Cyrus raised his hand, signaling to the group. Without a word, they dispersed, moving swiftly to the corners of the room. The air crackled with tension as they took up their positions, ready to launch a coordinated assault. Cyrus and a handful of others prepared for a frontal attack, their muscles coiled tight with anticipation.
At the vanguard stood a non-human, his body shimmering with an otherworldly emerald glow. As the enemy's blasts hammered against the ethereal screen he projected, the air itself seemed to vibrate. The magical barrier shook violently but held firm, a testament to the non-human's power and concentration.
Tirag and the one-eyed non-human led the flanking maneuvers, their movements fluid and practiced as they guided their teams to either side of the bureau agents. Meanwhile, Cyrus and Lork spearheaded the frontal assault, their diverse band of rebels moving as one.
The clash, when it came, was swift and brutal. The sterile walls of the bureau headquarters became a canvas painted in violence and desperation. Cyrus found himself in the thick of it, his sword a silver blur as it carved through the air. Time seemed to slow as the blade met flesh, slicing clean through an opponent's neck. A spray of crimson painted Cyrus' face, warm and sticky.
The world lurched sideways as reality set in. Cyrus' hand began to tremble uncontrollably, his sword suddenly feeling impossibly heavy. A violent rush of adrenaline surged through his body, leaving him light-headed and nauseous. His muscles locked up, freezing him in place as the battle raged around him.
This was different. So different from anything he had experienced before. In his travels with Leora or his encounters alongside the queen, there had always been others to shoulder the burden of taking lives. Cyrus had fought fiercely in self-defense, yes, but delivering that final, fatal blow... it was something else entirely. Something he had never truly prepared himself for.
His heart thundered in his chest, a war drum pounding out a frantic rhythm. Each breath came in ragged gasps as his lungs struggled to keep up with the demands of his panicked body. The world narrowed to a pinprick, Cyrus' vision tunneling as shock threatened to overwhelm him.
It was Lork who saved him, shoving Cyrus roughly to the side. A blast of magical energy seared through the air, punching through the wavering green screen and missing Cyrus' head by mere inches. The heat of it singed his hair, the acrid smell snapping him back to the present with brutal efficiency.
"It's either you dye your sword red with their blood, or they'll paint the walls with your brain!" Lork's voice cut through the chaos, powerful and unyielding. His movements were a deadly dance, fast and nimble as he wielded twin daggers with lethal precision.
Everywhere Lork passed, opponents fell screaming in agony. Each swing of his blades seemed to unleash years of pent-up hatred and trauma. His eyes burned with a fierce determination, a man exorcising his demons through violence.
Their strategy, born of desperation and Cyrus' unconventional thinking, began to pay dividends. The enemy forces found themselves flanked and quickly disoriented, losing ground with each passing moment. Victory, impossibly, seemed within reach.
Then, like a dark star emerging from the chaos, Nemesis appeared. He halted a few meters from the flickering green shield, his presence alone enough to change the tide of battle. When he spoke, his voice sliced through the din of combat like a blade of pure authority.
"You have been trained for this," Nemesis intoned, his words ringing with cold certainty. "Follow my lead and make our enemies regret their courage. Retreat, protect, and strike!"
The effect was immediate and chilling. The previously disorganized agents snapped to attention, moving with mechanical precision. They disengaged from their individual battles, flowing like water to form a perfect hexagon around Nemesis. Their swords flashed in unison, a choreographed display of lethal intent.
Small objects arced through the air, thrown by unseen hands. Where they landed, inky black smoke billowed forth, coalescing into a shield of pure darkness that enveloped the agents. Incoming magical blasts seemed to lose cohesion as they approached, dissipating harmlessly against the void.
With a wave of Nemesis' hand, the formation advanced. Their steps were perfectly synchronized, a relentless march forward. As one, they brought their swords down, the black ore blades humming with barely contained power.
Reality itself seemed to split. Pillars fractured and crumbled, reduced to rubble in an instant. Blood flowed like a macabre river across the floor as non-humans fell, decapitated with surgical precision. The tide had turned once more, this time decisively against Cyrus and his allies.
"Retreat!" Cyrus' face drained of color as he shouted the order, his voice cracking with the strain. He scrambled backwards, diving for what little cover remained. Tirag managed to fall back, but he was dyed in his own blood, leaving a crimson trail in his wake. Those who had followed him lay still and silent, their lives claimed by the bureau's ruthless efficiency. The one-eyed non-human staggered into cover, clutching the stump where his arm had been moments before.
The advantage they had fought so hard to gain had been swept away in mere seconds, undone by a few words from Nemesis. Cyrus felt an irrational urge to step out, to survey the carnage up close. He had seen countless bloody scenes in his games, but this... this was real. These weren't pixels on a screen, but actual bodies. Bodies of people he had led to slaughter with his ill-conceived plan.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. This wasn't a game. It was a real battlefield, where a single miscalculation, a moment's hesitation, could mean the difference between life and death. How could he have been so naive, so criminally stupid, to think his half-baked strategy would work against trained killers?
Panic began to set in among the survivors. Voices rose in a cacophony of fear and desperation.
"What should we do now?"
"They're closing in. Orders?"
"I knew it was a bad idea!"
"Will you all shut up!" Lork's bellow cut through the rising hysteria. Sweat poured down his face as he glanced around at the battered remnants of their force. Despite the dire situation, his mind was still working, analyzing.
"It's a battle matrix," Lork explained, his words clipped and urgent. "The power lies in its core – Nemesis. If we could get close to him, we can break the matrix."
Cyrus peered out from behind cover, studying the advancing enemies with new eyes. Lork was right. It was indeed a matrix, with Nemesis at the center of the hexagonal formation. Their movements were synchronized to an unsettling degree, almost mechanical in their precision. It was a simple yet devastatingly effective tactic. The very thought of trying to break through sent a shiver down Cyrus' spine.
Tirag's voice cut through Cyrus' thoughts as the injured non-human leapt to new cover, barely avoiding a sword strike that reduced his former shelter to rubble. "It's not feasible," he growled, cradling his mangled arm. "How will you get close to them without having your head cut off? And even if we managed to enter the matrix by some miracle, who among us could defeat Nemesis?"
"We don't need to defeat him," Lork insisted, keeping his head well hidden as chunks of concrete were eaten away by relentless enemy fire. "Just get close enough for me to break it from the inside."
Cyrus felt his heart rate spike as an idea began to form. It was daring, perhaps even foolhardy, but not impossible. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. What if he was wrong? What if his plan led to even more deaths? The weight of his past failures pressed down on him – the magical exam, Project T, his friendship with Lork. When it truly mattered, he always seemed to fall short. What was the point of even trying when failure seemed all but certain?
"I must admit, I don't really like you," Tirag said, his words punctuated by pained gasps. "But I must also admit your plans have saved us until now. If things should end for us here, then I'll leave with my head held high, like a true member of the Tiger Canine. If you have anything crazy enough, I'll follow you."
It wasn't just Tirag. All eyes turned to Cyrus, a mix of desperation and hope etched on their faces. Lork sighed, his hands balled into fists before slowly relaxing. "You might be an idiot and a fool," he said, "but you're an idiot who knows how to get creative. Let it shine for us one more time before we depart for the afterlife."
Cyrus felt his eyebrows lift in surprise, a warmth kindling in his chest despite the dire circumstances. Even now, with death looming and anger still simmering between them, Lork was offering his support. It was a stark reminder of the friendship they had shared, of the bond that had weathered so much.
His gaze swept over what remained of their group. Each pair of eyes that met his burned with fierce determination. These were beings who had accepted their fate, ready to pay whatever price was necessary for even a glimmer of hope.
Cyrus lifted his head, stealing another glance at their advancing opponents. The bureau agents hadn't slowed their inexorable march, claiming lives with each step like harbingers of doom. Drawing a deep breath, Cyrus steeled himself. "Let's break this damn matrix."