Victor hefted the handle of the giant axe, grinning at the way he had to strain just to lift it onto his shoulder. The massive axe head was still resting on the ground behind him. He figured if the axe were made of steel, it would weigh a couple thousand pounds. The blade stood up from the ground more than a yard, and the spike on the backside was buried in the soft soil another foot, sunk there by gravity when Victor summoned it from his ring. The fact of the matter, though, was that the axe wasn’t made of steel. It wasn’t iron. It was some alloy or magical metal that neither he nor any of the men and women of the ninth could identify. It was far heavier and denser than an iron-based alloy, but it wasn’t soft like lead or gold—they’d ruined hammers trying to test the edge.

Without his Iron Berserk, Victor could lift the axe and swing it, but it was unwieldy, and the momentum of the great weapon would throw him off balance. No, he’d found that to use it effectively, he needed the size his Berserk granted him and the strength from his Titanic Rage feat. He twisted his hands on the metal axe haft, grinning at how his fingers could barely wrap around the dark metal. He wondered what the silly bastards up on the wall were thinking. Did they think he was insane? Did they wonder how he’d swing such a massive implement? He was having a good time keeping them wondering.

When he’d released his Alter Self spell, he’d done it as he fell away from the crowds, far beneath them. His hope was that they wouldn’t be able to discern the fact that he’d suddenly grown. No other people were on the field, and the axe was enormous, so he figured they thought he was still the same size he’d been. He loved the idea of pounding those tanks into scrap without revealing his full titanic form. He loved it so much that he was going to try to fight them without berserking, just to see if he could pull it off. “Yep, chica,” he said, looking at his shoulder where Lifedrinker’s haft jutted up, “I’ll just start off slow. It’s better I don’t get too pissed off, anyway, right? Wouldn’t want me to lose my shit and smash through that wall.” He chuckled, shaking his head, starting to daydream, but then he realized they were probably waiting for him to signal that he was ready.

Victor smiled and muttered, “Timing is everything,” then lifted his right arm in the air, waving it back and forth. Almost immediately, an answering boom sounded from the far corner of the wall, and a sparkling red flare flew into the air, arcing over the field. Victor had good reflexes when it came to starting a contest. From the ancient-seeming days when he’d been a wrestler and waited for the whistle or beep to the death battles in the pits, arenas, and colosseums, he’d always been quick to jump into combat. This was no different, and he literally leaped into action. He squatted, flexed his powerful thighs, and, gripping the massive axe like he was trying to uproot a streetlamp, he launched into the air toward the centermost tank on the field's eastern edge.

The axe ripped a massive divot out of the ground, trailing dirt and grass as he flew through the air with it hanging behind his shoulder. Soaring through the air, he began to bunch the wire-taut muscles of his shoulders and arms, getting ready to swing the tremendous weapon over his shoulder as he descended. Of course, he was channeling Sovereign Will into his strength and vitality. Of course, he’d pulled that hot, familiar rage-attuned Energy from his Core and into his pathways, casting Channel Spirit to fill his arms and the massive axe with its furious heat. Considering the axe’s black metal and the trail of dirt, it was hard to see, but if one were discerning, they might catch the hint of a faint red halo limning the weapon.

As he reached the apex of his leap, some thirty yards in the air, and began to descend, Victor saw the automated, Energy-driven tanks had reacted to the signal, or perhaps some remote operator had. He didn’t know how smart the things were on their own. Regardless, they’d all rumbled to life, their treads glowing with yellow Energy, their turrets turning to try to track him, but only a few had enough vertical mobility. Victor had no idea what they might fire out of their many differently-shaped barrels, but he didn’t find out right away; he’d gotten the jump on them—Victor laughed at the pun—and before they could react enough to stop him, he fell like a flesh and metal comet on his chosen victim. With a roar loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the many machines, he jerked his gigantic axe over his head. His feet hit the turf with a muffled boom, and he smashed the weapon down on the tank.

Karl’s axe, focusing thousands of pounds of metal on a wedge-shaped cutting edge, split through the shiny tank like a hatchet hitting an aluminum can. Victor had placed his blow on the front quarter of the machine, just in front of the turret, and the axe tore through the armor, the metal gears, and whatever else was inside, all the way down into the ground. In a spectacular shower of rainbow-hued sparks and flames, the machine began to come apart at the seams. Victor would have loved to watch the show, to see the various liquids spurting forth, to listen to the pop of magical crystals and fuses, but he knew better than to stand around when nineteen other enemies were targeting him.

As the concussive sounds of cannons being fired echoed around him, Victor jerked on the enormous axe and started running toward the machine to his left. The shots weren’t aimed at where he currently was, thankfully, because the axe didn’t want to come free. Victor’s momentum was brought to a screeching halt as the blade caught up in the smoldering, smoking metal of the ruined tank, and, despite the vast disparity in their relative mass, Victor began to drag the vehicle through the grass. He only made it a few feet before it became too much for him, the treads buried a foot into the soft soil. Still, as it bit into the ground, the axe jerked free, and Victor veritably flew through the grass toward the next tank as it set its sights on him.

#

“Jesus Christ!” someone off to her right exclaimed, confirming, if Valla had doubted the fact, that these people came from Victor’s home world. The outburst had come when Victor launched himself into the air and smashed one of the machines before any of the automatons could react. She couldn’t help her small smile and slight nod, approving of Victor’s showmanship. He was holding a lot back, but it was probably wise; Borrius thought these humans had something in reserve, and she agreed.

She watched Victor struggle to pull his axe out of the wreckage of the first machine, saw him actually pull the massive vehicle a short way through the grass, and then sprint toward the next one as the axe broke free. All the while, colorful explosions were bursting in the air as the other war machines fired, belatedly, at the places Victor had been as he soared toward the first broken construct. “Quite a spectacle,” Issa said beside her. “Reminds me of a harvest celebration back home.”

“That axe,” Darren Whitehorse said from the other side of her, “it must weigh thousands of pounds to do that to our tank. How does he move with it like that?” He sounded genuinely incredulous. Hadn’t he seen the magic people could work in this world? Hadn’t he listened to Victor’s cousin? Was he so dense?

Before she could respond, Issa did, “I suppose he’s put much of his Energy cultivation into improving his physical attributes.”

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“But . . .” Whitehorse said, wincing as Victor destroyed another machine, this time cleaving the axe in a sideways arc so it broke free with its own momentum. “But, we’ve had citizens put their leveling attributes into strength; the ones who’ve focused on that exclusively have reached limits, unable to add more past a ceiling. A ceiling, I might add, that is far less than what would allow anyone to do that!”

“Have you truly refused to listen to what people have tried to explain? Victor has advanced his race to the point where the ceiling for his attributes is far beyond what a normal human, or,” she winked at Issa, “Ardeni could reach.”

“He’s large, but it doesn’t explain it. It’s not logical! How can he swing that weapon without flinging himself off the ground?” He winced again as Victor, using his weapon’s momentum, sprinted across the field toward the advancing row of tanks on the other side. In his wake, the automaton he’d just destroyed was further ruined by the explosions of belated friendly fire. The ground erupted in clouds of smoke and soil as the other machines tried to track Victor’s movement but fell short.

Valla peered down her nose at the man, her regal brows narrowing. “Did you not hear him hit the ground when he leaped off this wall? Did you not feel the stones beneath your feet shudder? You underestimate Victor at your own peril.”

“He’s destroyed two of twenty, and surely he’s growing tired. No one can run that fast carrying a weight like that for long.” As if he could hear Darren’s words, Victor suddenly exploded into the air, performing another impossible leap, the enormous axe hanging behind him as he traversed the second half of the gap between him and the oncoming machines. The ground where he’d launched himself exploded in a series of massive concussions. The soil was pockmarked with craters, and colorful smoke rose in small clouds. Had the machines been too slow-witted to realize he’d leaped? They’d all fired on the last spot he’d stood as though he were still there.

As another tremendous crash echoed up the wall from the field, Valla jerked her eyes away from the smoking, cratered field to see Victor had buried the axe into the center of his target, crumpling the automaton. He’d hit it squarely on the round, swiveling part with the cannon barrels, and it exploded, sending Victor and his axe flying through the air. He lost his grip on the weapon and smashed into the field, bouncing and flopping while the axe hit the ground with an audible thud and sank into the soil, unmoving. Gasps sounded around her, and further away, down the wall, where the townspeople had gathered, she heard some cries of alarm and, disturbingly, some applause.

“Ah, a pity,” Whitehorse said, a smug smile twisting the corner of his mouth. “He seems to have underestimated the explosives within the turret housing. I’m sorry, Lady ap’Yensha.”

“Valla will do, sir. Please don’t apologize. I doubt Victor is much bothered by that little tumble.”

Whitehorse jerked his eyes away from the field, looking at Valla incredulously. “He was just exploded! You saw him flopping on the ground.” He looked past her to Issa, “Lady Issa, perhaps you should counsel our guest. I fear she’s in . . .”

“He’s up!” one of the other members of parliament crowed. Valla squinted at him, trying to remember his name—Ballad? Bannard? Something like that. She followed his and everyone’s gaze back to the field where Victor had stood, looking around with a slightly dazed expression. She wondered if now was the time he’d cast his Iron Berserk spell or summon his banner. Perhaps he’d conjure one of his totems to distract the many machines turning their barrels his way. She saw him moving oddly, his shoulders moving up and down while he rested his hands on his knees. A slow smile crept over her lips as she realized what he was doing.

“Is he all right? Shall I cancel the demonstration?” Whitehorse sounded hopeful.

“He’s trying to breathe!” another man said.

“No,” Valla said, raising her voice to be heard by all nearby. “He’s laughing.”

#

“Hah, what a pendejo I am!” Victor laughed, sharing his amusement with Lifedrinker. “I should know these things might explode.” Before he could say anything more, he heard the deep booms of the tanks firing at him, and he instinctively jumped into the air. He tried to angle his reflexive leap toward his fallen axe, but he wasn’t facing quite the right way, and he couldn’t turn once he was airborne. Still, he cleared the area in time to avoid getting pelted with whatever projectiles those things were firing, and when he landed, he turned and sprinted for the gigantic weapon.

He was a little battered, his arms cut and scraped, his face and neck raw from the explosion. His entire body was a little sore; when he’d crashed into the ground, it hadn’t felt great. Still, his armor and helmet kept the brunt of the explosion from really affecting him. His feats and affinities made him almost immune to fire. “If I couldn’t berserk, I’d feel like hell tomorrow.” Victor smiled grimly as he grabbed ahold of the tree-like axe handle. When he pulled on it, he realized the blade had buried itself a good six feet into the soft ground. Jerking and tugging, he grew a little annoyed. His shoulder was sore, and he knew those cannons were retargeting him. As they fired—thum, thum, thum, thum—his frustration got the better of him, and he released his tight control on his Core and let his rage flow into his pathways. Without a second thought, he cast Iron Berserk.

#

“He’s gotten himself in a pickle now. That axe is too much for him in his battered state!” Darren Whitehorse smiled at Felicity, his aide and one of the best engineering experts in the colony. She nodded to him, habitually pressing at the space on the bridge of her nose where her glasses used to be; she no longer needed them, but her brain hadn’t caught up to the fact.

“He’ll have to abandon it, or they’ll fire upon him there.” She leaned close, looking left and right, perhaps trying to time the rudimentary intelligence she’d helped program into the tanks. “Right about now . . .”

The long-range-cannon-equipped tanks interrupted her with their booms—thum, thum, thum, thum. Darren watched the big man, still struggling with the axe. It was hard to see his expression at this distance, but he imagined he was frustrated and exhausted. Undoubtedly, that explosion had hurt. He had to be exhausted, ready to quit. Perhaps that was why he didn’t jump again, why he didn’t flee. Was he really too tired? Was this the end? Darren wouldn’t relish seeing the haughty, beautiful woman beside him in mourning, but he also wouldn’t mind taking her down a notch. What would Issa say? Would she finally bend a little, admitting that what they brought from Earth, their technical know-how, made them worth listening to?

With those thoughts racing through his mind, Darren clenched his hands into fists of nervous anticipation and watched as the big man disappeared in a cloud of colorful smoke, turned-up soil, and fiery gasses. The four long-barreled tanks had struck direct hits, and already, the others were firing—mortars, fire canisters, and short-range cluster munitions. “Yes!” Felicity hissed, clapping her small hands together. “Direct hits!”

Darren was watching as she spoke, and sure enough, the smoky ground zero of the first shots suddenly erupted with fire and more smoke as the dozen other tanks landed their hits. “Ouch! Again, my apologies, Lady . . . Valla. I do wish you’d have surrendered for him.”

She didn’t respond, but when Darren looked at her, he saw for the first time that she’d pressed her lips into a firm, flat line. She was worried. His heart began to race at the idea. Had they just killed him? The hero of the Free Marches as that fool, Alec Green, had been billing him? Had Darren really just orchestrated his death? The idea was both terrifying and thrilling. He’d truly advanced his agenda with this display. Who would stand against him? This demonstration would certainly sway the voters, and the next election would be a landslide . . .

Like something out of a monster movie, a roar ripped through the smoke and dust, echoing over the field and up the wall. It shook the very mortar in the stone crenelations, and Darren found his knees buckling as they started to tremble involuntarily. “What the . . .” he managed to say through lips suddenly dry, with a tongue that felt like it had been salt-cured. But then the roar sounded again, and this time, it ended in a mad, bedeviled laugh that threatened to loosen his bowels. Something fell on him with that sound. Something like a blanket of pure, oppressive dread. He had to clutch at the crenelation to keep from falling, and he realized he wasn’t alone. Many people on the wall had fainted or fallen, pressed down by that palpable field of hatred, fury, and fear.

“What . . .” Felicity tried to say, her voice trembling and thready. “What is . . .” she had to stop and lick her lips, also hugging the smooth, lime-washed wall to keep from collapsing.

“That’s Victor’s aura,” the tall, angelic warrior-woman said, her voice perfectly steady. “He must have summoned his banner. You’ll see it after that smoke clears. Judging by that mad laughter, I'm afraid that he’s likely gone berserk, too. I don’t think any of your machines will be salvageable.”