Vengeance pulsed in Tycho’s weathered heart like a deep, simmering flame, but fire without direction was useless. No plan, no victory. His mind, honed by years of battle, sharpened on one undeniable truth: Ledo would lead the others in a distraction. That would be enough.

The mercenaries would do their part. They had a code, one shared with the Kilru, and none of them had love for the Trunians. As long as the mercs kept the Trunians occupied, Ledo could shield the rest long enough for Tycho to finish what he’d come to do. With that certainty grounding him, Tycho rose on a current of air madra, pulling on the forces of Andron VII. He surged higher, energy swirling around him as he focused inward, tightening his control, drawing on every scrap of power he had left.

He hovered there, eyes locked on the battlefield below, uncertain whether his son’s plan would lead them to victory—or their deaths. The Trunians might have been weak, but they weren’t blind. They waited like coiled vipers, expecting not a ragtag band of survivors, but a full-blown assault.

Then, as if on cue, the mercenaries moved. From every direction, they rushed the Trunians, making it seem as though they were surrounded. The Kilru emerged from hiding, baited out by the mercs, just as Tycho had predicted. No one fell. Yet.

It was his turn.

Bolts of energy snapped through the air toward him, sharp arcs of light cutting through the sky. Some hit their mark, but his shielding held firm. Tycho barely registered the impacts as he dropped lower, fully immersed in his descent. The true battle was only just beginning.

The energies in the air clashed, a discordant hum that reverberated through his bones. Inside the Trunian outpost, bolt throwers fired again and again, hoping for a lucky shot. With every blast, the barrage weakened his visibility. Tycho strained to see whether Ledo and the mercs of both stripe had withdrawn, but the shield’s constant shimmer blurred his view.

For now, he hung back, letting the ranged fighters exhaust their ammunition. The bolts might as well have been fired into the heart of a star—they did nothing but delay the inevitable. This wasn’t like the battles he’d fought before. It was something stranger, more surreal. The energy drain gnawed at his core, a slow but steady toll he couldn’t ignore.

Then, silence.

Tycho’s gaze flickered over the battlefield. The mercenaries had vanished, their role fulfilled. Ledo had already escorted the others beyond the outpost walls. The distraction had worked.

His feet touched the ground just as a Trunian warrior lunged at him. The spear thrust toward Tycho’s chest, but he batted it away with a glowing right hand, the energy of the weapon neutralized in an instant. He stepped in, swift as the wind, and with a single strike, sliced the man’s throat with the edge of his palm. Blood spilled hot and fast, but Tycho had already turned away.

And that’s when he felt it. Heat. Not from the blood, but from the ground itself. Flames crackled to life at his feet from his descent, racing across the outpost, devouring everything in their path. The Trunians had no chance.

Now they fought a war on two fronts—against Tycho, and against the fire that would consume them all.

Smoke thickened the air, but Tycho barely noticed. Breathing had become an afterthought, the need more mental than physical. He didn’t require air anymore. Not really.

He pulled back his hand just as the Trunian soldiers charged. Tycho had never taken joy in crushing weaker opponents, unlike some of the more hardened mercenaries. But these weren’t boys. They were oppressors, and Tycho knew what he had to do.

With a flick of his fingers, he sent out a single golden mote. The energy shrieked as it tore through their shields, blasting men into the sky. Their screams echoed, but Tycho was already preparing another mote. He released it into a second wave of soldiers, their faces twisting in terror. The first strike had unsettled them. The second broke their nerves.

The third mote? That sealed their fate.

An explosion rocked the battlefield. Trunian bodies—what was left of them—were hurled into the air. Their charge disintegrated, and, as Tycho had anticipated, they turned to flee. But the retreat was short-lived. They ran straight into another blast.

Tycho stood amidst the carnage, holding back the urge to gag as the flames chewed through armor and flesh. He waited, letting the fire burn itself out, then strode through the smoldering remains of what had once been soldiers. The sanctum loomed ahead.

More soldiers rushed him as he entered the gates, too slow to matter. A flash of energy from Tycho pierced the arm of one, sending the man stumbling into a wall before collapsing, dead. Tycho kept his distance, gauging the timing. It wouldn’t be long now.

A bolt thrower spotted him from the landing port, but before the soldier could aim, Tycho closed the distance. His hand shot forward like a serpent’s strike, slipping beneath the helmet and crushing through the man’s eye socket.

Desperation hung thick in the air. The Trunians inside the sanctum fought with the same hopeless fervor as those outside. One soldier rallied the rest, thrusting at Tycho with a spear of energy. It was a decent attempt. The man had potential, probably nearing Iron.

But Tycho moved faster. He sidestepped the strike, lunged forward, and gutted the soldier with a single, precise motion.

Now that they were in close quarters, Tycho let the motes fall away, charging into the mass of Trunians with nothing but his bare hands. His fists flew, driven by the memories of all those who had fought at his side. One by one, soldiers fell before him, and he pressed deeper into the outpost. Bolts hissed through the air, launched by unseen throwers, but they collided harmlessly against his shield. Each impact sent a ripple of violent light through the barrier, until it began to strain under the pressure. The clash of steel, the cries of dying men—it all felt hauntingly familiar, like a song he hadn’t heard in years. If he had a moment to think, he might have found it unsettling.

For all their courage, the Trunians couldn’t hide their fear. The mercenaries who had sworn to stand with them had fled, leaving them to face Tycho’s onslaught alone. Their defenses were faltering, their morale shaken. They’d regrouped, rallying near the last of the freighters, where the fight had turned savage. Tycho felt exhaustion creeping into his bones, his limbs slowing, his reflexes dulled by age and effort. He couldn’t afford a mistake—not now.

But Tycho was never one to yield to weariness. With a roar, he called for a charge, and to his amazement, the phantoms of his fallen companions surged forward. The glow of their spirits, outlines of the men and women who had loved him and whom he had loved in return, blazed within his shield. Together, they advanced—one final stand.

A bolt struck him, driving into his thigh. His leg buckled, and he fell to the ground with a stunned expression. For a heartbeat, he lay there, as chaos swirled around him. If he didn’t get up now, they’d swarm him. He clenched his jaw, bracing himself for the end, expecting the cold kiss of a blade.

But it didn’t come. The glowing forms of his companions stood between him and the Trunians, holding them at bay. With a howl of pain and fury, Tycho forced himself upright, staggering forward, every step fueled by sheer will. Death rode on his heels, but he had more to deliver.

When he reached the heart of the stronghold, there was no resistance left. Only silence and the dead, littering the corridors like discarded armor. He pushed open the last sealed door and entered a vast chamber dominated by a long table. At its end, on a high chair, sat the Remnant of Stantych, glowing with a cold, gray light.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

What was once a Trunian sat like a king on his throne, his land shattered, waiting for the axe to fall. Ironic considering the source he had been formed from. Wordlessly, he rose, his gaze steady, and drew his weapon. He advanced without a word, as though the outcome was already written.

Tycho’s soul hummed with tension, his spirit madra burning low as he dodged the chieftain’s axe. The edge swept through the air, leaving a sharp wake of power that hummed in his ears. He rolled away, barely keeping pace, his perception narrowing to the glowing lines of Stantych’s Remnant form. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just raw, overwhelming power.

He needed to end this soon. Tycho’s thoughts flickered, and the dull ache in his leg flared up again, madra flooding through his body just to keep him moving. He couldn’t afford to slow down, not with the former general's Remnant bearing down on him.

Stantych’s twisted form loomed over him, wreathed in power that pulsed with every step, the broken Remnant of his authority still lingering, like a storm that had never fully cleared. His axe gleamed with light, but it was the malice in his glowing eyes that Tycho feared.

No time. I need to end this.

Tycho's pulse hammered through his channels, his core dangerously close to empty. His madra was unstable, flickering and threatening to spiral out of control. Desperation hit like a blow.

But instead of pulling back, he made a move no sane sacred artist would consider.

Tycho charged straight at him.

Stantych faltered for a moment, his expression a mix of surprise and disgust. “You think you can face me like this?” His voice echoed unnaturally, resonating with the eerie Remnant of his power, somewhere between construct and man. The axe swung forward, heavy and lethal, tracing lines of force through the air. But Tycho had anticipated it.

He dropped low, sliding under the arc of the weapon, his hand catching the handle of the axe before it could complete its swing. He wrenched it off balance, his body twisting with the motion. Stantych’s contempt turned to anger, his Remnant essence flaring as he tried to pull the weapon free.

Tycho held on, muscles burning, the weight of the Remnant’s power crushing down on him. He couldn't hold out much longer.

With a final twist, Tycho released the axe, letting Stantych stumble forward in his own momentum, off-balance for just a heartbeat. That was all he needed.

“Vile vial!” Tycho bellowed, throwing out energy shaped like a small container with the last bit of force his madra could muster.

The vial shattered on Stantych’s face, the concoction coating his gray skin in thick, viscous fluid. For a heartbeat, the Remnant froze, then his body began to shudder. The aura around him trembled violently, the thick smoke of his spiritual energy crackling and splitting. His eyes widened in disbelief, then horror.

The thick skin of his face began to sizzle, smoke rising in heavy plumes. A strangled roar ripped from his throat, but it was laced with the high-pitched wail of a dying Remnant. The once-proud general clawed at his face, slapping madly at the flames as they surged across his body.

“No!” Stantych howled, but the sound was more than just denial—it was a plea. The Remnant’s eyes burned into Tycho’s, glowing with a hatred too ancient to be extinguished by something as simple as death.

Tycho didn’t stay to listen. He knew what came next.

He spun away, his madra sputtering like a dying flame as he sprinted from the smoldering corpse. Behind him, Stantych’s screams echoed, fading as the flames devoured the last of his twisted essence. Tycho didn’t look back.

It was over.

The air around him cooled, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Tycho let himself exhale. His body ached, the toll of the battle heavy in his bones. His core felt hollow, like a dried-up well, but he could still see the faint glow of those who had fought beside him, lingering in the air like ghostly memories.

“Here’s to you, lads,” he muttered, his voice rough. His throat burned, not from the exertion, but from the memories. His old friends, his lovers, his companions, all of them long gone, now reduced to faint impressions in his spirit.

“Well fought.”

He stood there for a moment longer, feeling the quiet. No triumphant shout, no grand victory. Just the weight of what had been lost, and the inevitable price he had paid.

Tycho’s strength was fading. His madra was almost gone, and with it, the last of his connection to this world. He had held on longer than most would have thought possible, long enough to see his son one last time, long enough to guide the boy. Long enough to finish what he had started. Now, there was nothing left but to let go.

And as the heat of the burning Remnant flickered out behind him, Tycho felt the first signs of his body giving way. He smiled, just a little.

It had been a good run.

***

Denor trudged reluctantly behind Ledo, his feet dragging over the dusty path that led away from the Trunian outpost. The air was thick with the horrifying smell of battle: a heady mixture of burnt metal, smouldering flesh, and the lingering aroma of Things Best Left Unexplained. Ledo, tall and broad-shouldered, strode ahead with the air of a man who had been prepared for this moment for far too long. Denor, who was decidedly not prepared for anything, felt the sharp prickle of uncertainty creeping up his spine.

“Are we really just leaving the golden man?” Denor asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the burning outpost.

“Yes,” Ledo replied, without turning around. “I told you, it's time. Your grandfather... well, he made his choice.”

Denor frowned. “What do you mean my grandfather?”

“So you didn’t figure it out?”

His grandfather, Tycho, had always been a bit... odd. More specifically, he had a fondness for explosive solutions to non-explosive problems. As a child, Denor had once watched Tycho blow up a particularly stubborn pantry door rather than simply oil the hinges. So engulfing the outpost in flames was certainly true to his character.

Tycho had been an old man though, and this guide had been young, and glowing with a strange golden energy that he had never seen Tycho produce. He definitely would have spotted that the past few months, it wasn’t the sort of thing that went unnoticed, even to someone of Denor’s perceptual skills.

“Doesn’t seem right, though,” Denor muttered. “Leaving the golden man in there. Especially if he’s family.”

Ledo sighed, and his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “Yes, well, your grandfather has a different definition of 'family values'. His current one involves taking out half the outpost along with himself.”

That certainly helped their cause, Denor couldn’t argue with that.

They walked in silence for a moment longer, the snow swirling lazily around their feet. Denor tried to think of a reason to argue, but when it came to Tycho, even basic reasoning often took a back seat to pure chaos.

“He’s not actually going to blow it up, is he?” Denor ventured, not entirely hopeful.

Ledo stopped, turning to look at his son. “Denor,” he said, his voice heavy with the wisdom of someone who had survived many decades of Tycho-related catastrophes. “The man might have retired long ago, but he’s a walking self-destruct sequence. So yes, I’d say the odds are rather high. Honour his sacrifice.”

Denor opened his mouth to reply, but something made him stop. It was the silence. The unnatural, heavy kind that presses down on everything, like the world itself is holding its breath.

And then, far behind them, the horizon lit up in a flash of blinding yellow.

The explosion unfolded in silence, at first, as if even sound had been stunned into submission. A brilliant flare tore through the sky, turning the outpost into a boiling cloud of fire and debris. Metal twisted in midair, silhouetted against the glow, before crashing back to earth in slow, deliberate pieces. For a moment, everything felt suspended, as though time itself had hesitated, unsure whether to move forward.

Then the shockwave hit.

Denor staggered backward, the ground bucking beneath his feet. A wall of sound and pressure roared past him, flattening the sparse shrubs and rattling the bones in his chest. He saw his father brace himself, feet planted firmly on the earth, face set in a grim mask. Ledo didn’t flinch. He had expected this.

Denor had not.

The outpost—built over the place where he had been born, from scavenged parts of where he had grown up surrounded by the chaotic eccentricities of his family—was gone. Erased. In its place, only a swirling column of smoke and ash remained, spiraling upwards into the dimming sky like a terrible, final breath.

For the first time, Denor felt the weight of what had just happened.

He turned to his father, his voice small. "Why... why did he do it?"

Ledo stared at the distant ruin, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was soft but unyielding, like the edge of a blade. "Because your grandfather believed there were some things worth ending for. He didn’t want to tell you, but he was already on his way out. The Trunian occupation was the last straw, it was against everything he stood for, everything he believed in. And when it became clear that even his own village was going to be taken from him, he decided he’d both take out the invasion and end his life on his terms."

Denor's throat tightened. "But he didn’t have to—"

"No," Ledo cut him off, turning his gaze to his son. "He didn’t. But your grandfather was a man who lived by his choices. Even the bad ones. He was an adventurer and a scoundrel and a merc right until the end, even in retirement."

They stood there for a long time, father and son, watching the last remnants of the outpost crumble into nothingness.

Eventually, Ledo put a hand on Denor’s shoulder. "Come on," he said quietly. "Let’s go. These hills are going to be crawling with Trunian scouts from New Titania by nightfall."

As they walked away, the wind carried the faint smell of smoke, a bittersweet reminder of the man who had chosen to go out with a bang—one final, spectacular act of defiance.