Chapter 56
Magnus found Alexa sitting alone near the edge of the camp, her hands still faintly glowing with residual healing energy. Smoke drifted above the broken ground, and in the distance, the remains of the Noid monsters were already dissolving, bodies collapsing inward as if melting into invisible dust.
He said her name softly. "Alexa."
She looked up, tired but steady. "You survived."
"So did you," he replied, sitting beside her on the fallen tree a few meters from the camp wall. The wood was scorched and half-buried in soil crates, but it was the first quiet place they had found since the battle.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Magnus exhaled slowly. "There are things you need to know. Things I should've told you before."
Alexa turned fully toward him. "Then tell me."
Magnus stared at the disintegrating Noid remains. "The rift isn't natural. It never was. The Sentinel Tower… the tasks… the monsters… they're all part of a trial."
"A trial?" she echoed.
"The High Imperial race," Magnus continued, his voice lowering as if even speaking their name carried weight, "are not just conquerors. They are architects of trials. Long before our world ever knew what the sky looked like without scars, they built the towers and seeded the rifts across countless systems.
"They do not invade worlds in the way empires once did. They reshape them.
"The Sentinel Towers are their instruments. Through them, they create environments of pressure and extinction, monsters, shifting terrain, impossible rules, until only those capable of adaptation remain. Every task the tower assigns, every creature it unleashes, every change it forces upon the land… is part of a single design.
"To them, we are not people. We are candidates.
"They orchestrate the rift's challenges to filter out weakness and harvest potential. Those who break are discarded. Those who survive are studied. And those who endure… those who show will strong enough to resist collapse, are offered a place among them.
"Not as equals," he added quietly, "but as assets.
"They believe evolution should not be slow. They believe suffering is the fastest path to improvement. Entire species have been driven to extinction just to refine the qualities of the few who remain. That is how they build their ranks, by forcing lesser civilizations to bleed until only what they value is left standing.
"This rift is not a disaster. It is a proving ground.
"And we are inside it."
Alexa's eyes narrowed. "So this is… recruitment?"
"Selection," Magnus corrected. "Brutal selection."
He gestured toward the fading Noid bodies scattered across the ruined ground. Their forms were already losing definition, edges blurring as if reality itself could no longer remember their shape.
"Those creatures weren't born," Magnus said. "They were built. Artificial life, nanotech constructs woven together by High Imperial design. Every strand of them was programmed with a purpose: to terraform entire worlds and force evolution to accelerate."
He watched as one of the Noids collapsed inward, its surface breaking into glowing fractures.
"They reshape planets first, poisoning the soil, changing the air, warping terrain into something hostile. Then they reshape the inhabitants. Survival becomes adaptation. Adaptation becomes mutation. Species either evolve fast enough… or disappear."
The creature's body shuddered once more.
"When they die," Magnus continued, "their physical form can no longer maintain cohesion. The energy that binds their structure together begins to fail. What you're seeing now is that bond unraveling, code and matter losing synchronization."
The last Noid dissolved completely, its outline breaking into drifting motes of light before fading into the dust-stained wind.
"In the end," he said quietly, "there's nothing left to bury. No corpse. No proof they ever lived."
Only scorched ground remained where a monster had stood.
Magnus went on, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "The abilities the tower spreads? They're not blessings. They're not miracles. They're modifications."
He clenched his hand slowly, as if feeling something beneath his skin.
"Human DNA is being rewritten, layered with High Imperial genetic code. Not randomly. Not equally. The tower reads what you are before it changes you. It looks at your mind, your discipline, your fears, your instincts… and builds your power from that foundation."
He turned to her. "Strength comes from aggression. Control comes from focus. Healing comes from empathy. Every ability reflects what a person relies on to survive."
Alexa felt a chill crawl up her spine.
"So when people gain powers," Magnus continued, "it's not because they were chosen. It's because they were compatible. Their bodies could endure the alteration. Their minds could survive the strain."
He paused.
"And the ones who couldn't… didn't."
Alexa swallowed hard. "So… what about you?"
Magnus didn't answer right away.
His eyes flicked toward the distant tower, then back to her.
"I am beyond their system , before I ever stepped into this rift," he said slowly. "Some of what's happening now… it recognizes me. Like I was not included in its calculation to be here."
His jaw tightened. "That's why I can feel it when the rift changes. Why I sense the watchers. Why the towers respond when I'm close."
He met her gaze, bracing for something, fear, doubt, rejection.
Instead, Alexa reached out and took his hand.
The world was broken.The truth was monstrous.But he was still Magnus.
And she still chose him.
She studied him, searching for fear or deception.
Instead, she reached for his hand.
"The world stopped being normal the moment the sky tore open," she said gently, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "When the rift appeared, when monsters walked out of nothing… that was the end of simple truths."
She reached for him, not urgently, but with quiet certainty.
"Hearing this doesn't change how I see you," she continued. "And it doesn't change how I feel. You're not defined by where your power came from. You're defined by what you do with it. By who you protect. By the way you still look at people like they matter."
Magnus stared at her, as if her words were something he didn't know how to process.
"I love you," she said simply, without drama, without hesitation. "You don't become someone else just because the universe is cruel. You don't become a monster just because monsters exist. You're still you."
Silence settled between them, heavy but warm.
For the first time since the battle, Magnus smiled, not the forced kind meant to reassure others, but a real one, slow and fragile, like something he had forgotten how to make.
And for a brief moment, surrounded by broken ground and fading horrors, the rift did not matter.
Only them did.
He leaned in and kissed her, slow, steady, grounding. Not a farewell. Not a promise. Just proof they were still human, still capable of warmth, still capable of choice.
Behind them, the rift pulsed softly, a low hum that seemed to echo in their bones. Shadows twisted within it, restless and waiting.
Magnus pulled back, his expression tightening, the smile gone. His eyes scanned the horizon, sharp and alert.
"…They're watching," he said, voice low.
Alexa followed his gaze toward the jagged mountain range beyond the camp. Dark silhouettes dotted the ridges, tall, unmoving, like statues carved from night itself.
Magnus's jaw clenched. "The Dark Elves. They've been observing for hours. Studying us. Waiting for the moment to strike."
"When?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Magnus's eyes flicked back to the fading Noid corpses, then toward the mountains again. "Soon. Too soon. The sixty-minute mark ends, and they won't just watch anymore. Not from the ridges. Not from anywhere."
He rose slowly, muscles coiled, every motion precise. "Alexa… prepare the others. Focus on the Dark Elves in the valley. I'll handle the ones above the mountains. They're counting on fear to slow us down… but they underestimate what we're capable of."
Alexa nodded, her heart racing, but calm in the way that only true understanding can bring. The rift was unpredictable, the Dark Elves merciless, but they had survived worse. And together, they would face whatever came next.
The wind shifted. The silhouettes stirred.
The trial was about to continue.
And Magnus and Alexa would be ready.
Alexa rose instantly, muscles coiled and ready. "I'll warn the others," she said, her voice steady despite the pounding in her chest.
Magnus gave a short nod. "You focus on the Dark Elves, the ones in the valley. Keep them contained. Keep our people alive."
His gaze lifted toward the jagged peaks above, where shadows clung like living armor. "I'll take care of the ones above the mountains. They'll come down eventually, but I'll make sure we're ready."
Her hands clenched into fists. "That's… too many," she said, a mix of fear and frustration in her tone.
"They're not here for the camp," Magnus said, his voice firm. "They're here for me. Everything else… is just a distraction."
He turned back to her, eyes burning with quiet command. "Prepare them, Alexa. Make sure no one underestimates what's coming. This isn't another wave. This isn't a test of strength, they're coming for blood."
Without another word, she sprinted toward the camp, calling out orders, rallying the survivors, and moving to organize the wounded, the healers, and the armed Cleaners. Every step carried urgency; every motion was decisive.
Magnus stayed behind on the fallen tree, his eyes glowing faintly, scanning the peaks. Shadows shifted across the cliffs like dark waves, silent watchers waiting for a signal.
The trial was no longer pretending.
The rift hummed with anticipation.
And the Sentinel Tower, far above, would soon witness something it had never accounted for:
The wind whipped around him, carrying dust and debris from the shattered terrain. Magnus's boots struck the cracked earth with a steady rhythm, each step precise, calculated, yet driven by a coiled rage that only he could feel. Above, the High Imperial unit mirrored his movements, their formations fluid and coordinated, but every motion they made was being read, predicted, and countered—even before they fully executed it.
The clearing came into view, sun glinting off the jagged edges of the surrounding cliffs. Two hundred meters of flat, open ground. Enough space to fight. Enough space for Magnus to turn anticipation into action.
He allowed himself a slow, deliberate breath. Not fear, no, that had long since left him, but raw excitement. The frustration that had been building for weeks, for months, had nowhere to go until now. Soon, it would be unleashed.
He thought of the years humanity had wasted, clumsy, untrained, blind to their potential. If he could remove just a few obstacles, create a sliver of time free from external threats, perhaps they could finally rise. Perhaps they could learn. Perhaps they could master their Force skills without dying under the weight of superior enemies.
Magnus's eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as he gauged the High Imperials. Every twitch of their limbs, every flicker of energy in their armor, every angle of approach, it was all visible to him, all calculable.
A grin tugged at his lips. Soon, they would see the cost of underestimating him.
And the clearing, empty, silent, perfect, would become the stage for what he had been waiting to release.
Magnus, voice low and precise. "Perpetua… can you kindly remove that pest hovering over my direction?"
A soft, lilting giggle came through the line. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it," she replied, teasing but confident.
He let his gaze drift for a moment toward the jagged horizon. "Sister… can you spare a few seconds? I wish to see Kael'Thar personally."
Perpetua laughed lightly, the sound almost echoing through his mind. "You're really upset, aren't you?"
Magnus exhaled sharply. "It's… really annoying. So many reasons. I think I need to release this frustration before it consumes me."
Her tone softened, playful yet knowing. "Don't worry. Your other self feels the same way. It's just waiting, hovering, on the same page as you now."
Above the planet Khar'Zun, his unbound self drifted, unseen and unnoticed, a silent observer scanning the chaos below, preparing for the exact moment when intervention would be required.
Magnus allowed a grin to spread across his face, slow, deliberate, dangerous. Soon, every irritation, every threat, every shadow of annoyance would have a target. Every obstacle would be reduced to ash. The world, fragile, unprepared, would finally have the breathing room he intended.
But first… he would deal with the ones watching from above.
Shadows shifted along the mountain ridges, subtle but deliberate. Magnus's eyes narrowed. The High Imperials were precise. Ruthless. Calculated. Yet, they were still prey in the presence of someone who had long since learned to anticipate every angle, every weakness, every move before it happened.
The hunt was about to begin.
And Magnus was ready.
Magnus tapped into his comms, voice low and precise. "Perpetua… can you kindly remove that pest hovering over my direction?"
A soft, lilting giggle came through the line. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it," she replied, teasing but confident.
He let his gaze drift for a moment toward the jagged horizon. "Sister… can you spare a few seconds? I wish to see Kael'Thar personally."
Perpetua laughed lightly, the sound almost echoing through his mind. "You're really upset, aren't you?"
Magnus exhaled sharply. "It's… really annoying. So many reasons. I think I need to release this frustration before it consumes me."
Her tone softened, playful yet knowing. "Don't worry. Your other self feels the same way. It's just waiting, hovering, on the same page as you now."
Above the planet Khar'Zun, his unbound self drifted, unseen and unnoticed, a silent observer scanning the chaos below, preparing for the exact moment when intervention would be required.
Magnus allowed a grin to spread across his face, slow, deliberate, dangerous. Soon, every irritation, every threat, every shadow of annoyance would have a target. Every obstacle would be reduced to ash. The world, fragile, unprepared, would finally have the breathing room he intended.
But first… he would deal with the ones watching from above.
Shadows shifted along the mountain ridges, subtle but deliberate. Magnus's eyes narrowed. The High Imperials were precise. Ruthless. Calculated. Yet, they were still prey in the presence of someone who had long since learned to anticipate every angle, every weakness, every move before it happened.
The hunt was about to begin.
And Magnus was ready.
Instantly, Kael'Thar appeared, a demi-god of ambiguous loyalty, one of the offspring of Perpetua's known cosmic lineage, yet whose allegiance was entirely self-defined. The air seemed to tremble around him as he stood, awed and disoriented, in the presence of the being above all others. The vast authority of Perpetua made even the stars seem trivial, and he struggled to comprehend a power that dwarfed all cosmic entities he had encountered.
Perpetua's gaze fell upon him, sharp and unforgiving. Her anger radiated outward, palpable, and her voice cut through the stillness like a scythe through mist.
"Do you dare stand here in ignorance?" she thundered.
The countless gods gathered beneath her quivered. One by one, they fell to their knees, heads bowed in immediate submission. Even Kael'Thar, despite his own immense power, lowered his shifting, all-seeing eyes, unable to maintain his pride in her presence.
As she remained seated above her throne, a deep silence enveloped the cosmic realm. But one primordial god dared to step forward.
This was Orryx, the Weaver of Veils, a being whose essence intertwined with the threads of perception across all realities. Orryx was neither cruel nor benevolent by conventional standards, but insistent on enforcing the patterns of cosmic observation. Its appearance was unlike anything mortal or divine had known: a towering figure composed of translucent filaments that shimmered with colors unseen by human eyes, constantly forming and reforming, creating ghostly shapes of cities, forests, oceans, and stars within its body. Its face was a shifting mask of countless expressions, impossible to focus on for more than a heartbeat.
Orryx's function in the cosmic realm was to maintain the weave between realities, ensuring that cause and effect, action and consequence, remained visible and coherent across universes. It monitored the flows of creation and entropy, acting as a subtle regulator rather than an enforcer. Yet in its mind, Orryx carried the arrogance of one who believed that all who exist within the weave should answer to its interpretations.
Its voice echoed through the void, layered and discordant, each word striking as both statement and question. "Perpetua… why this display?" Orryx's mask flickered, showing fleeting glimpses of sorrow, curiosity, and indignation. "Kael'Thar stands in your presence—yet must you remind all of his subservience with such… severity? I, the Weaver, perceive imbalance, and yet none may speak but me?"
Perpetua's glare swept across Orryx, sharp enough to fracture stars. "You presume you have the right to question me, Weaver?" Her tone was low, dangerous, like the calm before a black hole swallows light.
Orryx's filaments shivered, but it did not retreat. "I observe. I maintain. And when the balance tilts, I speak. Even gods—primordial or otherwise, must answer for the structure they disrupt. Do you not see the threads unravel, even as you hold your throne?"
The silence returned, heavy and suffocating. Kael'Thar remained still, still humbled by her presence, yet internally curious at how a being like Orryx dared to challenge Perpetua without immediate annihilation.
Perpetua's hand moved slightly, a subtle gesture, yet enough to remind Orryx of her absolute dominion. "Do not mistake observation for permission, Weaver," she said, voice calm but lethal. "You may perceive the threads, but you do not dictate which hold… and which break."
Orryx's mask shifted into a final expression—something resembling grudging respect. Yet within its essence, a thought persisted: even the most absolute throne may tremble before chaos unforeseen.
Orryx, the Weaver of Veils, hovered silently, its filaments shimmering with countless worlds, its shifting mask flickering with expressions of curiosity, indignation, and authority. But as Perpetua's voice resonated across the void, calm yet absolute, something in Orryx faltered.
"All came from us," she said, her gaze sweeping through the primordial assembly like a tidal wave of inevitability. "We are the beginning and the end. Mind who you are speaking to."
For a heartbeat, Orryx quivered, its translucent threads flickering violently, worlds collapsing into themselves inside its body. The countless orbs and filaments twisted, shimmered, and strained against an invisible force. Then, without another word, a quiet but final crack echoed through the multiverse.
Dust. That was all that remained. Orryx shattered into motes of shimmering nothingness, fragments of light scattering and fading instantly into the void, as if it had never existed.
The silence that followed was suffocating. The other primordial gods, titanic and ancient, trembled in place. Even those who had ruled or observed for eons felt the weight of Perpetua's presence crushing them in an instant. The very ground of the cosmic throne realm seemed to shiver.
A murmur passed among them, not a sound, but a vibration in their essence, a warning that even the most powerful could be erased without effort, without hesitation.
Kael'Thar's all-seeing eyes lowered further, witnessing that a primordial god, far older and greater than most, had been erased as if it were nothing more than dust in the wind.
Perpetua remained seated, her posture unbroken, her voice steady. "We do not bargain. We do not hesitate. And we do not forgive those who mistake observation for defiance."
The assembly of ancient beings bowed lower still, their awe and terror absolute. None dared breathe, none dared move, and none dared think of challenging her again.
The lesson was clear: in the presence of Perpetua, even a primordial god could die without warning, without struggle, without escape.
Perpetua remained seated in her cosmic form, her presence radiating power that seemed to ripple through every plane of existence. Beside her—or perhaps as another facet of her—manifested Priscilla, taking her preferred, more approachable form.
Her skin carried a warm, sun-touched tone, as though she had lived beneath open skies her entire life. Long, dark waves of hair fell down her back, nearly black, yet in strong light revealing faint threads of silver, glimmers of eternity she never fully hid.
Her eyes were the most unsettling: deep, reflective blue, unnaturally focused, always seeming to see slightly beyond the present moment, as though every secret, every hidden truth, was already known to her.
When she smiled, it was gentle. When she frowned, it felt like history itself disapproved.
Priscilla dressed simply: loose earth-toned clothing, long coats, scarves, and sturdy boots suited for travel across any terrain. Nothing ornate, nothing divine. Jewelry was absent, save for a thin ring she wore, a quiet anchor, a reminder that she was pretending.
Her voice carried a calm, casual authority as she spoke to Kael'Thar's all-seeing eyes, her words tinged with subtle glee. "Ah, I've been meaning to speak with you. My twin wished to—oh, here he is now."
Confusion flashed across Kael'Thar's shifting, all-seeing eyes. Omega had been imprisoned by the primordial race, its master protecting it, and yet here it was. The revelation confirmed assumptions Kael'Thar had harbored in silence for ages. It wanted to destroy itself in shame, in the futility of serving forces it could never fully acknowledge, but Priscilla intervened.
"You can't do that," she said gently, a hint of amusement in her tone. "You cannot just self-destruct. You can leave… yes. But my twin will handle it."
Before Kael'Thar could react further, a powerful hand seized him by the neck. Omega manifested, an overwhelming presence. The multitude of gods below instinctively lowered their heads; some wanted to flee, but the raw authority in Omega's voice stopped them.
"Leave," Omega said, its tone absolute. "And you forfeit your divinity. You forfeit the realm you dwell in."
Fear rippled like a current. Those who had attempted to escape froze in place, paralyzed. A few who had already begun to vanish dissolved instantly, snuffed out by the raw weight of Omega's command. The remaining gods stayed where they were, trembling, fully aware that defiance now carried consequences they could not survive.
Kael'Thar struggled for a heartbeat under Omega's grip, his all-seeing eyes wide with a mixture of awe, terror, and the reluctant understanding that the balance of power had shifted irrevocably.
Priscilla's smile remained, gentle, yet deadly in its implication. "Do be careful," she murmured, her gaze flicking toward Kael'Thar's flickering, all-knowing eyes. "My twin doesn't like mistakes. And you… are on thin ground."
OMEGA's voice rolled across the void, low and resonant, carrying a weight that seemed to bend the very threads of reality. "It seems you gods think you are truly above us," it said, each word deliberate, cutting through the trembling assembly.
The multitude of gods froze, sensing the storm of authority behind the words. Even the ancient, immortal beings—those who had existed since before the first star, felt their essence waver.
"The fact that we have grown to gain mortal feelings," Omega continued, voice sharp like the edge of a black star, "you presume this makes us weak. That empathy, that fear, that love, is a flaw. You believe we are inferior, incapable of standing against your judgment, your dominion."
Kael'Thar's all-seeing eyes flickered, shifting nervously. Even he had never felt such raw, unyielding certainty emanating from a being that was not fully divine, not fully mortal, a force unbound and unrestrained.
"You are wrong," Omega said, its tone now rising, echoing across every plane. "Because in feeling, we have learned. In fearing, we have survived. In loving, we have strength that your eternal arrogance can never comprehend. And for every god who dares to look down upon us, there will be reckoning."
A tremor ran through the gathered gods. Some tried to flee, but Omega's presence, unrelenting and absolute, held them frozen in place. Even Kael'Thar, with eyes that had seen all and judged all, lowered his gaze in reluctant awe.
Omega's glowing form pulsed, expanding, pressing the limits of the cosmic throne realm. "You may have built towers, created tests, and shaped destinies. But do not mistake our humanity, our mortality, for weakness. You have underestimated us… and underestimation is a deadly mistake."
Silence followed, thick and oppressive, the kind that left even immortals questioning the stability of their existence.
Omega's eyes glowed with an unyielding, simmering fury. Its voice cut through the void like molten steel.
"Killing you now," it said slowly, deliberately, "would not be enough to satisfy my annoyance. No. That is far too simple… far too brief. So let us do this instead."
Kael'Thar's shifting, all-seeing eyes flickered, confused. Omega's next words pierced him, deeper than any blade could reach:
"You will now feel pain. Even as a god. Even as an immortal, your immortality will be your prison."
The moment the words left Omega's lips, Kael'Thar's essence convulsed. A thousand fractures of sensation exploded inside him at once. Pain unlike any he had ever known surged through every filament of his being, every shard of his existence.
It was a pain that defied comprehension.
A pressure that crushed the light within his own vision, as if his infinite perception of reality itself was being torn apart. Every world he had ever observed flickered, shattered, and reformed—each cycle striking him anew.
A fire that burned along the threads of his being, scorching without ever consuming, leaving nothing but raw awareness of suffering.
A weight that pressed down through eons of existence, infinitely deep, heavier than the mass of a dying universe, crushing him beneath it again and again.
Pain that echoed, bounced, and multiplied within him endlessly. Each pulse was sharper than the last, yet never ended, never dulled. Every attempt to flee, to hide, to dissolve into nothingness, was denied. Death itself could not release him, because Omega had bound his immortality as the cage, and suffering as the lock.
Kael'Thar screamed, not with sound, but through the vibrations of reality, through the flickering of infinite threads, but the universe absorbed his agony, leaving only the echo of torment.
Time itself became meaningless for him. Minutes stretched into eternities. Pain bled into memory and into foresight, entwining the past, present, and potential futures into a single unending crucible of torment.
Even as he existed, even as he observed and judged and calculated, Kael'Thar realized the horrifying truth: he would never be free.
And above him, Omega's calm, deliberate gaze held him in place. Not for revenge, not for cruelty… but because the smallest fraction of annoyance from Omega had become a torment that could last forever.
Kael'Thar's all-seeing eyes dulled under the weight of it, yet even that dulled vision could not shield him.
He had become eternal suffering incarnate.
At the same moment, on a small blue planet, another story slowly unfolded.
Magnus stood a few feet from the Proving Spear unit of the High Imperial army. Before him was Varrek Thane, commander of the Proving Spear, with the rest of his squad arrayed behind him in disciplined formation. They were thrilled to face the anomaly at last, Magnus was not prey to them, but a candidate, a variable worth measuring.
Magnus stood just over six feet tall.
Varrek Thane, encased in full battle armor, rose to nearly seven feet. His height was not merely physical, it was symbolic. The Proving Spear treated him as a living standard of authority. On the battlefield, he was meant to be seen first… and feared first.
His twenty-four unit members matched him in stature, towering and uniform, their armor humming with restrained power. Yet even they were small when compared to true High Imperial warriors—the pureblood giants who stood close to ten feet tall, living monuments of conquest and genetic perfection.
The wind swept across the clearing between them.
Two doctrines of power faced one another: manufactured supremacy…and an unmeasured anomaly.
Varrek's visor flared with light. Magnus did not move.
For the first time since the towers rose, the High Imperial army was not certain which of them stood on the wrong side of history.
Below the mountain ridge, the land opened into a vast scar of territory, three thousand acres of stolen land, sealed away from the world by an unseen hand. The ridge itself rose like a broken spine, its stone jagged and blackened, as if the mountain had once tried to claw its way out of the ground and failed. Wind screamed through the gaps in the rocks, carrying ash, cold dust, and the faint metallic scent of old battles.
The sky above this place was wrong. Clouds moved too slowly, stretched thin like torn cloth, and the light that filtered through them was dim and sickly, casting long, warped shadows across the plains below. Nothing here felt natural. Even the soil looked wounded, dark, compacted, and cracked, with veins of faint violet glow running through it like infected blood.
At the edge of the domain, the isolation barrier revealed itself only when disturbed. Invisible in stillness, it betrayed its presence in flickers, brief flashes of pale blue and violent purple sparks when windblown stones struck it or when dust brushed too close. Each spark was a warning: this land no longer belonged to the world outside. The barrier hummed softly, like a distant swarm of insects, its tone uneven, unstable, as though it had been forced into existence rather than born.
Beyond that shimmering threshold lay the Dark Elf territory. The land inside felt heavier, as if gravity itself leaned inward. Twisted trees grew there, their bark charcoal-black, their branches sharp and claw-like, pointing toward the sky in silent accusation. No birds flew over it. No insects dared to cross. Even the wind slowed once it entered, as though afraid to move too freely.
This barrier had not been made to protect. It had been made to separate.
It cut the Dark Elf domain from the lands of the Springgan noble race, carving a private battlefield where conquest could be clean, contained, and unseen by the outside world. Villages once meant for sunlight and river mist now sat abandoned, half-swallowed by shadow and strange crystalline growths that pulsed faintly under the surface of the ground.
Sparks leapt again along the barrier's surface, sharp, sudden, like the snapping of a whip. The flickering grew more frequent now, reacting to the presence of warriors gathering beneath the ridge. Each flash marked the border between two fates: one side still breathing with resistance, the other already claimed by darkness.
The ridge itself became a natural wall above the field, towering over the coming fight. From its height, the entire domain could be seen, a prison disguised as land, a conquest disguised as isolation, a battlefield waiting to remember blood.
And there, beneath the mountain's shadow, where sparks kissed empty air and the barrier whispered its false promise of order…the ground seemed to hold its breath.
Because it knew what was coming.
Varrek Thane raised one armored hand, and the air around the battlefield folded inward. Light bent. Sound dulled. A dome of force slammed down around Magnus and the entire Proving Spear unit, sealing them inside a prison of condensed energy. The barrier burned faintly with runic patterns, each symbol rotating like a lock searching for the correct key to deny escape. Varrek stepped forward, boots grinding into stone.
"So," he said calmly, his voice amplified by the field, "this is the anomaly that ruined our mana crystal harvest ." He planted his spear into the ground and looked directly at Magnus—not with fear, but with appraisal.
"I am Varrek Thane, leader of the Proving Spear. Before I kill you, I require your name." Magnus said nothing. Varrek nodded, unbothered.
"Very well. Your body will serve instead. Our cloning chambers will thank you." With a clenched fist, he gave the signal. The Proving Spear moved as one. Twenty-four soldiers surged forward in perfect formation, their weapons glowing as they fired overlapping arcs of compressed energy. The air itself screamed as the volleys crossed, forming a net meant to crush Magnus from every direction. Magnus stepped forward into it. The first wave struck.
The blasts should have torn him apart. Instead, the energy bent, curving around him like water around a stone. The ground behind him detonated into molten glass. Varrek's eyes narrowed. "Adjust output. Double intensity." The second wave came heavier, thicker, ripping trenches through the earth as it closed in. Magnus raised one hand. The world stopped for a breath. Then the energy collapsed inward, imploding in midair.
The shockwave hurled six soldiers backward into the barrier, their bodies slamming hard enough to leave spiderweb cracks in the field. Magnus vanished. Not with light. Not with sound. He simply wasn't where he had been. A soldier turned, And Magnus was already there. One strike. Not a punch, a displacement of space.
The soldier folded inward like crushed paper, launched across the field and into another trooper, both hitting the barrier with bone-shattering force. Varrek roared, charging. He moved like a siege engine, spear spinning in his grip as he closed the distance. His weapon carved glowing arcs through the air, each strike heavy enough to split tanks. The spear hit Magnus. And stopped. The metal screamed as it met resistance, not armor, not skin, but something deeper.
Reality around Magnus rippled outward in rings. Varrek pushed harder, muscles bulging, boots carving trenches into the ground. "You bleed like everything else," he growled, twisting the weapon. Magnus grabbed the spear. Not the shaft. The blade. Energy flared violently where his fingers closed around it. The weapon howled as its charge overloaded. Magnus pulled. Varrek was dragged forward despite himself, his momentum turned against him. Magnus struck him once in the chest. Varrek flew. He hit the ground hard enough to crater stone,
sliding for meters before rolling to his feet, coughing blood inside his helm. "Formation Delta!" Varrek shouted. The remaining soldiers repositioned instantly, forming a wide circle. Their weapons shifted shape, unfolding into heavy artillery frames. The air thickened as they fired in unison—pure annihilation, a ring of death converging on Magnus.
Magnus stomped. The ground rose. A wall of stone erupted around him just as the blasts struck, pulverizing it into dust. From the smoke, Magnus emerged, moving faster now. He ran through the formation. A blur. One soldier was lifted and slammed into another. A third was hurled upward and smashed into the barrier so hard the dome flared violently.
A fourth fired point-blank, Magnus caught the blast and drove it back into the weapon, detonating it in the trooper's hands. Varrek charged again, fury burning through his discipline. They collided mid-field. Spear met fist. Shockwave tore the ground apart beneath them.
Varrek struck again and again, each blow backed by years of war, thrusts meant for monsters, sweeps designed to break giants, feints meant to kill generals. Magnus took them. Not passively. Each hit bent him slightly… and each counterstrike rewrote the fight. Varrek blocked a blow and felt his arms go numb.
He struck Magnus in the side, and felt like he had stabbed a star. "You are not flesh," Varrek snarled. "What are you?" Magnus grabbed him by the throat. The barrier pulsed. Varrek's boots left the ground. The remaining soldiers opened fire again, but Magnus turned, still holding Varrek, and used him as a shield. The blasts struck Varrek's back. His scream was short. Magnus threw him. Varrek crashed through three of his own men before hitting the barrier again, sliding down it slowly. He forced himself up.
"Finish it," he rasped. "All of you." The Proving Spear charged. Magnus lifted both hands. The air folded inward. The soldiers froze mid-run, caught in invisible pressure. Their armor creaked. Their weapons shattered in their grips. With a single motion, Magnus drove the force downward. The field exploded. Bodies slammed into the ground as if gravity itself had multiplied. Only Varrek remained standing. Barely. He staggered forward, spear broken, breathing ragged. "…even now," he said, coughing, "you would make a perfect template."
Magnus walked toward him. Each step made the barrier flicker violently. Varrek tried to raise his weapon. Magnus struck him once more. Not to kill. To end him. Varrek collapsed, unmoving. The barrier shattered. Light rushed back into the world. Wind returned. Sound followed. The Proving Spear lay broken across the battlefield.
And Magnus stood alone in the ruined circle of power, untouched, not as prey, not as soldier, but as something the High Empire had never learned how to fight. Because brute strength and experience meant nothing against something that did not belong to war… but to inevitability. continue as Magnus took out his weapon and attacker the other unit with equal devastating force , but it seems hat were able to learn from the fight,
Magnus did not watch the fallen.
He reached behind his shoulder and drew his weapon.
It did not look like a blade at first, more like a shard of condensed night, a strip of metal that bent light away from its edge. No runes. No glow. Only a pressure in the air, as if the world itself disliked standing too close to it.
Across the ruined field, another unit emerged from the shadow of the ridge.
Not Proving Spear.
These soldiers wore heavier armor, layered with shifting plates and crystalline nodes embedded along their spines and arms. Their visors flickered with analysis sigils, feeding them everything the previous unit had died learning.
They had watched the entire fight.
And they had learned.
Their leader raised one hand.
"Target exhibits spatial distortion, kinetic dominance, and field-collapse techniques," she said calmly. "Parameters updated. Engage adaptive protocol."
They did not charge.
They spread.
Wide angles. Broken lines. No formation Magnus could collapse with a single motion.
Magnus stepped forward.
The first volley came, not as raw power, but as phase-locked beams. The air warped as they flew, their paths bending unpredictably.
Magnus swung his weapon.
Space split.
The beam should have vanished.
Instead, it slid along the tear and struck behind him, carving a smoking trench through the stone.
Magnus stiffened.
"…interesting."
He moved.
The next volley came in patterns, delayed shots, intersecting paths, fire aimed at where he would be.
Magnus blurred,
And something caught him mid-step.
A field snapped sideways around his body.
Not a prison.
A drag.
Gravity twisted.
His ribs slammed into the ground hard enough to fracture stone. Pain surged through him, real pain, sharp and burning, spreading through muscle and bone.
He groaned before he could stop himself.
The soldiers advanced while firing, pressing him down with layered force. Their weapons shifted forms mid-burst, lances, cannons, slicing arcs of light.
Magnus forced himself up.
Slower this time.
A soldier leapt in, blade singing with harmonic resonance. Magnus raised his weapon to block,
The impact sent a shockwave through his arms and into his chest.
Not damage.
Feedback.
His vision blurred. His hands trembled.
He twisted and snapped the soldier's neck with a short motion, but three more were already on him.
One struck his shoulder.
The armor didn't cut.
It locked.
A clamp bit into his flesh, flooding his body with destabilizing energy.
Pain exploded inside him.
It wasn't like wounds he remembered.
This pain multiplied itself, each heartbeat doubling the agony, every nerve screaming louder than the last. His legs buckled.
Magnus tore the soldier free and hurled him away, smashing two more aside with a desperate shockwave.
He staggered.
Blood ran down his arm.
The unit leader spoke again.
"Confirmed. He experiences physiological response. Increase interference."
The sky darkened.
Drones unfolded and rose into the air, forming a lattice above the battlefield. A net of shifting symbols descended, warping Magnus's depth and distance.
He swung at one,
Missed.
The world tilted.
A blast struck his back and threw him forward. He hit the ground and rolled, coughing, his lungs burning like fire.
He hurled his weapon.
It did not fly.
It teleported between points of space, appearing inside a soldier's chest and detonating outward.
Two fell.
Magnus reappeared beside another trooper and struck,
But the soldier turned mid-blow, armor flaring with reactive fields. The impact threw them back—but the resistance tore through Magnus's arm like glass under skin.
He cried out.
The pain surged again, stronger than before, crawling through his chest and spine, dragging his strength down with it.
They were not stronger than the Proving Spear.
They were smarter.
And they were learning how to hurt him.
Magnus raised both hands.
The ground tried to rise,
But stabilizers slammed into the earth. The stone shuddered… and stayed.
Magnus swayed.
"So… you watched," he muttered.
He vanished.
Appearing above them.
He drove his weapon down.
A soldier raised a shield, layered, rotating, shifting frequency.
The strike broke it.
But not instantly.
The delay cost him.
A blast hit his side and flung him into the ridge wall. Stone collapsed around him as he struck, blood spraying from his mouth.
He slid down the rock, barely standing.
Dust filled the field.
The unit did not cheer.
They advanced.
Slow.
Careful.
Because now they knew something the Proving Spear never had:
Magnus could be wounded.
He could feel pain.
And in this restricted, mortal form, every injury burned twice as deep, each breath heavier than the last.
Beneath the mountain ridge, inside stolen land and flickering barriers, the war changed shape—
One of the soldiers broke formation just long enough to speak, his voice tight over the squad channel.
"He's a battle maniac. More than a warrior… he's a killing machine, like the upper echelon of the High Imperials themselves. We need a High Imperial Knight to counter him."
Another voice cut in immediately, sharp and disdainful.
"Do you intend to ruin our reputation over a single being? Look at him, he's wounded. He's not immortal. We can kill him."
Magnus heard them.
Every word.
Blood dripped from his side and darkened the dust beneath his boots. His breathing was heavier now, each inhale scraping through bruised lungs. The pain pulsed through him in waves, real pain, mortal pain, and it only made his smile widen.
He turned his head slightly, just enough for them to see his face clearly.
"You're right," Magnus said. "I'm not immortal."
He took a step forward. The ground cracked under his heel.
"But you've made one mistake."
The soldiers raised their weapons again, tracking him.
Magnus lifted his blade, its edge warping the air around it.
"You think because I bleed… I'll stop."
His eyes burned brighter.
"In my world," he continued, "pain is just proof the fight matters."
The unit tightened its formation.
"Fire," their leader ordered.
And as the first shot tore through the air,
Magnus surged forward, wounded yet grinning, fully alive. For the second time in his mortal form, he felt the thrill of pain, and it exhilarated him. These High Imperial soldiers, unlike the rank 20 Noids, resisted him, fought back, and gave him a real challenge. He could feel what it meant to destroy something that had the strength and strategy to stand against him. Every strike he delivered now carried weight, every counter taught him something new, every wound was a reminder that he was alive.
Meanwhile, on Khar'Zun, his other self, the unbound Omega, ripped through the planet with utter disregard. The High Imperial Knights could barely keep up; the being struck without hesitation or mercy. Laser beams of force equivalent to nuclear explosions tore through the battlefield, annihilating hundreds of thousands in an instant.
Omega walked like a man, yet moved as a cosmic entity. His form was ever-shifting, a humanoid silhouette unstable and immense, stretching across horizons, shrinking to a shadow. White-hot veins pulsed through his body, while voids of darkness absorbed all surrounding light. His face suggested humanity, but his eyes were twin black holes, reflecting galaxies and echoing dying worlds.
His limbs flowed and warped, at times solidifying into jagged, armor-like extensions capable of obliterating everything in a strike. His skin was a tapestry of molten metal, frozen gases, and iridescent light, constantly rearranging. The aura around him radiated fear and awe, bending space, drawing cosmic dust into orbit, and commanding the universe to respond.
And yet, there were glimpses of the man beneath, the subtle human gestures, a tilt of the head, a ripple of thought, a hint of awareness. A mere wave of his hand unleashed storms that reduced massive structures to sand. The sound of his energy echoed for miles. Even the strongest High Imperial Knights, those trained and bred for supremacy, turned to dust facing him head-on. The planet itself trembled at his presence.
Where Magnus fought for survival, Omega fought as inevitability incarnate, a force beyond comprehension, leaving nothing alive that dared to stand in his path.