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Chapter 4 - Origins - Part 4
A few kilometers from where Ky'rand lay bleeding, another battlefield had fallen silent.
The aftermath was a portrait of devastation painted in smoke and ruin. Rubble stretched in every direction—geometric towers reduced to jagged stumps, metallic streets torn open like wounds, exposing the glowing conduits beneath that sparked and hissed with escaping energy. The air tasted of burnt ozone and superheated metal, thick enough to coat the tongue, acrid enough to make eyes water.
And in the center of it all stood the last drone.
The big drone swayed on three functioning legs (the fourth had been sheared off at the joint, leaking hydraulic fluid in thick black puddles), its shoulder cannons drooping like broken limbs, optic sensor flickering erratically—red, then amber, then nothing. Smoke poured from the cracks in its carapace, internal fires consuming what remained of its power core.
It took one grinding, defiant step forward.
Then collapsed.
The impact shook the ground, metal shrieking as the chassis buckled and folded in on itself. Sparks fountained from the wreckage in brilliant cascades that smelled of burning circuitry. The optic gave one final, feeble pulse of crimson light—then died, plunging the machine into eternal darkness.
Silence rushed in to fill the void, broken only by the distant thunder of explosions from battles still raging across the city and the low, mournful groan of a building settling into its death throes three blocks away.
Standing before the fallen drone, chest heaving, armor scorched black in a dozen places, was **Magister Pyris**.
He was Thanagarian—tall and broad-shouldered, built like a warrior from a culture that had perfected violence into an art form. His skin was a deep bronze that gleamed faintly with sweat, muscles coiled tight beneath Plumber-standard armor that bore the marks of hard use: dents, scratches, one pauldron cracked clean through. The armor was black and gray like all Plumber gear, but his bore additional crimson accents along the gauntlets and chest plate, the sign of a Magister's rank—a field commander, someone who'd earned authority through blood and fire.
But it was the wings that truly marked him.
They rose from his back like living monuments, massive and majestic, feathered in shades of deep brown and gold that caught the light and threw it back in warm, earthy hues. Each wing spanned nearly three meters, powerful enough to carry him through the atmosphere at speeds that would tear a human apart, strong enough to shatter bones with a single blow. They shifted restlessly now, mantling slightly, primaries rustling with a sound like wind through autumn leaves—an instinctive display of dominance, a warning to anything foolish enough to approach.
Pyris's face was angular and sharp, all hard lines and shadowed hollows: high cheekbones, a hawkish nose ,broken at least twice and never set quite right, a jaw that looked carved from stone. His eyes were amber, bright and predatory, the eyes of a raptor scanning the horizon for prey. A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, pale against his bronze skin—a souvenir from a prison riot on Takron-Galtos five years ago.
He held a weapon in his right hand: a Thanagarian war mace, traditional and brutal, its handle wrapped in worn leather that bore the imprint of his grip. The head was flanked by curved blades and studded with energy projectors that still glowed faintly blue, cooling from recent use. Blood—his own, dark red and very human-looking despite his alien heritage—dripped from a cut above his brow, running down the side of his face and soaking into his collar.
He didn't wipe it away.
Pyris tilted his head back, amber eyes sweeping the sky where streaks of emerald light darted and weaved like fireflies, energy constructs flashing as the Green Lantern Corps tore through the remaining drone swarms with clinical precision. Explosions bloomed in the upper atmosphere, distant but bright, painting the dark orange clouds in shades of green and gold.
His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile—more a baring of teeth.
"Took them long enough," he muttered, voice gravelly and rough, the words carrying an edge of bitter amusement. His accent was clipped, precise, the Common Tongue spoken with the cadence of someone who'd learned it as a second language and never quite lost the rhythms of his native Thanagarian.
He hefted the mace, testing its weight, and was about to turn back toward the rallying point when—
FWOOOOSH.
A blur of black and white screamed across the battlefield, kicking up a rooster tail of dust and debris, the sound a high-pitched whine that dopplered as it passed. The air cracked like a whip, displaced so violently it left a faint vacuum in its wake that sucked loose pebbles into its path.
The blur skidded to a halt three meters in front of Pyris, synovial rollers carving twin furrows in the metallic street before locking into place with a pneumatic hiss. The figure resolved into solid form so abruptly it defied physics.
A Kineceleran.
The being stood just over five feet tall, lean and wiry, built like a bipedal raptor engineered for nothing but speed. His body was covered in sleek electric-blue skin that seemed to vibrate with barely contained kinetic energy, as if standing still was a physical act of restraint. Black stripes ran down his long, whip-like tail in bold bands—marks of experience and age—the appendage ending in a sharp, blade-like point that twitched restlessly behind him, counterbalancing his every micro-movement.
His legs were digitigrade and powerful, built like compressed springs, ending in small clawed feet. But protruding from those feet were the Kineceleran's evolutionary miracle: synovial rollers—organic, spherical structures of living cartilage and compressed tissue that extended from his soles like biological wheels. They spun even now with a soft, constant whirr, never truly still, friction-producing cells secreting natural lubricants that made them faster than anything mechanical could ever hope to be.
His arms ended in three-fingered hands, each digit tipped with dark, razor-sharp claws—black as polished obsidian, curved slightly inward, designed for gripping at velocities that would tear normal flesh apart. They flexed unconsciously, claws clicking together with faint metallic tinks, energy demanding an outlet.
His face was angular and predatory, electric-blue skin stretched over sharp bone structure. Large white eyes stared out—completely pupilless, tracking movement with an intensity that suggested he saw the world in frames per second normal beings couldn't comprehend. Black markings traced natural patterns around his eyes and across his cheeks like war paint, stark against the blue. His lips were black, pulled back slightly in what might've been a grin or just the natural set of his jaw, revealing sharp teeth behind them.
His head was elongated and pointed, swept back in a smooth, aerodynamic wedge—a natural helmet of reinforced bone and cartilage that tapered to a sharp point at the crown, evolved specifically to cut through wind resistance at supersonic speeds. A cyan-tinted visor sat flush against his face, retractable and biological—part of his own body rather than technology—currently snapped down over his features like a protective shield, glowing faintly with bioluminescent cells.
He wore Plumber armor, heavily modified for his unique physiology: lightweight black and gray composite plating across his torso and shoulders, reinforced with bright cyan accents that pulsed rhythmically along the seams like a heartbeat made visible. The armor tapered at his hips and thighs, leaving his lower legs almost entirely exposed to allow his rollers unobstructed movement—any restriction there would cut his speed in half. The Plumber insignia glowed green on his chest plate, proud and unwavering despite the scorch marks around it.
His name was V-L0 (pronounced "Vee-Low")—a designation that played on "velocity," as all Kineceleran names did. He was a recent recruit, barely three years in the Corps, but already making a reputation as one of the fastest couriers in the sector. Rumor had it he'd outrun a Citadel pursuit ship through an asteroid field on Sigma-Seven. V-L0 neither confirmed nor denied it, but the way he grinned when asked told you everything you needed to know.
He snapped to attention, right claw crossing to his left shoulder in a crisp Plumber salute, his tail standing rigid behind him like a flagpole. "Magister Pyris, sir!" His voice was quick, clipped, words tumbling over each other in the breathless cadence of someone used to moving faster than sound and thinking even faster than that. "Third Battalion has secured Sectors Four through Seven. Civilian evac is eighty percent complete. Casualties are—"
He hesitated, just a fraction of a second, and something flickered in those white, pupilless eyes.
"—manageable, sir."
Manageable. The word tasted like ash.
Pyris grunted, wings settling against his back with a leathery rustle that sent a few loose feathers drifting to the ground. "Losses?"
V-L0's visor snapped down over his face with a soft click, hiding his expression behind smooth, reflective cyan. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier, more controlled—the biological shield giving him something to hide behind, a mask for the grief. "Fourteen confirmed KIA. Twenty-three wounded, six critical."
Fourteen dead. Fourteen names that would be added to the ever-growing list carved into the memorial wall at Plumber HQ. Fourteen families who'd get a folded flag and a hollow thank-you from commanders who'd never met the deceased.
Pyris's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath bronze skin. He'd known some of them. Had shared drinks with a few after long shifts. Trained others fresh out of the Academy.
He forced the grief down, locked it away in the same mental vault where he kept all the others—a vault that was getting dangerously full. There would be time to mourn later. Right now, there was still work to do.
"Orders, sir?" V-L0 asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot in constant micro-movements, his rollers spinning in tiny increments that made soft whirring sounds. Standing still was agony for a Kineceleran—like asking a human to hold their breath indefinitely. Every instinct in his body screamed to move, to run, to do something other than stand here while the adrenaline burned through his veins like acid.
Pyris turned his gaze toward the city's center, where the towering spire of the Galvan Central rose like a needle piercing the bruised orange sky. It was the heart of the planet, the repository of knowledge spanning millennia—scientific breakthroughs, technological schematics, historical records that predated most civilizations in the galaxy. And, more importantly right now, it was the primary target of the invasion.
Smoke still poured from its upper levels in thick black columns that smelled of burning data cores and melted circuitry. The distant crack-crack-crack of energy weapons echoed across the ruins, punctuated by the deeper BOOM of something heavy exploding.
The battle wasn't over. Not yet.
But Pyris was a Magister for a reason. He'd fought in campaigns across three sectors, led strike teams into worse hells than this, and survived by knowing when to push forward and when to hold the line.
He also knew when his people were stretched too thin.
"Negative," he said, voice flat and final, the tone of a commander who'd already considered every angle and made his decision. "We hold position here."
V-L0's head tilted slightly, confusion clear even through the visor. His tail lashed once, sharply, betraying agitation. "Sir? The Central —"
"I know where they are, V-L0." Pyris's tone sharpened, not cruel but brooking absolutely no argument. His amber eyes locked onto the Kineceleran's visor like a predator pinning prey. "Things haven't settled yet. The Lanterns are cleaning up the aerial forces, but we don't know if there's another wave coming from that ship, or worse—a ground assault we haven't detected yet."
He gestured with the war mace toward the ruins stretching around them, toward the scattered knots of Plumbers regrouping in the rubble—some wounded, leaning on comrades, others checking weapons with shaking hands. Medics moved between them with grim efficiency, plasma cutters hissing as they removed damaged armor, dermal regenerators glowing softly as they sealed wounds that would've been fatal minutes ago.
And beyond them, huddled in the skeletal remains of emergency shelters and half-collapsed buildings, were the Galvan civilians.
Tiny amphibious beings, barely six inches tall, their gray skin dull with shock and coating of dust. They clustered together in tight groups—dozens, maybe hundreds in each shelter—their soft, flexible bodies pressed close for comfort, large bulbous eyes wide and unblinking with terror. Those eyes were green, enormous and rectangular-pupiled, designed for seeing in low light but now reflecting only the fires still burning across their world.
Some clutched datapads twice their size, fingers—small and delicate, adapted for manipulating microscopic circuitry—trembling as they tried to access communications networks that no longer existed. Others simply stared, frozen by the enormity of what had just happened, their brilliant minds—minds capable of calculating hyperspace trajectories in their heads—unable to process the scale of the destruction.
A few of the younger ones were crying, soft croaking sounds that tore at something deep in Pyris's chest.
"We stay here," Pyris continued, dragging his gaze back to V-L0. "Secure the perimeter. Provide assistance where it's needed. Protect them." He nodded toward the Galvans. "If Command calls for reinforcements at the Archives, we move. Until then, we hold."
It was the smart call. The right call.
But Pyris saw the way V-L0's claws clenched into fists, the way his tail lashed again—longer this time, more violent—betraying the frustration burning beneath that cyan visor. The kid wanted to do something, to blur across the battlefield at Mach-3 and throw himself headlong into the fire. He wanted to prove he was more than just a courier, more than the rookie who ran messages while others bled.
Pyris understood. He'd been young once too. Before the scars. Before the names on the wall became too many to count.
"Understood, sir," V-L0 said finally, the words clipped but obedient. His posture shifted—still at attention, but the tension in his frame spoke volumes.
Pyris allowed himself a faint nod of approval. Good. The kid had discipline, even if his instincts screamed otherwise. That would keep him alive longer than most. "Good."
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the muscles pull and ache beneath the armor, and then spread his wings in a sudden, powerful motion that stirred the air and sent dust swirling in lazy spirals around them. The span was breathtaking—two massive arcs of feathered muscle that blotted out the burning sky behind him, each primary feather catching the firelight and gleaming like burnished gold and bronze, a living banner of defiance.
For a moment, Pyris looked less like a soldier and more like something ancient—a war-god from Thanagarian legend, wings spread wide, weapon in hand, standing atop the corpses of his enemies.
"We round up whoever's left," Pyris said, voice carrying the weight of command, steady and sure despite the exhaustion pulling at his bones. "Get the wounded to the medics. Regroup the scattered squads. Fortify this position. Set up a defensible perimeter and make damn sure nothing gets through to those civilians."
He shifted his grip on the war mace, knuckles white, and lifted his gaze to the malevolent shadow still looming in orbit—that massive, brutal warship that hung over Galvan Prime like a guillotine blade waiting to drop.
"If anything—anything—comes at us from that ship," he said, voice dropping to something low and dangerous, "we hit it hard and we hit it fast. We make them regret ever pointing their guns at this planet. Clear?"
V-L0's visor retracted with a soft hiss, sliding back into his skull and revealing those bright white eyes again—pupilless, fierce, burning with barely restrained energy. A grin split his face, all sharp teeth and reckless confidence, the kind of expression that said he'd been waiting to hear those words.
He snapped another salute, claw to shoulder, and this time there was fire in his stance—coiled potential ready to explode into motion. "Crystal, sir."
"Then move."
V-L0 didn't need to be told twice.
His legs blurred, rollers spinning so fast they became invisible, the ground beneath him cracking from the sheer force of acceleration. He vanished—a streak of black and white and electric cyan that shot across the battlefield faster than thought, leaving twin trails of scorched pavement in his wake. The sonic boom arrived a heartbeat later, a physical CRACK that split the air like a thunderclap and rattled loose debris for fifty meters in every direction.
Pyris watched him go, watched that impossible blur weave between rubble and leap over wreckage without slowing, and felt something close to pride flicker in his chest.
Then he turned his gaze back to the sky, where the Green Lanterns continued their grim work—emerald light carving hope into the darkness, constructs flashing as they tore through the last of the drone swarms with brutal efficiency.
He tightened his grip on the war mace, feeling the familiar weight settle into his palm like an old friend, and allowed himself one slow, steadying breath that tasted of smoke and blood and determination.
The battle wasn't over.
But they were still standing.
And as long as they were still standing—as long as there was one Plumber left with breath in their lungs and a weapon in their hands—there was still a chance.
Pyris beat his wings once, hard, and lifted into the smoke-choked sky.
There was work to do.
Back where Ky'rand lay bleeding against the rubble, the battle had shifted.
The emerald-wreathed figure knelt beside him, one hand hovering over the Tamaranean's shredded torso, ring pulsing with soft, rhythmic light that felt warm against Ky'rand's cold skin. The healing construct wrapped around his wounds like living bandages, knitting torn flesh and sealing ruptured blood vessels with meticulous precision. Each pulse sent a wave of numbness through him—not unpleasant, just distant, like his body was becoming someone else's problem.
Ky'rand's vision swam, colors bleeding together, but he could still make out the lantern's face through the haze: crimson skin, four golden eyes arranged in a diamond pattern, vestigial wings folded tight against his back. The lantern's expression was focused, professional, but there was something gentle in the way his ring worked—careful not to cause more pain than necessary.
Around them, the sky burned green.
The rest of the Green Lantern Corps tore through the remaining drones with surgical brutality. Emerald constructs flashed in rapid succession: a massive spiked mace materialized and crushed three small drones mid-flight, scattering their components like confetti; twin energy cannons appeared on the shoulders of a floating Lantern and fired in perfect synchronization, punching clean through a big drone's carapace and detonating its core from the inside; a net of crackling green light wrapped around a cluster of humanoid drones and compressed, crushing them into a single ball of twisted metal that fell to the street with a reverberating clang.
The drones didn't stand a chance.
Within minutes, the immediate area was clear—nothing but smoke, sparks, and the metallic stench of destroyed machinery hanging in the air like a funeral shroud.
Ky'rand tried to speak, to thank the lantern working on him, but his throat was too dry, tongue too heavy. All that emerged was a weak rasp that tasted of copper and ozone.
"Easy, warrior," the crimson lantern murmured, not looking up from his work. "You've lost a lot of blood. The construct is stabilizing you, but you need proper medical attention. Just... hold on a little longer."
Ky'rand managed the barest nod, exhaustion pulling at him like gravity had suddenly tripled. His eyelids felt like lead weights. Maybe he could rest. Just for a moment. Just—
WHOOM-WHOOM-WHOOM.
The sound of massive wings beating the air jolted him back to consciousness—deep, powerful strokes that sent gusts of wind rippling across the battlefield, stirring ash and debris into lazy spirals. The displaced air smelled of feathers and sweat and something metallic, like oiled steel.
Ky'rand's eyes snapped open, instincts screaming threat, but his body refused to respond, muscles limp and useless.
The crimson lantern looked up, ring hand raised defensively—then relaxed, recognition flickering across his angular features.
Magister Pyris descended from the smoke-choked sky like a god of war making his entrance, wings spread wide in a display that blotted out the fires burning behind him. Each downstroke was controlled, precise, the kind of flight mastery that came from decades of practice. He landed ten meters away with barely a sound, boots touching down on scorched pavement, wings folding against his back in one smooth, practiced motion that sent a few bronze-and-gold feathers drifting lazily to the ground.
His war mace was still in his hand, knuckles white around the grip, the weapon's head still faintly glowing with residual energy. Blood—his own—streaked the right side of his face, drying in a dark line from temple to jaw. He looked tired, bone-deep exhausted, but his amber eyes were sharp, scanning the scene with the ruthless efficiency of a predator assessing territory.
His gaze lingered on Ky'rand for a heartbeat—taking in the shredded armor, the pool of orange blood, the too-pale cast to his orange skin—before shifting to the crimson lantern.
"Lantern," Pyris said, voice rough as gravel, nodding once in acknowledgment.
The crimson lantern rose smoothly, his healing construct still wrapped around Ky'rand like a cocoon of light. He returned the nod, fist crossing to his chest in a gesture of respect. "Magister Pyris. It's good to see you alive."
"Good to be alive," Pyris replied with the ghost of a grim smile. He glanced around at the other Lanterns still hovering overhead, emerald auras flickering like stars in the smoky sky. "Though I'd be lying if I said we didn't wonder if you were coming at all."
The crimson lantern's expression tightened, guilt flashing across his features—brief but unmistakable. "My apologies, Magister. Gathering this many Lanterns took time. When we received the distress signal and realized who was attacking..." He trailed off, the weight of that unfinished sentence hanging heavy between them.
Pyris's jaw clenched, wings rustling with agitation. "That bad, huh?"
"Worse." The lantern's four eyes dimmed slightly, a ripple of unease passing through him. "The Guardians classified him as a Sector-level threat three cycles ago. We've been tracking his movements, but he's... cautious. Methodical. He doesn't move unless he's certain of victory. The fact that he's here, attacking Galvan Prime directly..."
He didn't need to finish. They both knew what it meant.
Whoever commanded that warship wasn't some warlord testing defenses or a pirate raiding for tech. This was calculated. This was personal. And that made it infinitely more dangerous.
Pyris exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken fears. "Well," he said finally, hefting the war mace and resting it against his shoulder, "you're here now. That's what matters. We—"
VRRRRRRRRRR.
The sound rolled across the battlefield like distant thunder, deep and mechanical, vibrating through the ground and up into their bones. It was the unmistakable groan of hydraulics on a scale that shouldn't exist—massive, ship-grade systems activating with the slow, inexorable power of tectonic plates grinding together.
Every head snapped upward.
The warship—that malevolent shadow still looming in low orbit, blotting out the orange sky—was moving.
No. Not moving.
Opening.
A seam appeared along the underside of the massive hull, barely visible at first, just a thin line of darkness against darker metal. Then it split, edges peeling back with the grinding shriek of metal on metal, revealing a cavernous interior that glowed with sickly crimson light. The bay doors—each one the size of a city block—swung wide on hydraulic arms thicker than starship hulls, exhaust vents hissing superheated plasma in great gouts that painted the clouds hellish orange.
The sound intensified, became a roar that drowned out everything else, a mechanical scream that set teeth on edge and made the air itself vibrate.
Pyris's wings spread instinctively, an unconscious threat display, amber eyes narrowing to slits. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me..."
The crimson lantern's ring flared, bathing them in harsh green light as his combat systems came online. Around them, the other Lanterns broke formation, spreading out, constructs appearing in rapid succession—shields, weapons, barriers—emerald light pushing back the darkness.
And then—
THOOM.
A figure launched from the warship's belly, a dark silhouette framed against the crimson glow, falling like a meteor with arms spread wide . No thrusters. No visible propulsion. Just raw, terrifying acceleration as gravity claimed it and dragged it toward the planet's surface with bone-crushing inevitability.
One.
THOOM.
Another figure followed, identical trajectory, identical silhouette, plummeting like judgment itself.
Two.
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
More. Three, four, five—dark shapes raining from the sky, each one a promise of violence, each one trailing faint wisps of smoke as they carved through the atmosphere.
Ky'rand, still pinned beneath the healing construct, watched through half-lidded eyes and felt something cold settle in his gut. Too many. There are too many.
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
Ten. Twelve. Fourteen.
Fifteen.
Fifteen figures fell from the warship, descending in perfect formation, synchronized with mechanical precision that spoke of either impeccable training or something far worse.
Pyris's voice cut through the roar, sharp and commanding, the tone of a Magister who'd led soldiers through hell and dragged them back alive. "KNIGHTS INCOMING!!!" He raised the war mace, pointing at the descending figures, wings flaring wide. "All units, defensive positions! Lanterns, get those shields—"
KA-THOOM.
The first figure hit the ground half a kilometer away, and the impact was cataclysmic.
The earth erupted, a shockwave rolling outward in a perfect circle that cracked pavement, shattered windows, and sent debris flying like shrapnel. A crater formed instantly—ten meters wide, five deep—dust and pulverized stone exploding upward in a mushroom cloud that blotted out the sky. The sound was a physical force, a bass-note punch that rattled ribs and made ears pop.
KA-THOOM. KA-THOOM. KA-THOOM.
The others followed in rapid succession, each impact closer than the last, a drumbeat of destruction that marched toward them with relentless inevitability. The ground shook, tremors cascading through the metallic streets in rippling waves. Buildings that had survived the drone assault groaned and collapsed, unable to withstand the seismic assault.
Fourteen impacts. Fourteen craters. Fourteen expanding clouds of dust and smoke that merged into a single, choking wall advancing toward them like a living thing.
Ky'rand couldn't see anything anymore—just gray haze, thick and suffocating, swallowing the world. His lungs burned. His eyes stung. The healing construct around him flickered, struggling to compensate for the sudden environmental shift.
The Lanterns hovered in tight formation, rings blazing, construct-shields materializing in overlapping layers—emerald hexagons stacked three-deep, each one reinforced with interlocking geometric patterns designed to distribute kinetic force. They were ready. Trained. Professional.
But even through the dust, even through the haze, Ky'rand could feel the unease radiating from them—could see it in the way their construct-shields wavered, just slightly, and in the way they backed up half a step without seeming to realize it.
Whatever was coming, it was wrong.
And then—
THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.
Footsteps. Heavy. Rhythmic. Fast.
Something was running toward them through the dust cloud, and the sound of its boots hitting the ground was like hammers striking anvils—deep, resonant, heavy in a way that spoke of mass and momentum that should not be moving that quickly.
The dust swirled, eddies forming as something massive displaced the air, and then—
It emerged.
The figure that stepped out of the haze was enormous—easily nine feet tall, maybe more, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, built like a siege engine given humanoid form. Every line of its body spoke of power barely restrained, of violence coiled and waiting for release.
It was clad head-to-toe in black nanotech armor that seemed to drink in light, matte-black plating that shifted and rippled with every movement like living shadow. The armor was segmented, overlapping plates that flexed with organic fluidity, covering every inch of skin—no flesh visible, no weak points, just seamless black that covered limbs, torso, joints. Faint crimson circuitry pulsed beneath the surface, veins of light that traced geometric patterns across the chest and arms, providing the only color in that sea of darkness.
The design was brutal and elegant in equal measure: pauldrons that jutted upward like mountain peaks, gauntlets reinforced with additional plating over the knuckles, greaves that ended in boots heavy enough to crack stone with every step. But it was the helmet that drew the eye—angular and imposing, shaped like a knight's visor but alien, otherworldly. A T-shaped slit glowed with that same sickly crimson light, revealing nothing of what lay beneath, and the crown rose to a sharp point, almost horn-like, giving the figure a demonic silhouette.
It looked like an engine of annihilation wrapped in the aesthetics of a medieval knight and filtered through a nightmare.
And it wasn't alone.
Behind it, more figures emerged from the dust—identical in size, identical in armor, identical in the way they moved with mechanical precision. Fourteen more. Fifteen total. An army of black-armored giants that advanced in lockstep, boots crunching rubble with synchronized *thuds* that sounded like the march of doom itself.
They said nothing. Made no sound except the relentless rhythm of their advance.
The lead figure—the first one to emerge—didn't slow. Didn't hesitate.
It charged.
One of the Lanterns—a blue-scaled serpentine being—reacted instantly, ring flaring as he layered construct-shields in front of the formation. Emerald hexagons snapped into place, three-deep, reinforced at the joints, each one glowing with barely contained power. "Hold the line!" he barked, voice tight with controlled fear.
The black knight didn't stop.
It stretched out one gauntleted hand, arm extending forward, and the nanotech rippled. Black material flowed like liquid metal, expanding, reshaping, solidifying in the span of a single heartbeat into a massive war hammer—five feet long, head the size of an engine block, covered in the same pulsing crimson circuitry. The weapon materialized fully formed, and the knight's fingers closed around the haft with a grip that made the metal groan.
It swung.
The hammer came around in a brutal, horizontal arc, speed defying the weapon's size, the air screaming as it was displaced. Crimson light trailed behind the strike like a comet's tail.
The construct-shields met the blow head-on.
KRAAAAAASH.
The impact was apocalyptic.
The sound was glass shattering multiplied by a thousand, mixed with the bass-note crunch of something fundamental breaking. The first shield shattered instantly, emerald shards exploding outward in a glittering spray. The second held for half a heartbeat—just long enough for everyone to hope—before it cracked, fracture lines spidering across its surface, and then it too burst apart.
The third shield buckled, warped inward like a soap bubble pressed by a hurricane, and then gave up entirely.
The hammer continued through, unstoppable, and the shockwave hit.
Lanterns were flung backward like ragdolls, bodies tumbling through the air, rings flickering as they struggled to compensate for the sudden loss of concentration. The serpentine Lantern who'd raised the shields took the worst of it, thrown fifty meters and slamming into the side of a ruined building hard enough to crack stone, his body going limp on impact.
The black knight stood in the center of the devastation, hammer resting against its shoulder, crimson visor sweeping across the scattered Lanterns with cold, mechanical assessment.
And behind it, the other fourteen began to accelerate.
Ky'rand, still trapped beneath the healing construct, stared up at the advancing army with wide, unblinking eyes, and felt despair settle over him like a shroud.
'What are they?'