"Let's regroup and secure a safe haven. We cannot let this be the end of our people," Tridnya declared, her voice unwavering, though grief and fury burned behind her eyes.
Static crackled through the cross-communicator before a voice responded, taut with urgency.
"We're currently in Stronghold 456. You're close enough. But we need to act fast—before this spirals out of control."
Emerging from the underbelly of the city, they moved through streets already teetering on the edge of ruin.
The city around them was no longer a city—it was a graveyard in the making. Monolithic towers, once standing proud with engraved history woven into their walls, now lay crumbling, their ancient symbols defiled by soot and blood.
The streets, once bustling with the hum of civilization, were now a battlefield of twisted steel and shattered glass.
Blue lanterns flickered weakly, their flames sputtering, as if mourning the fallen. Smoke curled into the sky in thick, black plumes, the acrid scent of destruction thick in the air.
The wounded cried out, their voices drowned beneath the clash of steel and the roar of collapsing structures.
They avoided the worst of the battles where they could, slipping through the cracks of chaos. Yet, any enemy foolish enough to cross their path was swiftly and mercilessly dealt with.
Along the way, they saved as many as possible, guiding them toward the one place that still held against the tide—Stronghold 456.
Had she been alone, Tridnya would never have come here. She would have hurled herself into battle without hesitation, vengeance guiding her blade.
But duty weighed heavier than wrath. The mother and child she carried to safety—they mattered more.
The stronghold loomed ahead, emerging from the smog and wreckage like an iron monolith. Unlike the rest of the city, which blended futuristic grandeur with ancient reverence, Stronghold 456 was purely utilitarian.
Built into the foundation of the city itself, it had no towers or spires—only deep, reinforced walls of obsidian alloy, carved with sigils of protection that pulsed with quiet energy.
It was a hidden sanctuary, designed not for spectacle, but for endurance. A city within a city, with underground passageways, self-sustaining energy cores, and defenses that had been prepared for centuries.
As soon as she entrusted the mother and child into safe hands, she turned to leave.
A gentle grip stopped her.
"What if something happens to you?" The mother's voice trembled, her worry cutting through the cold air.
Tridnya paused. Then, with rare softness, she drew them both into a brief embrace, pressing a kiss onto the mother's forehead, then onto the child's.
"As an Elder of the Ethnarchy, my people need me," she murmured, offering a faint, reassuring smile.
"Do not fear. I am far harder to kill than a pack of imposters."
With that, she stepped away—vanishing back into the storm of war.
***
Far from the stronghold, something moved.
Kousi tore through the wreckage of the city, his form a monstrosity of shifting flesh and flame. The man he had once been was unrecognizable—his body twisted beyond reason, reality itself fracturing around him.
Flames licked at the ruins in his wake, a cursed inferno that devoured rather than burned. His path was not destruction. It was erasure.
A single thought raged through his broken mind.
The trail.
A pink afterglow flickered in the air—one only he could see. Hers.
It called to him, pulled him forward.
He followed.
And he was heading straight for Stronghold 456.
***
A warning blared across the stronghold's communications.
"Emergency! Emergency! A hostile force has breached the Obsidian Promenade and is advancing at an alarming rate! All non-transcendent personnel are to evacuate immediately! This is not a drill!"
The walls of Stronghold 456 groaned as its full defenses activated. Reinforced bulkheads slammed into place, their surfaces gleaming with runes of protection. Energy barriers hummed to life, layer upon layer of shielding weaving through the air like an unbreakable lattice.
Automated sentries shifted into combat mode, their gunmetal bodies unfolding with the whir of ancient machinery. Above, aerial drones swarmed, casting scanning beams of crimson light through the streets, searching for the approaching horror.
Yet, a creeping horror spread through the stronghold's inhabitants.
Because this—this was not a war.
This was a cataclysm approaching.
"All Transcendents," the command rang through the airwaves. "We require immediate reinforcement."
A call to those who had shattered the chains of mortality.
Their bodies no longer bound by human limitations, their very existence warping reality itself. Where they walked, the air twisted, heat flickered unnaturally, and those too weak to comprehend their power felt only terror.
Some answered the call.
One arrived first.
***
Aras the Dawnbound stood in the shattered district, his form wreathed in golden embers. His very presence dispelled the choking gloom, yet against the abyss that approached—he felt small.
A monstrous wail split the air.
Then, it came.
A figure of grotesque impossibility, its body flickering between solid and something else—something wrong. The pink fire clinging to its form did not burn. It fed.
Aras clenched his fists, speaking into his cross-communicator.
"Identification unknown… Threat level: extreme."
The creature's head twitched. Spasmed. The air warped around it as if reality itself struggled to hold it in place.
Then, it moved.
Too fast.
The Transcendent barely reacted before the entity was upon him. A claw, blackened and warped, carved through the air, striking with force that sent him hurtling back, smashing through stone and steel alike.
Dust and debris clouded the battlefield. He staggered to his feet, spitting blood.
It was watching him.
The flames licking its body twisted in color, cycling through hues of pink and violet, as if growing more chaotic with each second. There was no reason in its movements, only hunger.
It lunged again.
The Transcendent pushed off the ground, meeting the attack with a blast of raw force, but the creature barely faltered. It plowed through, clawing, swiping, shrieking.
The fight turned into a blur of motion, of attacks exchanged at speeds no mortal eye could follow. The very air warped under the sheer clash of power.
But with every passing second, the Transcendent realized something chilling—this thing was not slowing down.
It was getting faster.
More erratic.
More violent.