera observed. Detecting multiple high-clearance communications signals. Three recording drones currently active.
Vylaas scanned the assembled faces as he walked down the center aisle. Captain Baineth sat rigidly in the front row, her usual confident posture replaced by something approaching discomfort. Beside her, Colonel Merrick maintained a calculated stillness, his weathered face betraying nothing. The rest of the audience shifted in their seats, a mixture of curiosity and something else—anticipation, perhaps, or unease.
"Prince Orestes," Captain Baineth rose as Vylaas approached, her use of his formal name immediately setting off warning bells. "Thank you for joining us promptly."
"Of course, Captain," Vylaas replied, keeping his expression neutral. "Though I admit I'm somewhat confused by the timing of this... ceremony."
"Following protocol," she said crisply, though her eyes flickered briefly toward Colonel Merrick. "If you would take your place on the dais, we can begin."
Vylaas stepped onto the small platform, positioning himself as indicated. From this vantage point, he noticed additional details he'd missed initially—the tactical displays around the room weren't showing current battle maps but instead footage from the ridge engagement, carefully edited and looping on mute. The recording drones positioned themselves to capture multiple angles, their red indicators blinking steadily.
This is being documented extensively, Chimera noted. Far beyond standard commendation procedures.
Captain Baineth stepped forward, datapad in hand. Her voice carried the stilted quality of someone reciting words not their own.
"Today we recognize Prince Orestes Vylaas Tylwyth for exemplary service during the Kestrel Ridge engagement," she began, her gaze fixed somewhere just above Vylaas's head. "His unconventional battlefield tactics and exceptional spatial manipulation abilities resulted in the preservation of valuable Imperial assets and personnel."
The tactical displays shifted in unison, now showing footage of Vylaas maintaining his energy barriers, deflecting incoming fire. Vylaas noted the careful editing—moments where he had chosen to incapacitate rather than kill enemy combatants were minimized or absent entirely. Instead, the focus remained on his defensive capabilities, on barriers and shields rather than force projection.
"Prince Orestes demonstrated remarkable adaptability under extreme duress," Captain Baineth continued, "utilizing his unique abilities to ensure the safe withdrawal of Imperial forces from an untenable position. His actions directly saved thirty-seven Imperial lives while inflicting minimal casualties on enemy forces."
The slight emphasis on "minimal" wasn't lost on Vylaas. Neither was the flash of genuine emotion that crossed Baineth's face—a flicker of something that might have been respect, quickly suppressed.
"For these actions, High Command has authorized this commendation for Tactical Innovation and Preservation of Imperial Resources."
She lifted the plaque from its stand and presented it to Vylaas with formal precision. He accepted it with equally practiced poise, feeling the cold weight of the metal in his hands.
"Thank you, Captain," he said, offering the expected response. "I'm honored to serve the Empire in whatever capacity I can."
Baineth nodded stiffly and stepped back, visibly relieved her part was concluded.
Colonel Merrick rose then, his movements smooth and deliberate. He was a tall man with iron-gray hair cut regulation short, his uniform adorned with the precise number of decorations to indicate authority without ostentation. His presence immediately changed the atmosphere in the room—where Baineth had projected discomfort, Merrick exuded absolute certainty.
"Thank you, Captain Baineth, for that excellent summary," he said, dismissing her with courteous efficiency. He turned to face the assembled audience, positioning himself beside Vylaas. "Today's commendation, while certainly deserved, is merely prelude to a more significant announcement."
Vylaas maintained his neutral expression, though inwardly his wariness intensified.
His heart rate and micro-expressions suggest this is a rehearsed performance, Chimera observed. He has practiced this moment.
"In recognition of Prince Orestes's demonstrated capabilities," Merrick continued, his deep voice filling the room effortlessly, "High Command has authorized a special assignment directly approved by King Ariston himself."
He gestured toward one of the tactical displays, which shifted from battle footage to a new image—a massive war machine that dwarfed the human figures visible beside it. Vylaas recognized it immediately: a Titan-class weapons platform, specifically the K-17 'Colossus,' one of the Empire's most destructive assets. The holographic display rotated slowly, highlighting weapon emplacements, armor plating, and mobility systems with pulsing indicators.
"The K-17 Titan has been deployed to Sector 8-B to counter the recent Raxian offensive," Merrick explained, his tone suggesting he was sharing privileged information with trusted confidants rather than making a formal announcement. "However, recent engagements have demonstrated certain... tactical limitations in its current operational parameters."
The display zoomed in on the Titan's massive forward weapon arrays—the Mark-VII Heavy Railgun System mounted along its spine, capable of punching through bunker walls, and twin-linked Hellfire Plasma Projectors built into its forearms that could melt through armored vehicles like butter. The scapula-mounted Thunderstrike Rotary Autocannons swept across the display, designed for anti-personnel carnage across a wide arc. Shoulder-mounted missile launchers completed the primary offensive loadout.
"The Colossus wasn't designed for surgical precision," Merrick continued, his fingers manipulating the display to highlight the crushing fists and kinetic impact hammer. "It was built to break sieges, demolish fortifications, and create terror. Effective, but lacking... nuance."
Vylaas studied the war machine's schematics, noting the firepower concentrated in its massive frame. Every weapon system screamed one purpose: destruction at scale.
"Prince Orestes," Merrick turned to face Vylaas directly now, "your innovative defensive applications on Kestrel Ridge have inspired High Command to reconsider the Titan's potential. Your unique abilities as a wielder of a Chimera weapon, if applied to Titan warfare, could revolutionize our approach to large-scale engagements."
Vylaas felt the trap closing around him with elegant precision. Each word Merrick spoke wove another strand of the web—emergency need, unique capability, patriotic duty—creating an inescapable narrative.
"The Empire faces critical challenges in Sector 8-B," Merrick continued, his voice dropping to a grave register that nonetheless carried to every corner of the room. "The Raxians have deployed three of their Harbinger units, and civilian evacuation remains incomplete. Conventional tactics have proven insufficient. We need innovation. We need vision."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the audience before returning to Vylaas.
"We need you, Prince Orestes, to bring your considerable talents to bear in service of the Empire's most urgent defense."
Vylaas observed the reactions rippling through the assembled officers. Some appeared genuinely impressed, nodding along with Merrick's speech. Others showed subtle signs of foreknowledge—they'd been briefed, prepared for this moment. A few, mostly those who had served alongside him at Kestrel, betrayed flickers of discomfort, recognizing the fundamental disconnect between Vylaas's demonstrated principles and this assignment.
"I'm honored by High Command's confidence," Vylaas replied, his voice steady and appropriately grateful. "The Titan program represents the pinnacle of Imperial military technology. May I ask about the training schedule? I understand Titan integration typically requires extensive preparation."
He's watching your response carefully, Chimera noted. This is a test.
"An excellent question," Merrick nodded approvingly. "Under normal circumstances, Titan pilot integration requires six months of simulator training before actual interface. Given the urgency of our situation, we've developed an accelerated program. You'll begin tomorrow and deploy to Sector 8-B in two weeks."
Two weeks. Barely enough time to learn the basic controls, let alone master the complex systems of a war machine designed for maximum destruction. The timeline wasn't just aggressive—it was nearly impossible, setting him up for failure before he began.
Analyzing Titan specifications, Chimera reported, processing the data visible in the holographic display. Primary design emphasizes area-effect weapons with minimal precision targeting capability. This platform is engineered specifically for maximum destruction rather than defensive application.
"I see," Vylaas said, maintaining perfect composure. "Will I have access to the Titan's technical specifications tonight? I'd like to prepare as thoroughly as possible."
Merrick smiled—a gesture that never reached his eyes. "Of course. You'll have full access to all relevant data. Your dedication is precisely why you were selected for this prestigious assignment."
He activated his datapad and transferred a file to Vylaas's neural interface. "These are your formal orders, countersigned by Field Marshal Duvall and King Ariston himself. High Command will be following your progress with great interest."
The trap was beautifully constructed, Vylaas had to admit. Use his demonstrated abilities to justify placing him in control of a weapon of mass destruction. Force him to either become the weapon they wanted or fail catastrophically. Either outcome served their purpose—a compliant prince or a disgraced one.
"I will endeavor to exceed expectations, Colonel," Vylaas replied, accepting the orders with precisely calibrated gratitude. "The Empire's security must come first in these critical times."
"Well said, Prince Orestes," Merrick nodded, seemingly satisfied. "This ceremony is concluded. Officers, please return to your duties."
As the audience rose, several officers approached the dais, offering congratulations with varying degrees of sincerity. Captain Baineth caught his eye briefly, her expression unreadable before she turned away. Most gave him the standard felicitations one offered to someone receiving a prestigious assignment, though a few—those who had fought alongside him—seemed to struggle with finding appropriate words.
"An honor well-deserved, Your Highness," said a lieutenant whose name Vylaas couldn't recall, though he recognized him as one of Merrick's aides. "Your escorts will show you to your new quarters."
Escorts. Not guides, but escorts. The distinction wasn't subtle. Two military police officers stood by the door, their posture suggesting they were there to accompany rather than merely direct.
They're concerned about your reaction, Chimera observed as Vylaas walked toward the exit. The increased security measures suggest they anticipated potential resistance.
"They should be," Vylaas subvocalized, his external expression remaining pleasantly neutral as he nodded to officers he passed. "They just handed control of one of the Empire's most powerful weapons to someone they don't trust."
A paradoxical decision, Chimera agreed. Unless the objective is not success but failure.
"Or perhaps," Vylaas thought as he reached the military police officers who flanked him immediately, "they've miscalculated entirely."
The doors to the Grand Briefing Hall closed behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss. Ahead lay two weeks of impossible training and then deployment to one of the war's most active hellzones. Beyond that, either submission or destruction—at least in their planning.
"Prince Orestes," one of the military police officers said, "if you'll follow us to your new quarters."
"Of course," Vylaas replied pleasantly. "I'm eager to review the Titan specifications. After all, I have so much to learn about my new assignment."
As they walked through the corridors of Forward Base Kestrel, Vylaas kept his stride measured, his expression composed. Let them think they had him cornered. Let them believe their trap was inescapable.
They had just given him control of a Titan-class war machine—and he had no intention of using it the way they expected.