I was born here. I live here. I will die here.

“Anton!”

From my hiding place in the bushes, I turn my eyes to my wife, Sophia. She is carrying a parcel from the resistance stronghold in La Puerta.

“Do you have it?” I ask.

“Ten spellcores. Listo?”

“Si. Let’s go.”

The demons came from the sea one day—no, it was just the other day, wasn’t it? when they rained light from the sky. When all was done, there were no bodies to bury, and few houses left standing. Many of us were away from the city when it happened. The demons flew further inland, but many remained over the city, and many prowled the outskirts.

The governor sheltered us in his villa and offered arms—and we became the resistance. Our battleground was the outskirts of our home.

It is slightly concerning that the governor had so many arms just conveniently in his home. There are 300 of us, no? However, we will ignore this for the sake of survival.

When a survivor appeared one day and told us of other survivors in the ruined city, we of the resistance had to take action. We attacked yesterday, hoping to cull the demons in the outskirts to make it easier for survivors to escape. The attack was a failure. Not many of us returned.

Today, me and Sophia will help establish a smuggling route for survivors escaping from the city. Hopefully, our daughter is among them.

***

We are surrounded by the wastes of the outskirts. Carlo and Novelos are ashes in small craters in front of us. The demon hovers over us.

“Sophia! Now!”

My wife uses her fire magic, while I launch a mist of water with mine, putting a dense wall of steam between us and the demon. She and I split left and right. We have five spellcores each. Each spellcore is charged with explosion magic.

How amusing. I have always found it funny that resistances in any story would use explosion magic over anything else. Why not any other magic? Here we are, however, with explosion spellcores. Any fire mage can produce them with enough time, and few things cannot be solved with enough explosion.

I hold in my hand the magic of my wife. It is a smooth with concentric magic circles chiseled onto its surface. If only my skill with water magic were better, I could help her mass-produce them.

We run to either side of the blinded demon. It realizes, however, that we have encircled it. I skid to a stop, charge the spellcore with some mana, and throw it.

The moment the mana is fully drained, the spellcore waits until it is near the demon—and it explodes. The demon is knocked away, but it is not destroyed.

Another explosion hits it. My wife is too good at throwing things. I would know. I was chased out once with little mercy. Flying chanclas enchanted with reinforcement magic are scary.

I throw another spellcore, and I think I hit the eye! Maybe—maybe we can actually destroy it!

***

We cannot destroy it. I only have one spellcore left, and my wife also only has one.

I decide that I do not wish to die without being by her side. I glance at my wife, and we make eye contact. We are both preparing to throw our spellcores. It seems that we have made the same decision.

My focus sharpens to the point that the world slows down. My throwing form is perfect. All of my being is dedicated to speed and precision at once. With one impulse, my muscles tense—my torso twists, and my arm, my wrist, and my fingers all act in good order. Once the spellcore leaves my hands and is guided by fate, I dash towards my wife.

We run into a mutual embrace. We close our eyes and hold tight, not minding the explosions that light our final day.

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… Que extraño. That was too many explosions. I am hesitant, but I summon the courage to look.

“Ha?” I make a stupid sound.

“Hm? Anton? Why are you still alive? No, are we in Heaven?”

“B-bueno, it looks like we’ve destroyed the demon.”

“Ha? Pendejo, don’t try to be reassuring in the afterlife!”

“N-no! Sophia! Lo mira!”

I squish her face between my palms and forcibly turn her head towards the flaming wreck. The demon is blackened and singed, and there is a small hole in its shell.

“H-ha?” My wife makes the stupid sound this time.

There is a screech. It sounds like something that can die when shot, and so we ready ourselves with single-shot magic carbines.

That’s when we see it. There is a wyvern circling overhead. It must have been a scavenger waiting for us to die. It will not attack as long as we are alive, I suppose.

It seems to be descending. We might actually die for real this time.

“Heeeey, don’t shoot!”

“Ahhh mi cariño, am I hearing things?”

“I-I don’t think so. It seems to be a wyvern rider.”

The wyvern lands beside the demon’s flaming wreck. It has a saddle from which many lances are hanging.

“Y’all—uhhh bweh-nose dee-ass, I guess?” The señor tips his hat towards us and dismounts. The strange accent and clothes—a Texan?

“Ahhh buenos dias, señor. I wonder, maybe you are lost?”

“Hm? This is Novmexico, ain’t it?”

“Si, but—”

“Naw, naw, don’ worry ’bout it. I’m just a scout, but maybe y’got a head I can talk to? Would be mighty helpful.”

Sophia grips my arm.

“Anton, demons may still appear. We must return!”

“A-ah!” I turn back to the señor. “Follow us.”

***

At the resistance stronghold, all of the leaders are losing their minds.

It is unbelievable that there are 1000 troops being led by the Princess Burnheart who are already waiting in the sea.

But—we are not yet saved. The scout must report his findings to his superiors. They would bombard the ruined city to destroy the demons, otherwise—along with any survivors.

As long as the scout brings the knowledge an active resistance and survivors in the city to his superiors, they will not bombard it. Hopefully.

“Well, then—a-dee-ose, ami-goes.”

He flies away on his wyvern, lifting out of the villa’s courtyard—before getting hit by light magic. He slumps down on his wyvern, which continues to flap and fly, disappearing from our view.

“Demon!”

The shout is from a corner of the villa.

Death rains once more.

Half the villa is riddled with holes within one minute. Dozens die before the wyvern rider reappears and engages the demon in mortal combat.

We of the resistance attempt to help with our spellcores and fire magic, distracting the demon at opportune moments as much as we can.

The rider unleashes one of his lances. It is a short, 1-meter lance, almost as if it were only the handle, but once the rider was 10 meters from the demon, he pointed the lance at it, and an explosion magic that I have never seen before manifests and pierces through the demon’s shell.

It drops limp to the ground. The wyvern lands in the courtyard once more.

“Señor!”

I catch him as he dismounts. Strength is leaving his body. There is a large hole in his gut.

“I-I got a… favor t’ask…” He coughs up blood in my arms. “B-bring Larry here back home… and bring me… back home…”

The wyvern makes a low purring noise and muzzles itself against the Texan in my arms.

“I will not fail you, señor. You will go home.”

“T-thanks, ami-go.”

***

Sophia and I ride with the wyvern. The señor’s body is wrapped in the cleanest cloth we could find, and is behind us on the cargo portion of the saddle.

I tried to convince Sophia not to go with me, but after yesterday, I could not find the words to deny her feelings.

“Señor Larry, let us bring your friend home.”

The wyvern screeches, and we take off.

Did Sophia and I know how to ride wyverns? No. Absolutamente, no.

We scream all the way across the wasteland. We scream all the way to the sea. We are still screaming when we see a strange island, where many other wyverns are circling in patrol.

We land while screaming.

{Fuckin’ tone it down!}

There is a complaint from who could only be the padre de casa. Sophia and I instinctively shut up.

A squad of wyverns land and surround us.

“Oi. Y’all lost or somethin’?”

“Hol’ up, that’s Larry, ain’t it? Where’s Ray?”

“Y’all, look at what they’ve got in cargo.”

“W-well, fuck me.”

Surprisingly, they don’t pump us full of holes.

***

H-heey—goddamn, so early in the morning. USS—ugh—Dick here… and whatever… Fuckin’ screaming first thing in the morning, huh…

It’s been weird the past few days. I’ve been feeling lethargic lately, and I don’t know why. I’ll have to apologize to the two for lashing out later—or not? It’s not normal to come in screaming first thing in the morning, right? Right.

Anyway, looks like I’m not hitting the city with artillery. There’s a bunch of survivors, apparently. Looks like the grunts are gonna see a chance to duke it out on solid ground, huh?

In other news, only about half the wyvern scouts came back. Goodlordinchrist, rest in peace, you guys. For real. I didn’t think That Guy Billy’s offhand comment about 20 being a midlife crisis for wyvern riders was for real—I mean, I believed him, but I just didn’t feel it ’til now. Makes me wonder why they keep at it.

With the sunrise the next day, I lower my elevators, waiting for the wyvern squads to get on from the hangar deck. They get on—but the fuckers won’t even wait until I raise the elevator and they start throwing themselves overboard.

Wyvern wings spread against the sunrise, and they pile out of the hangar just like that, port and starboard. Each one’s carrying a rider and two grunts, all screaming in excitement and terror. What a wonderful world.