A deafening silence followed the eruption of psychic energy from the Resonance Amplification Device. The battlefield, once alive with the cacophony of war, seemed to freeze under the weight of something far beyond human comprehension. Every fighter, Federation soldier, Resistance warrior, and mercenary alike felt an unnatural stillness, as if the very fabric of reality had shifted.
At the heart of the devastation stood Drakor.
No longer just a Syndicate leader, a master manipulator or a raving lunatic. He had finally achieved his manic desire of ascending beyond the constraints of mortality. His form pulsed with raw, unfathomable psychic power, his armor now seamlessly fused with glowing veins of energy that coursed through his flesh like molten fire. His once-dark eyes burned with an alien brilliance, irises shifting in hypnotic, geometric patterns as if he were perceiving the world through a new, unfathomable lens. The air around him warped and shimmered, distorting space itself as his presence weighed upon reality like an oppressive force.
With a single step, the ground beneath him fractured and caved inward, sending jagged cracks rippling outward like the aftershocks of a tectonic shift. The canyon trembled, dust and debris rising into the air as if the planet itself was recoiling in fear. Winds howled unnaturally, twisting in chaotic directions, carrying with them a static-filled hum. The sound of pure, unfiltered psychic resonance.
And then, with an almost casual flick of his wrist, Drakor unleashed devastation.
A pulse of invisible force erupted from him, expanding outward in an unrelenting surge. The first wave of soldiers never had a chance. The psychic energy carved through entire platoons like a divine judgment, bodies flung into the air like lifeless dolls before disintegrating into ash. Some collapsed mid-charge, their minds shattered from within, eyes rolling back as they hit the ground lifeless. Vehicles twisted and crumpled as though crushed by an unseen hand, Federation dropships caught mid-flight spiraled out of control, crashing in fiery explosions.
Hundreds died in an instant.
The battlefield had become a slaughterhouse.
Ethan watched in horror, his breath caught in his throat as the sheer devastation unfolded before him. He had fought monstrous foes before, battled against impossible odds, but this?
This was something else entirely.
The molecular dagger pulsed violently, sending a deep, resonating hum through his very bones. The energy it radiated wasn't just reacting to the battle, it was responding to the transformed Drakor himself.
And then it happened.
A vision. Sudden, jarring, but undeniable.
For a split second, he wasn't on the battlefield anymore.
He saw the same vision from the ruins. The halls, the towering figures, the overwhelming sense of something ancient and beyond mortal understanding. But this time, it wasn't a blur. It was clear.
Ethan saw them, the radiant beings standing amidst the grand architecture of a long-lost civilization. Their forms were tall, elegant, wreathed in shimmering, ethereal energy. Their eyes pierced through existence itself, and their weapons were not mere tools but extensions of their will. Crafted of both light and shadow, resonating in perfect balance.
And these figures looked almost the exact same as Drakor.
The realization hit Ethan with the force of a collapsing star.
Drakor wasn't just wielding the Resonance Amplification Device.
He was slowly becoming something else entirely.
Something that should have never existed in this universe. Something that should never resurface again.
A chill ran down Ethan's spine as he snapped back to reality. His vision cleared, and in front of him, Drakor turned his gaze toward him.
He was looking directly at him.
And he was smiling.
Amidst it all, the strongest of the coalition forces recognized that if Drakor was not stopped now, there would be no one left to fight him.
There was no time for hesitation.
Darrik Voss, Joran Kren, Alrik Thorne, and the remaining D-Rank mercenaries launched themselves into battle without a word. They moved as one, a unit forged through fire and hardship, knowing full well that this would be their last stand.
Darrik Voss roared as he led the charge, his dual plasma axes igniting with a searing golden glow. With the strength of a warrior who had survived countless battles, he struck with unrelenting force, his swings aimed at Drakor's exposed joints and glowing weak spots. The Guild Master's strikes were precise, calculated, each one intended to cleave through whatever unnatural form Drakor had become.
Eliara Venn moved like a shadow, her movements a blur as she darted between burning wreckage, rolling beneath falling debris, and firing shot after shot from her modified energy rifle. She targeted the thin gaps in Drakor's armor, aiming for the flickering veins of psychic energy coursing through his new form.
Above them, Zyrix Korran positioned himself atop a crumbling tower, his sniper rifle lined up for the perfect shot. Though wounded and barely able to keep his rifle steady, the sharpshooter's focus never wavered. He inhaled deeply, his golden eye narrowing through his scope as he tracked Drakor's every movement.
Ogmungals Foons, the towering beast of a mercenary, let out a furious battle cry as he charged. His plasma cannon roared to life, unloading a storm of energy blasts directly into Drakor's path. Each blast carved deep gouges into the ground, sending molten chunks of rock flying in every direction.
Joran Kren, the heart of the Resistance, fought like a man possessed. With his energy rifle in one hand and a reinforced blade in the other, he moved with lethal precision. He aimed for the fractures in Drakor's glowing armor, seeking to cut through the divine monstrosity with the full weight of his people's struggle behind him.
Beside him, Captain Alrik Thorne stood tall, his Federation-issued power sword humming with energy. He had once been a symbol of the Federation's failures, but here, now, in this moment, he fought to redeem not only himself but everything the Federation had lost. With his vice-leader Lirien Vossel covering his flank, he advanced on Drakor, leading the last of the Federation's elite forces into the fray.
The first wave of attacks came in a coordinated flurry. Blades, bullets, plasma fire, and sniper rounds. But Drakor did not falter.
Darrik's axes swung toward Drakor's torso with terrifying speed, only for Drakor to raise a single hand and catch both blades in his bare palm. A pulse of raw energy exploded outward, sending Darrik flying backward like a ragdoll, his body crashing through a ruined Federation transport.
Eliara fired a perfectly timed volley of energy shots, each one aiming for Drakor's exposed side. But the bullets never reached him. The air around Drakor shimmered, bending to his will. The shots slowed in mid-air, reversing their trajectory as if reality itself was rejecting them. Eliara barely had time to dodge as her own bullets came hurtling back at her, grazing her shoulder and forcing her to take cover.
From above, Zyrix fired a perfect shot. A bullet enhanced with kinetic force, aimed straight for Drakor's skull. It should have been a killing blow.
Drakor merely tilted his head.
The bullet stopped inches from his forehead, suspended in the air before crumbling into dust. With a flick of his wrist, a wave of energy surged up the tower where Zyrix was perched. The entire structure collapsed in a deafening roar, burying the sharpshooter beneath a mountain of rubble.
"No!" Eliara screamed, but there was no time to check if he had survived.
Ogmungals Foons let loose a deafening roar as he unleashed his plasma cannon at full power, the sheer force of the blast tearing through the battlefield and scorching everything in its path. The massive explosion engulfed Drakor, consuming him in a fiery inferno.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then, a figure emerged from the flames.
Drakor stepped forward, completely unharmed. His eyes gleamed with cold amusement as he raised one hand toward Foons.
A second later, the massive mercenary was lifted off the ground.
The hulking warrior struggled against an unseen force, his arms and legs thrashing, but it was futile. Drakor clenched his fist, and Foons let out a guttural cry as his body twisted unnaturally.
A sickening crack echoed across the battlefield.
Then, Ogmungals Foons fell lifelessly to the ground.
Joran Kren and Alrik Thorne had never fought side by side. They had stood on opposite sides of history.
One a rebel against the Orion Federation after their inaction against the Black Sun Syndicate. The other a loyal officer sworn to uphold its laws on Kynara.
But in that moment, against a power neither of them could comprehend, all past enmity faded.
Drakor stood before them, his transformed body pulsating with waves of unstable psychic energy, his very presence warping the battlefield. He had already torn through ranks of soldiers, his path littered with the broken bodies of mercenaries, Resistance fighters, and Federation troops alike.
Joran glanced at Thorne. The Federation captain was battered, his armor scorched, his once-pristine uniform stained with blood. But his eyes still burned with defiance.
"Looks like fate has a cruel sense of humor," Joran muttered. "Fighting together instead of against each other."
Thorne let out a weary breath. "I always thought I'd be the one hunting you down."
Joran gave him a smirk, despite the situation. "Guess we both got bigger problems now."
Neither man hesitated. They rushed forward, attacking as one.
Joran was the first to engage. He moved like a shadow, weaving through the storm of energy that radiated from Drakor's form. His energy rifle fired rapid bursts of plasma, each shot aimed at the warlord's exposed joints.
Drakor barely flinched. He batted away the shots with a flick of his wrist, his aura acting as an impenetrable barrier.
Thorne followed a second later, his combat knife drawn. The Federation captain ducked beneath a swipe of Drakor's glowing fist, using his momentum to drive the blade into the warlord's side.
For the first time, Drakor bled.
A dark, ethereal substance seeped from the wound, but instead of pain, Drakor laughed. A deep, mocking sound that sent chills down their spines.
"You fight like desperate insects," Drakor sneered, his voice layered with something more than human. "But I'll grant you credit, this is the most entertainment I've had in years."
He grabbed Thorne by the throat and lifted him off the ground with terrifying ease. The Federation captain struggled, his hands clawing at Drakor's iron grip.
Joran reacted instantly. He lunged in, slashing his plasma blade across Drakor's arm. Sparks flew as the blade connected with unnatural flesh.
Drakor released Thorne, sending him crashing to the ground. The warlord turned his gaze toward Joran, his expression twisted in amusement.
"Ah, Kren. The ever-righteous Resistance leader who caused me so much trouble over the years. You think you're fighting for freedom? You're nothing but a scavenger picking at the scraps of a dying planet."
Joran's grip on his weapon tightened, but before he could respond, Drakor's voice turned cold.
"And you, Thorne." His glowing eyes locked onto the captain. "A lifetime of loyalty to a Federation that would throw you away without a second thought. You remind me of myself... before I was blessed with true vision."
Thorne spat blood onto the ground. "If I remind you of your past self, then you should know...I won't stop until you fall."
Drakor's smile widened. "And that... is why you die first."
Drakor's hand shot forward, and a pulse of raw psychic energy exploded outward. The sheer force sent Thorne skidding across the battlefield, leaving Joran standing alone.
Joran didn't run.
Instead, he charged.
Plasma blade ignited, he moved with the speed of a man who had fought his entire life for this moment. He ducked beneath Drakor's sweeping strike, twisting mid-air to drive his blade deep into the warlord's chest.
Drakor flinched. Just for a second.
Joran gritted his teeth, pressing his weapon deeper, pouring everything he had left into this final attack. "This is for Kynara!"
Drakor's response was swift. He grasped Joran's wrist with an inhuman grip and twisted. The sickening snap of bone echoed through the battlefield.
Joran's blade fell from his hands.
Drakor's palm hovered over his chest, glowing with condensed psychic energy. "Your defiance is admirable. But in the end, pointless as it was only my whim that allowed it."
A vortex of pure psychic power erupted from Drakor's palm, engulfing Joran in a spiraling storm of energy.
The Resistance leader let out one last, defiant roar before his body was consumed by the light.
And then, he was gone.
No body. No remains. Only ash on the wind.
Thorne groggily pushed himself up, his vision blurred from the impact. He had seen it. He had seen Joran Kren, the man he had once called an enemy for many years and ally for few months, vanish before his eyes.
Something inside him snapped.
With renewed fury, he snatched up his rifle and sprinted forward, emptying round after round at Drakor.
The false divine turned to him, unimpressed.
"Still clinging to your ideals, Captain?" Drakor mused, walking toward him. "Your Federation is a hollow shell of corruption. You fight for ghosts who are betraying you even now."
Thorne didn't stop. Even as Drakor closed the distance, even as the psychic aura made every step feel like wading through fire...he didn't stop.
He had one shot left.
He had to make it count.
Drakor raised a hand, forming a concentrated sphere of energy. "Join your friend in oblivion."
Thorne lunged.
His combat knife found its mark, straight into the old wound Joran had left in Drakor's side.
Drakor actually gasped.
Thorne smirked. "Guess that still hurts."
Then, Drakor's hand plunged into Thorne's chest.
The captain coughed violently, blood spilling from his lips. He staggered back, his strength fading.
Drakor yanked his arm back, letting Thorne fall to his knees.
The Federation captain's vision darkened. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he forced himself to look up one last time.
Lirien Vossel and what remained of his troops were watching, frozen in horror.
Thorne managed a weak, bloody smile.
"You take command from here..."
Lirien shook his head. "Captain, no-"
But Thorne was already gone.
He collapsed onto his back, staring at the sky above the battlefield. The sounds of war faded.
For the first time in years, he felt... weightless.
His final words were barely above a whisper, lost beneath the wind.
"We could have saved Kynara sooner..."
As Alrik Thorne's body went still, the battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath. The Federation soldiers, the Resistance fighters, the mercenaries. They all watched in silence as the two greatest leaders who had fought to free Kynara fell.
Drakor, standing above their bodies, smiled.
"Now... who's next?"
The battlefield was silent. Not the kind of silence that came with peace, but the suffocating stillness that followed absolute carnage. The once-thundering clash of weapons, the desperate cries of warriors, and the hum of energy blasts had all faded into an eerie void. Smoke curled into the sky from burning wreckage, and the scent of scorched earth mixed with the metallic tang of blood.
The strongest warriors of the coalition lay dead or barely clinging to life.
Darrik Voss was collapsed against the wreckage of a Federation tank, his once-proud armor shattered, blood pooling beneath him. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his usually sharp eyes dim and unfocused. He gritted his teeth, fighting the weight of his injuries, his fingers twitching toward his fallen weapon as if sheer willpower alone could push him back into the fight.
Eliara's limp form lay sprawled across the rubble, her pulse weak, her breathing shallow. Her gauntlet, the tool she had used to slice through Syndicate defenses with surgical precision, flickered with a dying spark before fading to darkness. Elsewhere, Zyrix's body remained motionless, buried in the rubble. His sniper rifle crushed beside him.
Marik Vos knelt in the dirt, his hands trembling. His blade had fallen from his grip long ago, lying uselessly at his side. His breath was uneven, his shoulders shaking. Not from pain, but from the sheer weight of the moment. He stared at the lifeless bodies of Joran Kren, the leader who had raised him and fought for their planet until his last breath. His mind refused to accept the reality before him.
Drakor stood victorious.
The air around him shimmered with raw psychic energy, his transformed body exuding an unnatural, god-like presence. His glowing eyes scanned the battlefield, taking in the broken warriors, the shattered coalition, the smoldering wreckage of the army that had dared to defy him.
He tilted his head, expression unreadable.
Pathetic.
He lifted one hand, fingers splayed, the energy coiling around him intensifying. The ground trembled beneath his power, cracks forming in the scorched earth. The remaining coalition fighters were too weak to move, too drained to resist.
Drakor exhaled slowly, savoring the moment.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he prepared to erase them all.
Ethan gritted his teeth, his entire body trembling as he tried to lift himself once more. His fingers, slick with blood, curled tighter around the hilt of the molecular dagger. The blade pulsed erratically, its glow flickering between darkness and light, mirroring the storm of emotions within him.
Pain. Rage. Despair.
This wasn't just a battle anymore. This was slaughter.
Drakor's presence felt suffocating, as if the sheer force of his existence was crushing everything around him. The battlefield itself seemed to bend to his will, the ground cracking beneath each step he took. The sky, once filled with fire and smoke, now seemed impossibly distant. Time felt slow, agonizingly so, as Ethan's heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Was this how it ended?
He had fought so hard, endured so much since arriving in this world, only to fail at the very end?
Ethan clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white around the dagger's grip. No. He couldn't let it end like this. He tried to push himself up again, but his strength failed him. His knees buckled, his vision swam, and once more, he collapsed.
Ethan struggled to breathe. His chest felt like it was caving in, crushed beneath the weight of everything. The battle, the deaths, the sheer helplessness that clawed at him like a thousand unseen hands. He could barely lift his head now. His limbs refused to obey him.
No…
No…!
Then, everything stopped.
The battlefield around him froze, the crackling energy of the Resonance Amplification Device suspended mid-air. The sounds of war, distant screams, the clash of steel, the echoes of destruction all fell silent.
A cold wind swept through the chaos, cutting through the haze like a whisper from another time.
And there, standing silently next to him, was the ever elusive old man.