"Cozy ride, huh?" Riko's voice rang out across the cramped troop compartment, lighthearted and way too loud for the mood.
Several heads turned his way—blank stares, a few scowls.
He threw up his hands. "What? You all allergic to humor or just constipated?"
Jayden elbowed him, muttering under his breath, "Read the room, genius."
The truck jolted suddenly, the frame groaning as something heavy slammed against the side.
A second later, the sharp crack of gunfire split the air—followed by the familiar, wet screeches of dying banes.
Lena tightened her grip on the bench rail. "That makes ten, right? Since we left Genesis-One?"
Her voice tried for calm, but the twitch in her brow gave her away.
Across from her, Lucas adjusted his seat, fingers brushing where his glasses used to sit—replaced now by military-issue contacts. "The attacks get worse the deeper you push inland." His voice was flat, but the tightness in his jaw said enough.
Tarrin stayed silent, eyes fixed on the scuffed metal floor between his boots.
Outside, the First City had already vanished behind them—just another name on a map now. Beyond its walls, reality hit harder.
Dirtier. Louder. This wasn't training anymore. This was it. Years of it.
And if this ride was any sign of what was to come… he didn't like the view.
Two sharp bangs slammed against the rear doors of the truck, loud enough to silence every breath in the compartment. In an instant, weapons flared into existence—summoned from Cerevaults with practiced, trembling motions.
The tension held for a heartbeat.
Then the doors burst open, flooding the dark interior with pale, washed-out daylight. A man stood there, clad in a military uniform, his silhouette crisp against the sun.
"Out. Small tide incoming. You'll be fighting." His voice was clipped, no room for argument.
Some froze. Eyes wide. Hands gripping blades too tightly.
Tarrin didn't. He was already moving.
The man's jaw clenched. "I said now!"
That snapped the rest into motion. One after another, boots hit metal, then dirt. The air outside was thick with dust and the scent of scorched ozone. Tarrin landed hard, knees bending, sword already drawn in a smooth pull.
He turned—instinct guiding his eyes—and there it was.
The horde.
Not as massive as the simulations had shown. Not close. But it didn't matter. The memory was louder than logic.
His breath caught. Hands twitched. His mind reached back to that first fight, that first failure.
He clenched his jaw, forced the shake from his fingers.
Around him, others were faring worse. Weapons wobbled in unsteady hands. Some hadn't even activated their gear. A couple looked ready to run.
Then—
"Five Point Diamond, now!"
The command cut through the chaos like a whip. Tarrin turned toward the voice—saw a man standing ahead, spear leveled, posture calm.
Grounded.
A rally point.
The privates scrambled into position, muscle memory kicking in. Dive Point Diamond. One of the first formations drilled into them back at Centauri.
Tarrin moved to the front without hesitation. Celith was beside him, her stance effortless, already scanning the battlefield.
Riko and Jayden flanked them on either side, blades humming with essence. Behind them, Lucas crouched low—bow strung, a dagger clamped between his teeth like a proper lunatic.
Lena was farthest back, her fingers glowing faintly as she prepped for triage. First blood would come soon.
The earth began to thrum. A low, rolling drumbeat of approaching death.
Tarrin inhaled deeply, steadying his nerves. He could hear the Banes now—clawed limbs hammering against the dirt, screeches like metal tearing bone. They were coming fast.
Two hundred, maybe more.
It wasn't enough to overwhelm the veteran guards stationed at the caravan's edge. Tarrin figured they were mostly spawned—feral, half-formed things.
Maybe a few Anchored if luck turned sour, but nothing of the Shaped stage, that would've been trouble.
Ahead, a hundred seasoned Awakened had already formed their wall. Their weapons gleamed. Their expressions were... calm. Too calm. Like this was a warm-up before lunch.
Then, without a word, the commander moved.
Tarrin blinked. The man didn't charge—he vanished. His body blurred forward, covering ground like a bullet off a railgun.
'Sixty miles an hour,' Tarrin thought, his jaw tightening. 'At least.'
The shock of it left no time to gawk. The rest of the formation surged ahead.
Then the voice rang out again—loud, clear, and merciless.
"Young soldiers! Handle anything that slips past! Fight dirty. Survive. Kill as many as you can!"
Tarrin's grip tightened. The Banes were almost here. There'd be no hiding now.
The leader's sword lit up like a flare—bright, fast, merciless. With a single forward lunge, he carved through the front ranks of Banes like a storm given form. Each slash left a corpse in its wake. No wasted movement. No mercy.
Then the rest of the Awakened moved.
Legacies flared across the battlefield—some exploding with elemental fury, others more restrained, like shadows slipping between seconds.
Sparks of essence painted the air. The cohesion between them was unreal.
They didn't just fight—they flowed. One attack led into another, as if they'd rehearsed this chaos.
And still, the leader stood apart.
Where his blade passed, bodies dropped. He didn't dodge—he erased. Even among Awakened, he moved like something carved out of legend.
The privates stood frozen for a breath too long. Shocked. Awed. But not all of them wore the same expression.
In a few eyes—Tarrin noticed it—there was something else.
Ambition.
Not the reckless kind. The quiet kind. The kind that wondered could I? The kind that buried itself deep and waited for its moment.
The fantasy shattered as a Bane broke through the line—a Spawned-stage Scarbane, lanky and twitching, moving with too many joints.
The squad to Tarrin's left reacted instantly, tightening their formation and surrounding it like a net.
Tarrin didn't move to help. They had it under control. He scanned forward—and saw something small shuffling between corpses.
'A child? Midget? No…'
A hunched, stunted Scarbane. Fast and twitchy.
"Lucas! One ahead!"
The archer didn't need more. One heartbeat later, an arrow whistled past Tarrin's cheek.
It struck the thing right through the eye.
The Scarbane spasmed once, then crumpled—stone dead.
Another one slipped through the chaos.
Tarrin stepped forward—two clean strikes, fluid and deliberate. The Scarbane dropped without a sound, its body folding at his feet.
Then came a thunderclap beside him.
Celith burst forward like a bullet loosed from a chamber. Her blade gleamed once—just once—and another creature collapsed, carved clean in two.
Tarrin's jaw tightened.
"Celith, stay the fuck back!" His voice cracked across the battlefield, sharp and commanding.
She halted mid-step. For a second, her expression wavered—caught between defiance and discipline. But then she nodded, backing off without a word.
Still, Tarrin saw it. That flicker in her eyes. Pride? Doubt? Something unspoken.
He didn't have time to unpack it.
Because then he saw it.
Ten feet tall. Four arms. Skin like ash and steel. It had just slapped a Scarbound out of its path like a rag doll.
The anchored.
It turned—and locked eyes with him.
Cold pressure coiled in Tarrin's gut. That fleeting fire in his chest, the one that flared when he fought, sputtered into silence.
He looked back—his squad wasn't tracking it yet.
He didn't want this fight. And he sure as hell didn't want to lead it.
But his voice rose anyway.
"Anchored ahead! On me!"
That did it.
Muscles tightened. Weapons shifted.
The fear was real now.
And so was the fight.
Tarrin moved fast—feet light, body low—putting distance between him and the anchored. Celith mirrored his step without needing a word.
"Lucas—eyes and joints. No friendly fire," Tarrin barked, voice tight with urgency.
Lucas gave a subtle nod, already drawing a bead.
"Celith, keep to heavy strikes only. Riko and I distract. Jayden—front, cover—"
He didn't finish.
It moved.
Faster than anything that size had any right to.
Like a freight train with intent, the anchored charged. Its bulk leaned low, aiming to crush rather than fight.
Tarrin barely registered it before instinct yanked the wheel. He jumped—both legs raised, desperate, reckless, something between a double-leg kick and a last-ditch prayer.
"Shit," he hissed—
—then impact.
Pain exploded through his limbs. The world flipped. Gravity lost meaning. He hit the ground in a brutal tumble, skidding hard across packed dirt.
His lungs begged for air. None came.
Groaning, he forced himself up, ribs screaming in protest. He caught sight of the anchored now locked in a vicious skirmish with Riko and Celith—steel clashing, sparks flying.
Tarrin swayed on his feet, eyes narrowing, legs twitching with coiled resolve.
No time to hesitate.
He launched forward, body aching, brain already cooking up a plan to take the bastard down.