The air around Elijah felt like it was closing in on him, each breath a struggle. Pain shot through him as he stumbled, each step dragging like wading through quicksand. The world seemed bent on pushing him down, unwilling to let him rise. But he could not stop. He would not stop. His muscles screamed for rest, but there was no time—only the suffocating pressure of a fight that wouldn't end.

He forced himself upright, sweat slicking his skin, mixing with the grime and the smoke that clung to him like a curse. The air smelled of burnt wood and metal, acrid and bitter, filling his lungs with every desperate breath. His hands shook as they gripped the jagged earth beneath him, scraping raw as blood mingled with the scorched dust. His body screamed in protest, but his mind, that single thread of resistance, refused to falter.

The battlefield was twisted—disjointed—and the lingering remains of destroyed machines cast long shadows in the gray smoke that choked the air. Elijah's vision blurred, the world growing hazy like a half-forgotten dream, and he could feel the familiar taste of blood on his tongue, sour and metallic. He clenched his jaw, forcing back the nausea, the tightness in his chest, and the panic that threatened to overtake him.

He looked up through bleary eyes, scanning the wreckage for his comrades.

"Stacy! Lysander!" His voice cracked, rasping painfully in the stillness, but only silence answered. His pulse thundered in his ears, the weight of uncertainty pressing harder with each second that passed. Where were they? Panic clawed at his insides, pulling at his thoughts, but he forced it down. No. Not now. He had to focus. He had to survive.

Then—rustle.

A sound so slight, so faint, but Elijah’s senses snapped to it with alarming clarity. He froze. His pulse skipped a beat, dread slithering under his skin. Instincts flared as his eyes darted across the dim battlefield, trying to cut through the smoke.

From the haze, two figures emerged—familiar, like ghosts rising from the carnage. Lysander. Sturdy, resolute, scanning the area with precision. Then Stacy—looking worse for wear, her armor shredded, a grimace twisted on her face. Her defiant smile, however, never wavered.

“Next time,” she murmured through clenched teeth, “no more apocalypse before breakfast.”

Elijah managed a strained smile, a brief flicker of relief. They were alive. But something about the stillness gnawed at him. His instincts screamed again, warning him of something just beyond the horizon, something wrong.

Clang. The noise was deafening, a warning that tore through the oppressive silence.

A figure appeared through the shifting smoke. Massive. A monster of steel and flesh, its hulking form dragging the ground beneath its feet. The world seemed to hold its breath as the creature took a step forward, the weight of its body shaking the earth with a low, grinding *thrum*. A single, red eye gleamed in the fog—too sharp, too unblinking, staring right through Elijah like an omen.

“Not again,” Stacy muttered, her hand darting to the hilt of her blade, fingers white as bone.

Lysander’s movements were mechanical, smooth as oil, each step placed with military precision as he positioned himself between the beast and his team. "Second round," he said in a voice that was cold, methodical, yet undeniable. He was ready.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Elijah’s heart pounded, an anxious heat spreading across his chest, but the world around him snapped into sharp focus. Pain twisted deep in his muscles, but his weapon—his Serpent Shaft—was there. It grounded him, gave him purpose. He clenched his fingers around the cool metal, his thoughts slowing.

But the beast didn’t rush them. No. It paused, watching with unnatural patience, the metallic rasp of its limbs creating an eerie rhythm against the ruined ground.

“I see," it rasped, a mix of mechanical whirring and distorted human tone that scraped against the edges of Elijah’s mind. "You are still alive. That is... disappointing."

Elijah’s jaw tightened. “What the hell are you?” The words spilled out, a guttural demand against his growing dread.

The creature’s head jerked up, its eerie chuckle reverberating in the smoky air, full of malice and distortion. “I am Apex Unit No. 2," it crooned, cold contempt oozing through every syllable.

A name echoed in Elijah’s head like an alarm. Caleb. The team—Caleb’s team. Panic flickered, sharp and insistent. Was No. 1—?

“Where’s No. 1?” His voice sounded wrong, too thin, strangled with rising fear.

The creature's laugh cracked in a mechanical snarl, distortion sharp and jarring. “Apex Unit No. 1 will remain... elsewhere. Unlike you," it added with a slow sneer, its red eye narrowing. "You shall remain where you belong.”

A flash of Caleb’s face burst into his mind—the way the others had talked about him—suddenly distorted by the ache of loss, the specter of failure. Elijah could feel the weight in his chest like a thousand stones.

Stacy's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Elijah! Focus!” Her shout was clipped, strained.

But Lysander’s warning was the first clear thought through the fog of Elijah’s fear. “It’s a trap,” Lysander warned. “We need to—”

Before Lysander could finish, Elijah snapped into motion, adrenaline ripping through his veins. There was no hesitation. “Get to Caleb’s team—now!” he barked, his heart slamming against his ribs.

Stacy’s eyes blazed with anger, confusion, fear. “Are you nuts?! You can't seriously think of abandoning us?”

But Elijah shot her a look that brooked no argument. There was no time for words.

“Get. Moving,” Elijah snapped. His voice was a harsh rasp. His throat was tight. “I'll hold it here. You have to find Caleb. Don’t waste another second.”

Stacy hesitated. Anger warred with concern in her eyes. But then, with a sharp nod, Lysander took the lead, moving into the smoke and haze, Stacy still frozen for just a moment before reluctantly following.

Elijah turned his eyes back to the hulking form of Apex Unit No. 2, his heart racing, legs like lead. This wasn’t just a fight anymore. This was for something bigger than him. And as his fingers tightened around his weapon, Elijah knew what he had to do.

"Time to disappoint you," Elijah muttered, his voice low and steady as the creature lumbered closer.

The screech of grinding metal and the flare of red light became deafening as the beast lunged forward, its claws aimed directly for his throat.

Elijah barely dodged as the colossal metal fist slammed into the earth, the ground shaking violently under his feet. He rolled just in time, pain radiating through his ribs, but his weapon found its mark—briefly, before the monster’s skin repelled the blow with a resounding clang. The creature was impossibly fast, its monstrous strength outstripping everything Elijah had ever fought before. Sweat stung his eyes as he scrambled to regain his footing.

This is bad. His mind raced, desperately seeking an advantage.

A flicker in the creature’s movements caught his eye. Its left joint—slightly more exposed after its last attack. Elijah surged forward, determined not to waste the opportunity. His body screamed in protest, but he dug in with the last ounce of his strength and drove the Serpent Shaft right into the weakening hinge.

The impact was brutal. The sound of tearing metal echoed across the battlefield.

The creature staggered back, a surprising, glitching hiss emitting from its chest. But it was only a moment—its roar of fury shook the ground once again, followed by another deafening crash.

But then, with each step, Elijah's vision began to blur.

His eyes refused to focus on the beast before him. He could taste the iron of blood on his lips again, see everything double as if the very world itself were fragmenting. His pulse echoed louder in his skull as he staggered to stay on his feet. His arms felt heavy, fingers numb, like he was slipping.

He couldn’t hold on much longer.

[End of Chapter]