110 (II) Surface [II]
High above the Old Santabar mountain ranges, a Dimensional gateway activated at the center of a ring-shaped skyship. The Dimensionalists within directed its magical frequencies, connecting the rift to their front-most forward operating base nested near the top of the chasm. A pool of distorted shadows formed thereafter.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then, five golden titanic shapes exploded out from the Dimensional mana. The Dimensionalists held the portal gateway open for another second before they closed it immediately. Even then, they had to scramble and reshape the Dimensionality mana before someone captured and recorded their frequency.
As they did what they could to cover their tracks, ten mind-linked primal dragons of time were directed downward through the clouds. Their bodies were coated in an adamantine barding, and built into the barding was a rider’s capsule on their back. Within, the Psychomancer-Riders of Interceptor Squadron Gold-Primary prepared themselves to intercept and eliminate the enemy.
“Gold-01 to Gold-Primary. Prime Necro-Throwers.” And from above the capsules emerged a modular weapon that resembled a flamethrower, containing a corrosive crystal instead of fuel tanks or a Pyromancy enchantment.
“Primed!”
“Primed!
“Primed and ready!”
A series of nine other telepathic confirmations followed.
One of the gold-scaled time dragons let out a wild shriek as it nearly triggered its Chronomancy.
“Gold-05, keep that dragon leashed until you receive clearance.”
“Affirmative, Gold-01.”
They burst through a final layer of clouds just as the sun descended past the curve of the horizon. A last glittering of light danced off their scales, and Gold-01 and his squadron muttered a quick prayer to the Great One.
Through the Awareness-boosting Enchantments lining the insides of his capsule, Gold-01 saw the massive ball of destruction in the distance. An entire section of Old Santabar had been cracked to the foundations. The earth was shaking.
“Damn the Dawn, but SC-Central wasn’t bullshitting when she said we were dealing with a Hero,” Gold-03 breathed.
“We’ve killed Heroes before,” Gold-08 whispered. And it was true. They had. And they were going to do it again today.
The squadron fell silent as a cataclysmic avalanche of fire and force crashed over the land. It didn’t look so different from how the tidal waves of the Pacific hammered against the Tidewall. Ahead of the destruction was a mass of crawling darkness. Just looking at it filled Gold-01 with unease.
“Creeping Void,” Gold-01 said, recognizing the skill.
“What?” Gold-02 asked. “Isn’t that a skill common for krakens?”
“Yeah. Krakens. Shadow dragons. And Void-Dwellers.”
Just then, a narrow beam of Psychomancy splashed into Gold-01, and a snapshot of understanding was slotted into his mind. He shared the memory with the others in his squadron, and they recalled seeing a humanoid shape at the heart of the nigh-impenetrable darkness rather than a Kraken.
An uneasy feeling filled Gold-01. It wasn’t impossible for a human to develop certain skills common for monsters, but…
“Gold-Primary, stick close to each other. Watch each other’s backs. We stride in three.”
A series of confirmations greeted Gold-01. He pushed all doubt aside.
The first thing a Psychomancer learned was how to control themselves. Now he didn’t have time for fear. He had a Hero to kill.
***
“Godsddammit, Shiv, it’s been less than a minute,” Adam cursed as he climbed higher. He had been launched off his feet by a solid wall of kinetic force just as he emerged from the gate. Shiv’s Creeping Void ensured he couldn’t see anything, but the deafening sounds of distant explosions told the Gate Lord all he needed to know: Shiv had already made contact with the enemy and was in the process of getting to know them better.
Adam came to a stop as he slipped into a layer of clouds. He cast his senses out and winced as he beheld the damage Shiv left in his wake. A massive, five-kilometer-wide scar trailed across the land. Huge fissures parted the earth as well, and dozens of deep craters were imprinted on the ground.
No bloody wonder Gate Theborn got destroyed. He let out a quiet breath. The sheer destruction was unbelievable. But it was also useful. And where Shiv moved like a natural disaster, Adam spotted things like he was borderline omniscient.
He immediately zeroed in on a badly crushed bunker half-buried in the soil. The inhabitants were mostly dead, but only just so. One let out a hoarse whimper, and Adam bit back a grimace of pity. Then, his senses crawled further—shooting past Shiv’s current position, as indicated by his Creeping Void.
There, Adam took in what seemed like open terrain—and started picking out irregularities. He zoomed in on strange, reflective glints and followed them to discover hidden bunkers. No, wait. Observation posts. They were built into the mountains and even the ground. Within were groups of eight to ten Pathbearers. Most of them were armed with bows or some manner of ranged weaponry, and they wore armor that resembled Shiv’s. Yet theirs was sleeker, with narrower helmets that had lenses, while the composition of the armor itself was of a darker, colder metal.
Then, there came a shudder from high up in the air, and Adam turned his senses away—to discover ten golden dragons approaching the fray.
“Broken Moon,” Adam breathed. “Where the hells did they get ten primal dragons?” He pushed his senses past the ten golden dragons just then and found something in the air behind them. A flying vessel of some kind. One that had recently opened a Dimensional gateway, if the motes of darkness leaking from its core were any indication.
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“Well, well,” Adam said, forming a Veilpiercer. His senses crashed against the ship but couldn’t get any further. It was warded. Warded a bit too well. His vambrace crackled to life. He would solve that problem in a moment. Take one of the people aboard prisoner if possible. Meanwhile… “Keep moving, Shiv… Keep kicking the hornet's nest. I think things are about to work out for us perfectly.”
***
The shape of Roland’s soul was his arrows. The length of Roland's reach ended at the length of his arrows. The depth of Roland's awareness was painted by the trajectory of his arrows. Everything he touched with his projectiles, he sensed, he saw, he killed. And Roland's arrow never missed their mark.
Beyond the reach of the atmosphere, Roland’s reserve arrows glistened in the void, far beyond the reach of the enemy. And there they remained, serving more as his eyes and ears than a weapon for him to use.
He studied the encirclement surrounding his town, watching as Sullain’s forces were driven back another kilometer from the south side as a swarm of three thousand arrows tore into and detonated within a pocket dimension they thought was hidden.
But there were more enemies to bring down. Many more.
Eighty kilometers away at the Santamon Mountains, some Necrotech Deathstalkers were dragging the remnants of their artillery platforms back. They made it three hundred meters before an arrow the size of Blackedge crashed down on the sky and shattered. Over the horizon, a flash of light rose into the sky. The Solar mana contained within the arrow scoured the land clean for fifty kilometers.
A mere two kilometers below Blackedge, another group of enemies attempted a mad rush. There was a Hero among them this time. A Heroic-Tier vampire whose speed grew with every person nearby. They zipped up toward Blackedge, intending on cracking the town’s wards—
And promptly burst apart into ashes as Roland redirected a few of his three thousand arrows to fly over the chasm. They fused together before they speared into the vampire’s back, and though getting pierced didn’t kill the vampire, getting incinerated by the power of dawn did.
Night was coming. Parts of the battered ruins of Lost Angeles rose as Sullain’s Geomancers tried to form their bunkers. A hail of arrows crashed down through the clouds and annihilated every piece of stone the Geomancers were trying to manipulate. A good few hundred slipped into the chasm, crashing against Sullain’s wards as well.
Sullain. The vicar hadn’t done anything for a while. Roland didn’t like that. You didn’t give mages time to plot or scheme. That was a critical rule in combat. But with Blackedge pressed from all sides, Roland didn’t have a choice but to hold and fight.
Hold and fight as he had been doing for weeks.
By the Starhawk, he was tired…
A warning from Starhawk’s Perch pulsed in Roland’s mind. Someone tried to halt time. Roland directed a special Chronomantic arrow into them from beyond the atmosphere.
Another time dragon dropped from the clouds in two pieces. And for the first time in years, Roland’s Respecification Unique Skill leveled. And his other Unique Skill leveled right after as he regained a Chronomantic arrow from the soul of the dragon he just killed.
Respecification 411 > 412
Quiver of the Slain 354 > 355
With each enemy slain, Roland felt new arrows fill his spiritual quiver. New arrows forged by the remains of his enemies—of their greatest skills. It was also the reason he'd remained at Master-Tier for so long—because a little careful redistribution of one’s levels went a long way to hiding just how high they were in total.
And that was the entire point of Roland’s existence. He wanted power, not prestige.
But he was starting to tire again. He needed to find a way to level some of his lesser skills some more so he could draw points over from them into his Physicality. At the thought of that, Roland started doing mental math again, pushing his already exhausted mind to its limit to get another few levels. But he couldn’t do it. Not alone.
“Chris,” Roland said, gritting his teeth. “I need another spike of focus.”
“Yes, Lord Arrow,”
Atop the apex of his castle, within a shroud of Divination and Solar mana, Roland Arrow released another shot. Another shot shaped from starstuff. Another shot fated to strike and kill an enemy. Another shot that turned into ten and then a hundred as it traveled through the air. Within Roland’s ruined nest were Biomancers, working to keep his body functional at all times, and Chris Evetine, his personal Psychomancer that did everything she could to guard his focus and stop his mind from slipping. There were also Diviners, generals, Slayers, and more here, but most of them were dead on their feet from exhaustion.
Everyone was on the brink after weeks of non-stop combat.
Below, Blackedge was being consumed by desperation, rot, biological plagues, and ones of Psychomantic madness.
Sullain was a dreadful adversary. The vicar was no warrior, and Roland had managed to repel the Abyssal Lord in a direct contest at first. But he was a mage. And the worst thing about a Legendary mage—one who possessed practically every Magical Skill known to Integrated Earth—was how they could strike mind, spirit, and body at once.
Before Roland drove Sullain back to the Abyss, forcing the wretch to retreat, the vicar managed to breach Blackedge's wards once. The spells Sullain left destroyed the agriculture, sickened the people, and withered the metal. It also created monsters that would spawn at night. Monsters that burst free from flesh or even concentrations of darkness.
Roland was his arrows, and his arrows patrolled the streets of Blackedge as well. They strained him to the very limit, and they revealed to him just how many people were dying. Another wail sounded from another house. Another cry was silenced. Another child let out a breath and didn't take another. With every passing second, Roland could feel his town dying.
He could feel this prison-turned-home crumble away. And Roland understood this was Sullain’s revenge. Roland had sacked Submission, and now Blackedge was to pay for his sins.
But what could the Town Lord do in the face of despair? What could he do? Kneel? Bend? Break? Beg?
No. Roland had been a Pathbearer from the moment he picked up the bow, from the moment he knew that fighting was a choice. So he fought on. So he killed. So he worked tirelessly, unleashing powers unheard of upon his adversaries, butchering them day after day, minute after minute, second by second. And through it all, he convened with the Starhawk. He plotted. He schemed. If they just had enough time, perhaps the Starhawk could integrate the other sacred phylacteries. If he managed that, the Starhawk could either find a way to create remembrances from his long-lost companions or even draw their power onto himself to better rally for the coming fight.
And despite all the strain Roland was under, this was merely the opening salvo in a coming fight.
I must endure, Roland thought to himself. I must hold. If I do fail... No, I cannot. The Republic... the Republic cannot stand much longer. The lies, deception, twisting of minds, the sapping of faith... The toll has become too great. The Republic won't be able to stand the avarice of the Ascendants any longer, nor survive the ritual they seek to perform…
It was a horrible, nightmarish thing. Something he refused to accept at first, even with the Starhawk showing him the truth. He knew the Ascendants weren’t perfect, but what they planned was beyond the pale—was something Roland couldn’t accept. And neither could the Starhawk, for that matter.
But now—
One of his arrows saw a massive explosion unfolding over Old Santabar. For a moment, Roland’s mind reeled.
Over four hundred kilometers away from Blackedge and Lost Angeles, a trail of building destruction cleaved a line near the coast—and drew the attention of what seemed like one of Sullain’s Interceptor Squadrons.
What is this?
A massive war horn sounded. A war cry followed thereafter. Things began to move and crawl within the Chasm. Roland couldn’t split his focus now. Another night was about to begin. But Old Santabar… If this was the Inquisition… His gut clenched. He needed to know. He needed to know to prepare himself. Because he couldn’t hold against them too.
And he would need to attempt a fighting retreat with Blackedge. Even if it was likely to end in his death and the town’s demise.
“ARROW! STARHAWK’S CHAMPION! I COME FORTH ONCE MORE!” Sullain sang in the darkness. “I COME BEARING GIFTS FROM THE OUTSIDE! I COME TO DELIVER YOUR END!”
Roland rolled his eyes. “Not the bloody eldritch bullshit again.” He let out a sigh and stared at his comrades. “It’s nightmares again, I’m afraid.”
“That’s alright, Lord Arrow,” Guard Captain Koswin Kranos said. “None of us are going to be doing any sleeping for a while. No nightmares that way.”
“No nightmares,” Roland echoed. He shaped another arrow in response—
But he directed just one arrow to see what was happening in Old Santabar, and thus, a gleaming needle of starstuff fell from the void above.