ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴇᴀʀʟɪᴇʀ
ꜱᴇᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ, ᴡᴀ
ɪʀᴏɴ ʟᴇɢɪᴏɴ ʜᴇᴀᴅQᴜᴀʀᴛᴇʀꜱ
Marcus Blackwell, Signature Title: Soldier of God, convened his war council in his throne room. Its walls were a silver so deep they were almost black, curving up to high, vaulted ceilings ribbed with sharp steel beams. Floor-to-ceiling windows gazed out at a city darkened by storm clouds. The only other source of light was the ceiling: a stained glass window that let in bruised purple light.
He and his generals sat around a giant circular wood table. A map of Washington was laid out at its center. All of the north was shaded in gray, the color of the Legion. Most of the northeast was gray too. Tendrils of gray trickled steadily south.
This was how things were last week. The map would soon be a lot more colorful.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Marcus said, in his low, gravelly voice. He smiled broadly.
None of the four generals sitting around the table looked very comfortable. Then again, it was hard to be around a man like Marcus. Like taking your eyes off a starving tiger.
You wouldn't think so just looking at the man. In his public speeches he was all big smiles. He was Marcus the Great Protector, Marcus the Savior. The citizens of Seattle had heard it a hundred times before by now. In a world of monsters and dungeons, you needed a man like Marcus.
He even looked the part. He'd been big before the Change, but now he'd grown to a towering seven feet, thick with muscle, all square-jawed with a winning smile. He had Captain America looks on a huge Hulk body. He was Seattle's perfect superhero.
That was how the world saw him—at least, the world under his rule. Marcus certainly saw himself like that. He projected that. But General Sullivan had known him since well before the Change. All the generals here had. So they were always a little uneasy.
"General Clay," said Marcus. "Kindly begin your report."
Clay licked his lips. He was a little rat of a man. Sullivan had never liked him, but he had a good eye for catching his enemies by surprise. Whatever you said about Marcus, he knew how to make use of people.
"The eastern campaign goes swimmingly," whispered Clay. He giggled. "We're on the verge of victory. We've chased the Dawn Guard halfway down the state—oh, how they scurry! We have them at Mount Rainier. I have sicc'ed four lieutenants on them. They're under heavy siege. We'll crush them this week, maybe tomorrow! I would bring you their heads as proof, sir, but … pity."
"Very good."
"Ah—and by this time, Lieutenant Stroud will taken that Savage Sage fellow into the fold. They ought to be enough to finish off Mt. St. Hellens. The east and the south are as good as ours!"
"Excellent," said Marcus. He had the strange way of smiling—the muscles of his face would make all the correct movements, but somehow it always seemed a little off. The eyes, Sullivan thought, just a little too intense to be real. Two pitiless black orbs boring into your soul when they looked at you.
They looked at Sullivan now, and Sullivan flinched. "General Sullivan," he said. "What do you have to report? Good news, I hope?"
Sullivan swallowed. But there was no getting away from it. The only thing the Soldier hated more than failures were liars. "We're deadlocked, sir, a few hundred miles into Canada," he said gruffly. "The Harbor Masters are being difficult… it's the terrain. We're having trouble breaking the hold near Whistler. It's—…"
Sullivan trailed off. Marcus was still staring at him. He wasn't smiling anymore, just staring.
Sullivan started to sweat. But he said quickly, "We'll break through before the month's end. I swear it, Sir. Just… a little more time."
Marcus was silent.
"I see," he said at last. His voice was utterly flat. A pit dropped in Sullivan's stomach. Before he could say more, though, there came a knock at the huge steel doors.
"Sir?" came a voice, high-pitched—young, trembling a little. "I have news—it's very important!"
"Oh?" said Marcus, and the moment passed. His voice warmed. The muscles in his face warped, contracted into a smile. "Come in."
The door cracked open, and a new recruit stepped through. Fresh uniform, hardly even broken in yet.
Every general around the table tensed.
It meant none of the usual messengers would deliver the message. Only a fresh face, someone who had never met Marcus—who only knew him second-hand—dared do it.
It said something about the message.
The messenger was just a boy, maybe 17 or 18, freckled, grinning this gap-toothed grin. He scurried up like he was coming to meet Santa.
"Sir, I'm Jacob, sir. Jacob Swalwell, private Jacob Swalwell. I just wanted to say, you're my hero, sir. I saw you going into the apartments alone, and clearing it when no one else would. My gramps lived there, sir, he had Alzheimer's—you saved him!"
Marcus smiled. "Thank you, Jacob. My greatest hope is to inspire fine young men like you. Now, what's this message you have for me?"
"Oh!" Jacob seemed to remember he'd come as a messenger, not a fanboy. "Err… it's Lieutenant Stroud, Sir, in Mount Saint Helens. His life crystal… it..."
He pulled it out. An active life crystal linked to its pair on someone's body would glow blue.
A broken one was dark. It meant its pair had stopped responding. It meant the person who wore it was dead.
Silence.
Marcus's face went utterly blank.
"Sir…?"
"Show me," he said slowly.
The boy sat the life crystal on the center of the table, and a projection rose over them all. The last scene the life crystal had sent over—the last scene the wearer saw.
Two people. One, a messy-haired girl in a hoodie. The generals flinched when they saw her. Marcus's jaw clenched, but his face didn't change.
Then there was a dark-haired man bathed in blood, two chains drooping at his sides, axes fixed to their ends. If Marcus was the hero of a story, this man could've been the villain.
They heard Stroud make his offer. They heard what this man said in response.
Then they watched him take Stroud apart. The last thing the crystal picked up—"Next time, I hope they bring someone stronger."
A chill went down Sullivan's spine.
The scene went dark.
"Uh, sir?" said Jacob. "You look a little—"
Marcus's fist hit him so hard his skull caved in. Sullivan had heard people get hit brutally hard before—there was a cacophony of cracks as things broke: first their nose, then their orbital, then their jaw. Marcus hit the boy so hard there was just one huge shattering, like the crack of a bull whip. Every bone in his face broke at once.
He should've died instantly. But as his body went down Marcus buried another fist in his gut, then another, and blood burst out, splattering all over the room, splattering his fists, splattering his face. He screamed, bashing over and over and over again until the boy was far gone, turned to light, to nothing, and all he did was make new dents on the steel ground. New dents to go alongside the dozens of old ones littering the floor, running up the walls.
He turned to face the rest of them, and everyone went stock-still. "Clay," he snarled. "Take your men, all of them, the whole fucking eastern campaign—I want you south! I want you to greet that smug little bastard as he comes out of that fucking dungeon. I want him torn limb from fucking limb!"
Clay, the utter idiot, hesitated. "… Sir, all four divisions? Isn't that a little overkill—"
Marcus started advancing on him and Clay fell off his seat, stammering, "Of course, of course! Immediately, sir, this very instant! I'll go personally. I'll see it done, sir, I swear it!"
***
Zane was getting a little worried as they marched up to the boss chamber. The resistance they met was getting sad. A few good shots melted the Flame Wraiths that came at him, and the Cinder Ravens couldn't even get in a good peck at him now.
Maybe he had overdone it. He was practically one-shotting these things. That Phoenix better put up a real fight.
As they got close, Avery threw up her smokescreen. They were walking up a tunnel between chambers. The mini-map showed that the one ahead was the biggest chamber yet. It was speckled over with red dots. The biggest dot lay at its center.
"Ready?" said Avery, but he was already marching on through.
The tunnel opened up into a coal canyon—they stood at the canyon bottom. The top was too dim to be seen. The canyon walls were all coal. Lava streamed down their sides. Giant coal rock formations studded the landscape, towering dozens of feet high. Patches of smoke drifted about. The theme of the place was black, streaked red.
They looked up, saw a shadow drifting across. It was the biggest bird he'd ever seen like an eagle but made of the colors of fire, bright reds and yellows pouring into each other. Its tail feathers were long and beautiful, and constantly burning, leaving wisps of fire as it passed. It was a magnificent thing, artfully made.
𝕄𝕠𝕝𝕥𝕖𝕟 ℙ𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕩 (𝕄𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣)
𝔼𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕃𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝 𝟞𝟝
𝕃𝕒𝕨𝕤:
𝕄𝕚𝕟𝕠𝕣 𝕃𝕒𝕨 𝕠𝕗 𝔼𝕣𝕦𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 (𝔼𝕝𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕃𝕒𝕨 𝕠𝕗 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖)
𝕄𝕚𝕟𝕠𝕣 𝕃𝕒𝕨 𝕠𝕗 𝕠𝕗 𝔽𝕚𝕖𝕣𝕪 ℝ𝕖𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕙 (𝔼𝕝𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕃𝕒𝕨 𝕠𝕗 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖)
𝕂𝕖𝕪 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤:
ℙ𝕪𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕔 𝕊𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕔𝕙 (𝔸𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕖) [𝕌𝕟𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕞𝕠𝕟]
𝕌𝕟𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕤 𝕒 𝕙𝕚𝕘𝕙-𝕡𝕚𝕥𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕕 𝕤𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕔𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕕𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕖𝕤 𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕞𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 𝕨𝕚𝕕𝕖 𝕣𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕦𝕤. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕 𝕨𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕤 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕪 𝕒 𝕨𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕖 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕥, 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕕𝕕𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕖.
𝕎𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖 (𝔸𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕖) [𝕌𝕟𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕞𝕠𝕟]
𝔼𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕒 ℙ𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕩'𝕤 𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 𝕚𝕤 𝕒 𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕒𝕝 𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣. ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕥, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℙ𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕩 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕤 𝕒 𝕙𝕦𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖.
ℙ𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕙 (ℙ𝕒𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕧𝕖) [ℝ𝕒𝕣𝕖]
𝕌𝕡𝕠𝕟 𝕕𝕖𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕥, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕠𝕝𝕥𝕖𝕟 ℙ𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕩 𝕓𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕥𝕤 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕝𝕒𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕤 𝕣𝕖𝕓𝕠𝕣𝕟 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕒𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕤. 𝔼𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕣𝕖𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕙 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕚𝕥𝕤 ℙ𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕩 ℂ𝕠𝕣𝕖.
And all those other red dots had to be Cinder Ravens. Hundreds of them, some stacked on top of one another, spread across the tops of those rock formations.
"What's the plan?" said Avery.
"It's only Level 65," said Zane.
"Yeah, and?"
"Let me try it on my own. Don't interfere."
She looked at him like he was stupid. "You're stupid," she said.
"I know." He shrugged. "Let me be stupid once in a while. It's more fun."
"…Fine," she sighed. "But if you're literally about to die, I will pull you out."
He nodded. "Drop the smoke."
Then he waded straight in.
He'd hardly taken ten steps when the tops of all those rock formations started to move, started to shift, unfurl. Hundreds of cruel red eyes narrowed on him.
He looked up, and saw the cruelest, biggest, reddest of them all had found him too—the Phoenix, perched on the highest tower of rock, staring down at him like a god.
𝕃𝕒𝕚𝕣 𝕝𝕠𝕔𝕜!
𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕠𝕝𝕥𝕖𝕟 ℙ𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕩 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕝𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣
It screeched so loud it hurt.
Then all its minions leapt off their perches and dive-bombed him at once. He took out his Axes and spun with them. They came from all directions, diving top to bottom, making a natural funnel. Convenient. As he spun, he caught them one by one, and the blades started on their nasty work.
But he was still a little too slow. He saw a Level 53 diving fast at him, saw another Level 51 coming from the other side—too strong for his early winds to catch. They came in screeching and tore two huge bloody gashes down his side. Another followed in the tracks, then another—
𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘! ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕥𝕙 𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝟟𝟝%!
But as they tried swooping in for a second go, they found they couldn't.
The Axes got to a fifth, sixth, seventh spin, and now the wind was going so fast you could hear it howling down the length of the canyon, swirling around the rock towers, making them tremble. It plucked birds straight out of the sky and yanked them into a flaming death spiral. He laughed as his Axes raced up and down the cyclone, carving through rock, splitting Monster after Monster in clean halves. A few more squirmed their way through, got a few claw rakes on him, a few nasty pecks down his midsection, enough to scrape a hole in his belly, gushing blood. But that was all. He hardly felt it.
In seconds he'd already wiped out nearly three-quarters of them—just like that.
Christ. Maybe he was overleveled.
The Phoenix screeched a challenge.
It started beating its mighty wings.