Denizens of the Ravaged Lands felt the coming of a sandstorm. Some thought it was just superstition, but when you live in the region for dozens of years, you pick up habits. There is pure dread when Ravager of the Dunes passes near a settlement, hunting down some fools in the middle of the night. Unexplained anxiety at the tremors that follow the mating rituals of the sand reapers. And finally, a kind of longing for a safe haven when a storm is coming.

Sandstorms in the Ravaged Lands were nasty things. Descending in a torrent of destruction, their initial impact would smash every caravan and everything alive against the mountainsides. But even those who had managed to hide from the stream of darkness bearing down on them were not safe. Sand would pour down their respirators, clogging the air circulation system. The howling wind will send sharp pieces of stone against your clothing, tearing it and rubbing sand into freshly made wounds. And woe to anyone slow enough to stop the bleeding in time, for insectoids will pick up the scent from miles away, calculate the target's location, and descend upon the unfortunate travelers to feast.

Chort felt that very longing as he lay beneath the rubble, listening to the footsteps coming from the half-collapsed corridor. Even here, on the lowest level of this long-abandoned base of the Old World, he felt the storm coming. It had humbled him before, at the beginning of his career. Since then, it has instilled in him a never-ending respect.

The ancients knew how to build their things. If the records of the Old World were correct, this place had withstood a missile barrage capable of vaporizing a medium-sized island and still stood no worse for the wear. Its corridors were only partially collapsed, leaving gaps wide enough for a person to slip through; a few elevators still worked, but barely; and generators within the facility emitted small bursts of energy, sometimes illuminating corridors filled only with silence.

Scavengers came and went, ripping away anything of value and falling down to reach the generators. The bodies of the dead personnel had long since decomposed, leaving only dust as a reminder of the once proud people who worked here. By all rights, with the lack of maintenance and the fierce sandstorms scratching the surface, this complex should have either collapsed or fallen victim to a passing sand reaper.

And yet it stood, outlasting the land for which it was built and the legacy of its people. A single reminder of the greatness that once ruled these lands. Its tunnels may have cracked, but the alloy covering the stairs and walls refused to rust. The structure of the complex endures, shielding the data centers and terminals within long enough for researchers to find them and download the information, along with the names of all who died here.

This information has illuminated the darkness of this complex's final moments. Instead of trying to hibernate or shield themselves, these men and women did their duty. Not by fighting back. No, that was the duty of the dead man's switch system. The soldiers here used countless defensive installations and flying machines to fire at the oncoming death, giving their all and revealing their location in a desperate attempt to intercept some of the world-shattering loadout and ensure that someone, somewhere would survive the incoming apocalypse. They were killed not by a beam or a missile, but by the exotic weapons of the Old World, which fried their insides. The last of them, a mere technician, whimpered at the sight of the blinding, fiery explosions devouring his homeland and said prayers, begging God to spare the humans.

To honor those lost, a memorial plaque was placed on one of the top floors, listing all the names and asking anyone who sought shelter from the storm to respect their spirits and legacy. Three hundred years later, people still remember their names. That kind of legacy made Chort's heart beat faster than ever when he first saw that tablet decades ago. Slavers, his target that day, who had once made the place their base, tried to smash it for fun, and Chort snapped, slaughtering them all in a very unprofessional manner.

Rather than quietly picking off the bastards one by one and honing his skills, Chort came at them like a devil, twisting limbs, pulling out bones, and breaking skulls. He acted with behavior more worthy of a street brawler than a member of the Wrecker Crew. He was younger and faster then, moving too fast for the slaves to recognize who had saved them. His actions spawned the legend of a vengeful ghost who would devour anyone who disturbed the spirits of the dead.

And now a few more names will be added to that funny legend.

Today's targets proved to be an interesting curiosity. Problemsolvers, Iterna's elite military force. Two of them were stationed here, making a final sweep to ensure its safety. A few corridors away, the doggies did the same. Both groups mistrusted each other, which made this mission a breeze.

Patience! Chort stopped his heartbeat, feeling the cold take over his limbs. The coloration of his skin changed, blending perfectly with the surrounding stone. Every scent emanating from his body has become perfectly contained. For all intents and purposes, he was a corpse now. Only a small nucleus of cells in his dying brain remained active, but it was enough to preserve his self. Chort was of better stock than most of the rabble that inhabited these lands. And today he would prove it again.

They entered the corridor without speaking. Iterna's power armor was made of countless nanomachines that fused together, forming and shifting on the fly like water. This allowed its soldiers to maintain the utmost silence, even as they walked crouched down the corridor. A turn of the head or a movement of the arm produced no sound, and only their footsteps filled the corridor with faint sounds.

His pupils dilated in response to a wave of destruction washing above. The storm has come. And with it came anomalies, producing interference with communications. Even troops on the surface would have a hard enough time communicating with each other, with everyone so far below now cut off from the world.

The Problemsolvers jumped back, hearing the beating of his restarted heart. The acute systems of their armor had discerned the sound of his breathing and magnified it many times over, allowing both men to pinpoint his exact location. And that was good. Against someone like them, a simple ambush would not be enough.

Chort broke through the rubble, growing additional muscles over his limbs and feeling his bones strengthen, protruding against the skin. He relied both on his ears and instincts to locate his opponents. They stood at the destroyed door, one on his knee, while his comrade stood upright behind him, allowing both to open fire simultaneously. The mercenary made little effort to dodge. Instead, he grew bone plates over his left hand and wielded it like a shield. Ten paces separated the opponents, and Chort crossed the distance in a single breath, a sonic boom tearing through the room where he had stood, shattering pebbles against the walls. And yet his bone arm has already ended up covered in cracks from the Iternian’s screamers.

Iternian infantry weapons, much like their armor, could be redesigned and transformed in the midst of battle. With a few tweaks, a soldier could turn a sniper rifle into a rapid-fire machine gun, or a small pistol into a full-blown armor-piercing rifle. These Problemsolvers were using sound emitters, or screamers for short, rifles capable of unleashing streams of sound powerful enough to blow yards of holes in a solid piece of rock. Fortunately for him, the soldiers wielded them in a precision mode, gaining better penetration at the cost of narrowing the beam.

And his improved bones could endure these attacks.

The forward Problemsolvers tried to step back, only to find a foot on his own leg. The soldier did not hesitate for a second; he let go of his weapon and tried to land an uppercut with one arm while reaching for a grenade with the other.

Chort took the blow to the palm of his right hand, frowning when a sharp blade growing from the soldier's wrist pierced it. You are not the only one capable of growing weapons out of your body, boy. The mercenary grinned darkly and allowed the bones of his left hand to reform into a blade, burying the tip in the Problemsolver’s chest. True to his rank, the elite soldier still tried to activate the grenade as Chort brought the sword up and sliced the fool's head in half.

Iternian nanomachine power armor wasn’t a joke. Just as durable as any regular power armor, it had the advantage of having a rudimentary intelligence built into it. This automatic mind would assess the damage done to the armor and shift its mass, creating thicker armor plates in one area at the expense of weakening the other. And after a fight, the intelligence would restore the damaged armor by absorbing metal from the environment and replicating the nanomachines to their original number. In addition, the suit could also grow basic tools and combat weapons. A true marvel of technology.

Therefore, Chort took no chances and simply struck with all his might, holding nothing back, overcoming the armor before it could adapt.

This was the difference between abnormals created by nature and those created in Iterna's laboratories. Improve a normal body all you want, but unless you are willing to pour an obscene amount of resources into it, a Normie will remain a Normie. And Chort was an heir to a new age. No manufactured fibers were added to his muscles, and no injections made his bones stronger. From the moment of his birth, fate had chosen him to be strong, and years of combat had honed his skills. He was someone who could rip through power armor like a normal human finger through paper.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The Iternian's armor came apart in a shower of glistening shards, revealing a woman instead of a man inside. A blue body glove, slowly soaking with blood, covered her body. Even with her brain split in two, the Problem Solver somehow managed to send out a distress call, removing the obstacle in her comrade's path.

And Chort groaned in pain, feeling how supersonic projectiles slam into his body. The Problemsolvers lived up to their legend; unlike the soft-hearted fools of their lands, the last soldier had no hesitation in firing straight through his ally, turning her body into a bloody mush, and swapping his screamer for the rifle capable of firing massed rounds.

The Problemsolver’s fire had barely slowed when two bones, Chort's former phalanges, pierced the lenses of his helmet, liquefying the eyes and damaging both frontal and temporal lobes. Impossible, but the man stood up in the wake of such damage, and Chort lunged at him, trying to endure Iterna's weapons tearing at his body.

Chort’s right arm morphed into a bone sword, and he made a thrust, only to have the Problemsolver catch it on his left shoulder. Blinded and brain-damaged, the enemy made a perfect turn, allowing the edge of the weapon to slide off the armor before its point could pierce the nanomachines. The took a step forward, landing in Chort's space, and made one last attack, thrusting his own knife into the mercenary's head. As Chort tried to step back, his opponent stepped on his foot, pinning him.

A bone spike grew from his foot, breaking the Iternian's metal and shooting upward at the speed of a bullet. It struck the Iternian in his leading arm, piercing the radius and halting the attack long enough for the mercenary to counter with a thrust of his own, driving his left arm into the chest plate and rupturing the heart. With three more slashes, he had finished his opponent, leaving the Problemsolver’s pieces to fall to the ground.

The tunnels fell silent. There were no shouts, no sudden heavy footsteps charging toward the sounds of gunfire. Annoying. He had specifically chose this tunnel due to its narrow structure which would allow him to face one enemy at a time. Could the Reclaimers really be that incompetent? Chort's body returned to human form, and he traced the edges of his wounds with his fingers, waiting for his body to regenerate. Doubtful. Something else was happening.

He found the answer at the rendezvous point. The other member of the resistance was waiting for him in a half-ruined hangar that had once been used to safely shield planes from any artillery barrage.

King turned to face him and let the crumpled bodies of two doggies, the famous shock troops of the Reclamation Army, fall from his gauntlets shaped like digging buckets. Another puppy lay by his legs, its body pierced by several energy beams. Despite having no lungs and a pierced heart, the doggie clawed at King's leg, tearing only the fabric of his tabard.

Covered in a thick power armor of dark red and covered in now riddled with bullet holes, his employer lifted a column-like leg. With a single stomp, he turned the bodies into a mixture of bloody smear and hissing cracked steel, completely shattering the power armor capable of withstanding an explosion capable of leveling buildings. Two lenses came to life on his helmet, one orange and the other pitch black. The light from the orange lens illuminated the gilded horns of King’s helmet.

“Chort, my friend,” King’s voice boomed from the dynamics. “Pardon the early arrival, but I simply had to take some vengeance myself. I trust all is well on your end?"

“Naturally, sir.” Chort made a simple nod, looking at the remains with regret. “A pity you arrived so soon. I wanted to see how their tactics vary depending on the pack."

He never saw King's face. Not even once. There were whispers that the leader of the Resistance was one of the malformed, a disgusting race of mutants that roamed the land. Most of their kind were misshapen beasts, hungry for human flesh. The mere fact that King had little combat experience and mostly flailed his arms in battle, relying on his oversized power armor to protect him, lent some validity to this theory.

But no one cared. Mutant or not, King had done the impossible. His will had bent raiders and nations alike, forming a superstate capable of withstanding the onslaught of the Reclamation Army. This charismatic figure somehow found common cause with every major warlord in the region and slaughtered all the unreasonable ones, providing a modicum of additional stability to the region. Well, as much as was possible when someone like Blaguna was involved.

Chort cared little for dreams of freedom; he had gladly killed members of both sides if the money was there. And yet, in recent years, King had elevated him, bringing Chort into his personal circle. He even helped Chort set a trap for a warlord, bringing the mercenary one step closer to his legacy. For this reason, the mercenary decided for now to cast his cards with the Resistance and face the Reclaimers head-on.

People had different reasons for living. The majority of the locals in the Ravaged Lands dreamed small dreams, worrying only about providing enough food and water for their offspring. A sad and miserable life of never-ending struggle, a life that saw so many children die for lack of clean water or after the cruel sun had wounded them enough. A meaningless life, but the people had a right to it. Chort himself wanted to immortalize himself. Not through biology, nothing that stupid. A man should live only as long as nature sees fit to give him.

A war was inevitable. The Reclamation Army was always hungry for new lands. And this time they will make them bleed before any real war even begins. And in the fires of war, he would settle all scores and build his legacy, brick by bloody brick. In the centuries to come, young mercenaries would vie with each other, trying in vain to break his record. The best kind of immortality.

The air behind King trembled, and Huntsman appeared, along with some Regulators’ soldiers and a sizeable container that instantly took up much of the warehouse's space. Huntsman, a tall man with a massive sword spear slung over his shoulder, greeted Chort with a nod and stepped aside from the group.

“You have become addicted to their blood, I see. Worry not; this is something you will have in abundance in the future. For now, let us tend to the present. Huntsman! Open it.” King pointed at the armored container.

“Is this it, then?” Chort sighed. "We're just going to let this thing run wild and hope for the best?"

"Indeed we do!" King replied in a cheerful voice. "Iterna and the invaders have been getting too chummy for my liking. The death of so many potential abnormals is bound to sour their relations, especially when both sides blame each other for this blunder."

“If this plan succeeds,” Chort grumbled. “They have a Warlord on standby in the area.”

“Ah, but even a Warlord can't be everywhere, and if I know one thing about the Iternians, it's that they won't let the Wolf Tribe anywhere near their precious wards,” King chuckled, his laughter sounding like a drum. “My friend, this is but one of many plots we are spurring into motion. If it fails, so what? We have slain three invaders today, and you have tasted the Iternian blood, finally adding a Problemsolver to your magnificent tapestry of victories. A gain has already been made, and we lose nothing in any case.”

My friend. We have slain. Chort noted the cheap manipulation. Perhaps meaningless platitudes worked on the common rabble, but he was of a more enlightened stock. Sure, his goals were aligned with King's for a moment. But for the right price, he would take King's head in a heartbeat and forge his legacy alone.

“Aside from losing it,” the mercenary said, referring to the being within the crate. He pointed at the bullet-riddled walls and the doggies’ blood on King’s clothes and armored greaves. “And potentially exposing our involvement to Iterna if they somehow find out who killed their precious soldiers and their pups.”

Huntsman had finally torn open the crate, revealing the standing instrument of destruction inside. It was roughly shaped after a human body, with no neck or head. A series of crimson lenses were set around the steel frame, serving as its eyes. The arms ended in three clawed fingers reaching to the ground, and the short legs lacked any kind of knees or joints. Most of the bot’s body was covered with a steel alloy tough enough to withstand even Chort’s attacks unmarred.

But on its chest, it had segmented steel plates running from the center of the chest to where a neck should be. They were retracted at the moment, revealing a piece of ballistic glass shielding an ugly lump of gray matter floating in corrupted nutrient solutions. The brain was covered in cancerous growths and diseased ulcers that occasionally spewed trickles of blood.

Three hundred years at least. That was how long this cyborg model had been stored in a badly contaminated warehouse until King found it. Even stripped of its more exotic weapons, which were now being researched by the Bento Tribe, the metal idiot towered over all of them, its plate free of any rust.

Seeing this, the mercenary felt sad. Back when Chort ran with the Wrecker Crew, they were busy collecting junk like this and selling it to museums in both Iterna and the Reclamation Army, earning themselves some easy credits and the adoration of archaeologists. And here stood a real person, a being from a time before the extinction, someone who could enlighten him on so many deadly techniques of the ancients, or just tell him stories...

And the cyborg was broken. So incorrigibly broken. Not in body, but in mind. According to the facility's logs, he was assembled on that fateful day. The poor bastard had lost his mind because the Extinction hit, and the assembly machines made a mistake and performed the brain surgery without sterile instruments. One last move by the AI in charge of the facility, trying to save someone, anyone, from impending doom.

A being trapped in perpetual suffering, driven to madness by its inability to die. Memories were lost forever, and even personality had long since eroded. In its attempt to save the life of this volunteer, the AI even sacrificed the records, redirecting everything to perform a miracle and save a human life, and perished in the process.

Miracles rarely happen. Not even Iterna can fix this.

"As it is, the machine is useless to us, Chort." The armored gauntlet dropped to his shoulder, snapping him out of his brooding. "That's the only way we can use it to our advantage. As for your fears, Huntsman will take care of the evidence, and I have just the group to take the fall for this incident. And not only take the fall, but also help foster more hate.”

King's laughter filled the room, and Chort found himself grinning at the details. True, the Iternians were sometimes their own worst enemies.

"Prepare the incendiary charges," Huntsman ordered the Regulators. Catching King's eye, the tall mercenary nodded at the torn pieces of robes scattered on the ground. "A monster should awaken with a proper hellfire."