The barrel of the M134 Minigun glowed a searing, translucent orange, venting clouds of acrid, scalding steam into the freezing dawn air. Under Dola's precise, neuro-linked control, the six rotating barrels had carved a literal line of death along the slopes of Lamping Hill. Hundreds of Verdia infantrymen lay scattered across the incline, their enchanted plate armor shattered and their spirits broken. Yet, Dayat knew with a chilling certainty that this victory was nothing more than a costly mirage.
"Master, the Minigun Sentry has reached its thermal threshold. Molecular structural integrity is beginning to destabilize," Dola's voice crackled through the fading roar of the decelerating machinery.
