I set the snacks at the like on the coffee table in front of the couch, and toss Dylan the coke can. Nyt still sips on her beer, as I take the seat next to her. The couch depresses towards me at my added weight.
“Do you like Mirror’s stuff?” Dylan asked as the opening credits played; they thanked the producers, the music producers, and the videographer.
“I’ve only seen a few of them.” I answer honestly, “I kind of want to see what other people around the world are facing and how they’re fighting.”
The credits scrolled over the aerial view of an emerald forest. Gustav Holt’s Mars played over the video as the camera panned over the emerald woods to a temple at the very top of one of the peaks in the very distance. Only the shadows of it were visible at this distance. Though even through the shadows countless orange lights could be seen climbing the mountain in a snaking pattern like a trail of lanterns. The song fades, and the voice of a man begins to speak over the fading music.
“Winter never came to Mount Maoki; cast in a perpetual emerald summer.”
The screen cuts black. Nyt shifts in her seat as she sets her now empty can on the table’s edge. She picks up another. Her claw clinks against the tin, before she leans over toward me.
“Can you open this?”
I set my can down and helped her before taking mine. She winces again as she takes a sip of the beer.
The screen fades away from the aerial view, to a moving van, a helicopter, and a truck sitting on the side of a mountain road.
“The snow began to melt early this year. It was a phenomenon that was first observed by the dwindling locals.”
There were a couple of aerial shots of the nearby towns and villages and their empty streets. Nyt sinks further into her seat and props her legs up on mine.
From the back of the truck, a couple of people in orderly uniforms worked to get a drone up in the air. The camera pans up as the drone takes flight.
“We sent in the drones to get an idea of what we would be facing in the mountains.”
The man’s voice continued.
“Our drone operators are top-notch. Even if one or two of them are shot down, we’ll have more than enough footage to know exactly what we’re up against.”
One of the men in the group chosen included Mirror and a few other Japanese rankers. He uses a brush to paint something in a soft gray on the wings of the black drones.
“What does that say?” Nyt whispers, leaning in toward me. The smell of hops and fermentation was heavy on her breath.
“I don’t know. I can’t read Japanese.”
“There are different languages in this world? Interesting.” She takes another sip.
As the drones took off it was obvious that the man had used spells to dampen the noise. The normal humming was mute as they darted toward the peaks of the mountains they began to describe the area: how it was a popular tourist destination, and about the small temple at the top that was still maintained by a sect of Buddhist priests, and how, after the, ‘joining of the worlds,’ that the Japanese have taken to calling the invasion, they began to dwindle in numbers mysteriously. About three weeks ago, despite there being a huge blizzard the weeks before, the snow began to melt in tumultuous overflow that nearly washed away some of the nearby villages near the base of the Osakan mountain ranges.
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There were reports of sightings of strange creatures, according to some eyewitness reports when the locals got curious about the strange going ons, a couple local teenagers took it upon themselves to make their way up to the mountains. Out of the five, only one managed to make it back. He told stories of armored creatures patrolling the stone stair-cased paths and a giant dragon that took over the temple at the top of the mountain.
The scenery changed from the time the drones were distant dots in the gray sky to footage of the foremost drone. It overlooked the emerald mountainside and led the group of drones down toward the ground. Gustav Holst’s Mars picks up again with the build-up as it sweeps up the path leading to the top.
Camped in clusters along the path; with deer and bear and a variety of river fish roasting on sticks over large fires; were humanoid pangolins. Tawny, segmented scales lined across their bodies like plate armor; long pointed noses, and two large claws hanging from either side. Their long tails were similarly armored, with metallic, pointed tips grafted over the scales there. The smallest of which seemed to be just about the height of a human, and the tallest of which rose up to half the height of the pines that clustered the sides of the path.
“How would you defeat something like that?” Jenna asks from across the couch.
“I would find a way,” I answer.
“That’s it? That's your answer?"
I nod.
The overture continues. There are hundreds of these creatures camped all within the woods. Some were armed with spears and swords. Some were armed with heavy maces, and some with rods. Most, however, seem to be unarmed. The drones fly up toward the peak, toward the temple. The temple grounds are infested with similar-looking creatures; stepping in and out of countless doors carrying items, humans, hunted animals, and what appear to be, small humanoid creatures that look to be children covered in layers of bright red hair; all bound in chains as they’re led into Efra.
Felled trees were being cut and bound together into rudimentary siege weapons; catapults, balistae, and trebuchets, or formed into the numerous walls they’ve erected to block the path up to the temple, and then up to the very top of the peak.
As the drones near the very peak of the creature of immense size came into view. It was a large, scaled creature, and the term, ‘dragon,’ really did describe it well. Beneath layers of black, oily tar-like gunk, scales shone like rubies. Other than the color, it looked much like the pangolin-like creatures below. The large creature turned its long face toward the group of drones, and brushed its massive tail through the trees that surrounded it; sending one of the larger ones to collide with the drones. The screen went black.
“The creatures, that resemble the pangolins of Asia and Africa are called, ‘imps,’ by the Chosen.” The narrator says.
It’s a better name than, ‘pangolinman,’ I suppose.
“They’re only found in certain spots in Osaka; mostly in the mountains near the coast. This is the furthest they’ve been seen inland. Their scales are hard, and sturdy against attacks from slashing or stabbing weapons, such as spears or swords, but also brittle; as they break when hit with sufficient blunt force. Therefore, the chosen that will take the lead in this group is the chosen of the legendary Ronin Musashi Miyamoto; codename Frontliner.”
The cameraman on the ground panned to the moving van; a large man, who towered over the others, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, and the ghost of a beard painted his face. He had a set of red, segmented plate armor on, and a round shield around his left arm. From the small arsenal in the back of the van, he pulled out a long mace that he carried over his left shoulder.
“Behind him will be the archer: the Chosen of Hachiman, codename: Kyudou.”
I checked the shard, and sure enough, both of these are pretty high up in the rankings as well; 110, and 130, respectively.
“Supporting them will be the chosen of Balthazar; Injeel, who does not have a codename, and who was recently recruited from his native Egypt.”
I had read there were some troubles in Egypt. A Rokian cult had begun to take hold like rot in a festering wound and was currently involved in militant warfare with the government and other militias of the area. This was after a powerful, long-lasting rainstorm flooded the Nile and swelled the waters of the Red Sea.
This was an elderly man. Tan skin, and a long white beard. He didn’t wear anything special; a gray tracksuit, and carried a lantern that emitted a whitish smoke. The smoke curled in ways as it fell to the floor at his feet. He took a pinch of something out of his pocket, opened the top of the lantern, and muttered something. The flame inside of the lantern ate up the mysterious resin, and the smoke began to lift off the ground. It swirls around the heads of the nearby Chosen and the soldiers with their black rifles on standby. The smoke falls over their head and sinks over them.
“Taking up the rear guard will be the Chosen of legendary duelist Sasaki Kojiro; Chaser.”
A man in a hoodie yawns loudly as he picks up a pair of smaller maces, taking a few practice swings with them before going to chat with some of the soldiers in the back. The camera picks up parts of his conversation.
“What’s he saying?” I asked Nyt, who had shifted in her seat once more so she was a tad bit closer. I noticed about halfway through the drone shot that I was no longer able to understand the spoken words of the narrator.
“’ Why is the Frontliner bastard always the Lead, I want to take it sometimes, too, you know? I’m stronger than he is, my strength stat is….’ is what he said, why?”
“Just curious.”
“In the back, will, of course, be the pride and joy of the Japanese people: Chosen of Amaterasu; Mirror.”
Mirror was in the back of the van wearing her usual get-up of casual clothing and a surgical mask over her face. Her titular mirror hung off of her belt by a leather loop, and her brown-tinted bangs fell in straight curls over her forehead. She searched through the arsenal laid out on the van’s metallic floor and picked up a quarterstaff. She gave it a few practice swings before hopping out of the back of the van.
“Today, our cameraman will be one of the chosen of Achyls; Aoi Shiho, who can erase her presence completely, so she’ll be safe while she follows the group up.”
Nyt picks up another can from the few on the table, and once again asks me to open it, scooting a little bit closer. I open it for her and lean in to get my own. She sinks into the cushion beside me and sips away at her drink. I pop open the can and sip as the chosen on the screen begin to climb the mountain.