The rain had finally begun to lighten, its steady rhythm now reduced to a fine drizzle that peppered the earth like the last remnants of a storm's fury. The oppressive weight of the pyroclast’s fallout still lingered, fading into a sickly yellow-green haze. An acrid, sulfurous scent filled the air, sharp and biting, wrapping around them like the promise of more destruction. The ground beneath them, cracked and scorched, hissed as streams of steam rose from the charred earth—a sound like something desperately trying to breathe through cracked lungs. The sky overhead hung heavy, clouds swirling ominously, muting the light that struggled to break through.
Lysander stood, dusting off the ash that clung to his dark uniform as the ground hummed beneath him. His fingers absently brushed the collar of his jacket. His gaze swept over the devastation, and for a brief moment, there was nothing but the overwhelming stillness. The only sounds were the occasional hiss of cooling rocks and the distant echoes of battle, fading into memory.
"Cleaner than I expected," he said, the words calm, calculated. But the faintest hint of approval lingered in his tone. "No casualties. Quick, efficient. Can't ask for better."
Beside him, Stacy grunted in agreement but with less enthusiasm. As she sheathed her blade, the vines retracting with an almost satisfied rustling sound, she scowled at her boots. The edges were scorched, the heat having melted part of her tactical gear. Her hair was soaked, dripping over her forehead as she wiped it from her face with an exaggerated sigh. "Efficient? Efficient would've been stopping that thing before it even got the chance to torch my gear," she scoffed, wiggling one foot in front of her. "What part of *clean* involves melting my boots?" She raised an eyebrow at Lysander, smirking as she flicked water off her boot like it was his fault.
Lysander chuckled softly, his usual composure momentarily cracking, but he kept his distance. "Not all of us hide behind air walls, huh?" His gaze flicked over her, but it softened almost imperceptibly when he knelt down to examine the boots more closely. His fingers brushed over the burned leather, his touch precise and cool, the tension of the moment settling into a surprisingly tender moment of inspection. "No permanent damage. Consider yourself lucky," he muttered, voice more distracted than playful.
Stacy huffed a laugh, nudging him lightly with her elbow. "Such a caring guy, Lys. I'm *so* touched."
The exchange lingered in the air, playful but carrying an undercurrent of unspoken tension, before Elijah spoke up. The warrior had yet to move, though his frame was tense as ever. His amber eyes, fixed on the dark fissures in the ground, glowed dimly in the muted light, but his silence spoke volumes. There was something in his gaze—an alertness that didn’t match the calm of the situation. The air hummed around him, an uneasiness that, though subtle, threatened to slice through the quiet. The soft mist that lingered didn't calm him in the slightest.
“*Elijah?*” Stacy called out, her voice betraying a touch of concern, softer than usual. She stepped closer, eyes scanning his figure for any sign that something had gone wrong. "You okay? You’ve been quiet since we dropped that thing."
His response was delayed, as if torn between fighting the feelings that tugged at him. The air felt thick, too heavy with the remnants of battle. When he finally spoke, it was with an edge of quiet urgency. “Something’s off.” His voice, usually sure, was laced with doubt, the faintest tremor crawling beneath his words. His amber eyes turned to them, heavy with the weight of a realization that didn’t quite fit. "It didn’t feel like a fight. That thing… wasn’t trying to win. It was stalling us.”
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Lysander, ever the tactician, narrowed his eyes, studying Elijah with a quiet intensity that suggested more than simple curiosity. “Stalling? You sure about that?" The question landed with weight. "It came at us hard enough.”
"Exactly," Elijah muttered, turning to face them fully. His fingers flexed around the Serpent Shaft, knuckles white. "It was already crumbling, but it just kept coming—pushing harder. Almost like it *wanted* us to see it. To notice."
Stacy glanced at the destruction they’d left behind. Her skepticism was tempered with the sharpness of someone who had seen enough weirdness to question logic. "That... doesn’t make sense. If it was falling apart, why would it draw so much attention?" She waved vaguely at the chaos that now defined their landscape. "That thing was *huge*—doesn't sound like a random attack.”
“Wasn’t natural,” Elijah pressed. His voice carried the kind of deep-set frustration that came from hearing his own mind race with uncertainty. "Too controlled. A distraction, maybe."
Lysander’s brow furrowed in response, his composure faltering for the first time in a long while. "You think someone's pulling the strings?" His voice betrayed a flicker of uncertainty beneath its usual unwavering calm.
“Or maybe this was just the opening act.” Elijah’s gaze darkened as he held Lysander’s stare. "We were focused here. But what if something worse is already out there?"
Before anyone could respond, the atmosphere shifted sharply. A bite of cold wind pierced through the haze, sending a shiver through Stacy’s frame as she instinctively tightened her cloak around herself. She shifted her weight, arms crossed, still eyeing Elijah suspiciously. "Great," she muttered, sarcasm masking the tension that crept through her. "So we sit around waiting for the curtain to fall on us, huh?" Her voice shot back with more venom than she’d intended, a bitter edge sharpening her words. “What’s the play, Cap?”
The wind rose and swept past them, rushing through the empty battlefield like the anticipation before a storm’s roar. Elijah exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing as he turned toward the horizon. The last vestiges of light cut through the stormy clouds, casting jagged beams over the devastation. "We regroup," he commanded firmly. "But we don’t stop. If this *was* a diversion, we move faster. I’m not leaving here to find out we walked into the jaws of something worse."
Stacy nodded silently, her usual banter swallowed by the weight of the situation. Lysander mirrored the action, his posture tightening into readiness as the air grew heavier. Every footstep, every shift of their bodies was carried by an instinctual tension now pulsing in the environment.
Then, without warning, the earth shuddered violently. A low, primal roar sliced through the air—a guttural cry of anguish and rage that rattled their bones, setting the hairs on the back of their necks on end.
The ground vibrated beneath them, thrumming with a violent energy that felt too real. The battle-readied group froze, and for a heartbeat, the air seemed to hold its breath. The mist seemed to recede as a monstrous shape tore its way through the smoke and debris—a massive, shifting form of twisted flesh and gleaming metal. The creature lurched forward, its jagged steel limbs clanking with mechanical aggression, sending sickening cracks through the scorched ground. Each step it took bled the faintest hint of steam, dissipating as its cruelly manufactured limbs slashed through the rain-soaked atmosphere. Its organic muscles bled into the exposed machinery, and one red, cybernetic eye glared like a burning fuse ready to detonate. A massive weapon—a pulsating plasma cannon—swung from its enormous arm, and an ear-splitting sound hummed in its wake. As it surged forward, metallic tendrils curled from its back, hungry, reaching.
Lysander’s eyes widened only for a brief moment, but his instincts pushed him into a battle stance before the thought fully registered. “Lysander! Move!” Elijah’s warning sounded too late—the ground ruptured beneath the behemoth’s strike, throwing everything into chaos. They moved as one, though no plans could cover the crushing blow that followed.
Everything went black.
[End of Chapter]