Whirl-plop!

That was the sound Zan heard time over time.

Whirl-plop!

It was the sound of the wooden machines as they lifted their legs and stepped forward. Practically silent in small groups, with dozens of them advancing, the sound came to define Zan’s struggle — whirl-plop!

The sound only helped him. It forced him to focus on the enemy. Absorb magic from the slipstream.

Whirl-plop; whirl-plop; whirl-plop.

‘They’re getting closer,’ he thought.

With several transport vehicles — holding, likely, dozens more troops — and them nearly upon him, he steadied himself. If he was going to survive this, and not become flattened by a vehicle’s treads or get pummeled to death by their primitive blunt and bladed weapons, he was going to need his wits.

Whirl-plop…

Fighting broke out among the enemy and the human defenders. Waiting till the last second before he started his offensive, he waited until the enemy was too close for comfort. Easy to do on a battlefield.

Whirl-plop: ‘That’s it!’ he gleaned the moment and struck!

Roaring a deep breath of magified air into his lungs, Zan stood up, then stood his ground.

Lashing out with his arms, Zan held his hands in front of him. He concentrated. He focused his mind. Then, it happened.

Lapping tongues of flame burst forth from his flat, steady palms. Using the blast to his advantage, he covered the entire space toward his front. He used the puttering force of the outburst to reach even one of the troop transports, setting it aflame. Dozens more automotrons tasted the heat of his fury, their interrupted advance turned to a route.

He held steady and nearly shot back with the force of the magical eruption. But he had practiced for this moment, so he knew what he was doing. What he lacked in refined blade movement he more than made up for with magic -- whether Jiehong could see that or not was yet to remain seen; of course, even this was in thanks to his brother, Jiehong, who had taught him late during many an uneventful evening. Now, if only he had confidence in him!

Stopping his outpouring suddenly, he controlled and pulled himself back: he had shot for nearly thirty continuous seconds. Not only was performing magic this way extremely draining — already, at least half of his magical output potential had vanished — it was also ill-advised. Practically everyone, with slight exception for those exceptionally talented or trained individuals, had only so much potential use per day for their magical practice. Tactical application of one's magical energies, then, became the domain of savvy and thoroughgoing living. But even the most sublime magical strategist was at least partially dependent on how long per day the Slipstream was out. Wonderous as his display had been, he chided himself for enacting magic with such irresponsibility; if I try and do that area-attack again, with the magical fire, I am going to catch an episode of mana sickness.

Although he liked the devastation stemming from his and his allies’ magical use, with many fires splitting the battlefield, defining the perimeter of engagement, even, he felt an early warning sign of the sick when he realized how defocused and confused, he was. He tried to focus, then his mind wandered; he tried to search for the old man to see if he was okay. Trudging along and claiming the lives of the unfortunate soldiers who were becoming trapped and overwhelmed by the enemy horde, he became hyper-aware. The responsibility of holding a defensive line with only the barest magical and bladed training was getting to him and a slow panic built. Seeing the damage he had inflicted on the enemy buoyed his spirit, sure, but after each victory came another battle, one harder than the last, and so he knew he would eventually meet his match. If this engagement dragged endlessly on all of them would be killed.

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Stepping to one of the many fires throughout the battlefield, he placed the old man’s sword into one of the ripping flames. With his enhanced weapon again in hand, Zan pressed his advantage while he still could move. Advancing steadily into the fray, using the wreckage of a troop transport as cover, despite his shaky legs, he forged a path around and to another troop transport.

All troop transports had ground protection, it seemed, to him by at least one squad of ground soldiers. Despite sweating profusely, and his haggard breathing, he wiped out the soldiers, though not with the handy-spinning attack which so effectively destroyed the previous groups. Tiring, his limbs slowed, and his energy reserves dwindled to a pale comparison of what they were at the start of the fight.

Although he ‘killed’ many wooden golems, he did so with many more hacking motions than he would have preferred. By the time he arrived behind the transport — and had to act fast, he realized, at seeing the doors open — he slammed his flaming blade into the exhaust pipe; learning from his previous mistake, he swiftly withdrew the sword.

Catching the result of his heroism, the fire colonized the vehicle's body with stunning haste, burning it to cinders along with the sickly looking oak automotrons within.

"Crap! My blade's flame is out!" he spoke to himself. He searched for a new fire source to ignite his weapon again. Fluster beset him.

On the verge of hyper-ventilating, a nearby troop transport redirected away from Jiehong’s location to him, perhaps seeing his reaver-like ability to destroy and becoming worried over the danger he could pose if left unchecked. Its blasting cannon screamed murder as it drove toward him. Though every blast fell short of Zan, he stumbled backward in a rushed retreat, feeling a genuine danger from knowing he was within range of one of those cannons. If he didn't move his arse and now, he would be (literally) blown to pieces.

Because most flames of a magical disposition were short-lived, he used a precious amount of his remaining magical reserve to light his blade, once he took cover behind a pile of automotrons killed by conventional means and not the all-consuming magical flame which rendered automotron frames to ashes.

Hyperventilating, he outright panicked. He needed someone to help him. Anyone.

He… words failed him. His heart beat so hard, he thought it would burst.

“Help…!” he tried to say, though what came out he couldn't say, except for the fact it made no sense. He babbled. What was happening? Was this mana sickness or a panic attack?!

Hearing explosions dot the distance, he wondered what fresh oblivion awaited him.

Ducking a kneeling glance, he saw enemy vehicles advance. It wasn’t within range yet. But it would be soon. What was he to do?!

To his left, squads upon squads of enemies. To his right, the same sight.

He saw his friend struggling with the many automotrons assaulting him; as were the other defenders of the line who, despite their courage, were incrementally overpowered and pushed back. "This must be how the enemy operates," he told himself. Send wave after wave of soldiers, amass for attacks, and gradually increase the pressure, wearing the enemy down.

BOOM! Another blast, but this one came from the ever-closer vehicle in front of him. It had him in its sights. If he didn’t move now, he would be a goner!

Forcing himself into a run, despite his heaving chest, he threw caution to the wind once he saw how the wind itself was on fire, metaphorically speaking. This forced measure gaze him the incentive he needed to rush out from cover despite the terror coursing through him. Running behind the vehicle, slashing wildly at several squads of golems attempting to obstruct his progress, he was about to lunge and slam his blade into the vehicle’s exhaust pipe when—

Everything stopped.