Silas didn't hesitate. "Deploy the Sentinels. Now." His command crackled through his helmet's comms, reaching the high-orbit deployment vessels stationed above Heavenford. The Sentinel Corps, his elite mechanized units built specifically to combat the high level mutants would descend within minutes. But Silas wasn't about to wait.
He launched himself forward, thrusters on his nanotech armor igniting with a sonic boom, propelling him straight into the infernal behemoth standing before him. Malak met him head-on. The impact was cataclysmic.
A shockwave of fire and kinetic force exploded outward as they collided, the sheer power of their clash ripping through the cityscape. The ground beneath them split apart, asphalt and steel twisting like melted wax. The surrounding buildings—already weakened by Malak's fiery rampage—buckled and collapsed in rapid succession, crumbling under the sheer force unleashed between them.
Malak snarled, his claws locking against Silas's gauntlets as they grappled mid-air, their raw power distorting the very air around them. The heat from Malak's body was blistering, turning the steel reinforcements in Silas's suit white-hot.
Silas shifted his weight, spinning mid-flight and hurling Malak through the remains of a high-rise tower. The structure erupted in a fiery explosion, its framework shattering as Malak's massive form tore through it like a meteor.
He stabilized mid-air, his wings spreading wide, fire bursting from his form like a dying star. His glowing, molten eyes locked onto Silas, his lips pulling into a twisted snarl. "You think your machines will save you?" Malak's voice was a guttural growl, layered with something demonic, ancient.
Silas didn't answer. Because above them—the Sentinels arrived. From the sky, dozens of mechanized units descended in formation, their thrusters cutting through the smoke-filled heavens. Each one was a towering humanoid war machine, armored in reflective alloy designed to withstand the most extreme combat environments. Their energy lances crackled to life, targeting Malak.
Malak lifted his clawed hands, fire coiling around his fingers. A slow, wicked grin spread across his monstrous face. "Come then, soldiers of metal."
The Sentinels locked onto Malak, their energy lances humming as targeting reticles zeroed in on his burning form. A dozen mechanized war machines hovered in the inferno-lit sky, their sleek armor gleaming under the hellish glow of the city's destruction.
For a moment, it seemed as if Malak was cornered. Then—he spread his wings. CRACK—BOOM! The ground beneath them fractured, veins of molten fire splitting through the streets like a demonic sigil awakening from slumber. The very ground trembled, skyscrapers swayed, and then—Hell itself erupted.
From the depths of the searing fissures, they came. Hell Spawns. They crawled forth, grotesque, writhing, inhuman. Some were skeletal figures wreathed in blue fire, their bony fingers tipped with razor-sharp obsidian claws. Others were hulking, flesh-torn abominations, their bodies a fusion of muscle, bone, and fire, drooling magma from their twisted mouths. Their eyes—empty black pits filled with endless suffering. They shrieked and swarmed like a plague.
Buildings collapsed under their weight as they clawed their way out of the hellish rifts. Cars were overturned, their fuel igniting in bursts of infernal flames. People screamed and ran, but the Spawns were faster—tearing into flesh, devouring, burning them alive. The Sentinels—built for war—turned their weapons on the oncoming horde.
Energy lances fired, vaporizing dozens at a time. Railguns thundered, blasting Hell Spawns apart with concussive force. But for every Spawn that fell, a hundred more emerged.
One Sentinel was dragged down, its alloy plating torn open as creatures crawled inside, ripping at its core. Another unit fought back-to-back with its brethren, impaling demons with its lance—only to be overwhelmed as fire-drenched ghouls climbed over its metal frame, clawing at the joints, melting its systems. Each Sentinel faced hundreds.
Amidst the carnage, Silas moved. His nanotech armor adapted to the ever-rising heat, thrusters flaring as he launched himself at Malak once more. Malak turned just in time to see Silas closing in. The commander struck first. BOOM!
His fist—reinforced by an energy burst—collided with Malak's jaw, sending a shockwave through the air. Malak's head snapped back, fire spitting from his maw. But the demon only grinned. Malak retaliated, his clawed hand wreathed in pure hellfire, swinging straight for Silas's chest.
Silas blocked—barely. The impact sent him flying, his armor blaring warnings as the heat warped its outer layers. He stabilized mid-air, his eyes locking onto Malak's glowing, infernal form.
Malak's clawed fingers flexed, hellfire coiling around his palm as he formed a fireball—massive, molten, and furious. With a snarl, he hurled it straight at Silas. BOOM!
The explosion ripped through the cityscape, sending Silas hurtling backward like a meteor. His armored form crashed through steel and glass, tearing through multiple floors of a high-rise before he finally slammed into the ground, buried under concrete and debris. Inside his helmet, red warning lights flickered.
ALERT: SYSTEM FAILURE.
MOBILITY—DISABLED.
POWER OUTPUT—CRITICAL.
WEAPON SYSTEMS—OFFLINE.
Silas gritted his teeth. He could feel his limbs, but they wouldn't respond—his nanotech armor was completely fried. Through his cracked visor, he saw Malak approaching.
Each thunderous step cracked the pavement beneath the demon's feet. His monstrous wings folded inward, embers trailing from their edges. Malak's molten eyes glowed with wicked amusement.
He stood over Silas. Grinning. "This is the great Commander of the Sentinel Corps?" Malak mocked, raising his foot. "Pathetic."
Then—he stomped down. Silas felt his ribs crack, pain exploding through his body. His armor barely held, but it wouldn't hold for long. Malak crouched, his clawed fingers igniting, fire wrapping around his hand like a snake. "Let me show you what happens," Malak murmured, voice dripping with cruelty, "when a mortal plays with forces beyond his comprehension."
The fire grew, flaring brighter, hotter—a miniature sun forming in Malak's grasp. But, then—a flash. A barrage of arcane beamsrained down, striking Malak with surgical precision.
Each impact sent shockwaves through the air, arcane energy coiling like blue-white serpents. Malak staggered, growling in irritation. And then—he appeared.
Floating above the burning ruins, cloaked in swirling cosmic energy, stood Veymar Callistrade. He was an imposing figure, draped in flowing red robes embroidered with golden sigils. Ethereal glyphs hovered and rotated around him, pulsing with shifting energies. His silver hair was tied back in a loose knot, streaked with hints of stardust.
He slowly descended, his ornate boots never quite touching the ground. The air itself shimmered around him, responding to his very presence. Malak hissed, his molten skin cracking as the arcane energy seared him. "Mage."
Veymar ignored him. Instead, he glanced at Silas—who was still pinned under rubble—and sighed. "I told you not to play with things beyond your understanding."
Silas, despite the pain, smirked. "You're late, Doctor."
Veymar sighed dramatically, rolling his shoulders as if he were preparing for some tiresome chore. His fingers twitched, golden rings flashing with arcane power. "Enough."
With a flick of his wrist, he drew a perfect circle in the air, glowing with intricate glyphs. Then—he snapped his fingers. The portals tore open. WHOOOOM!
A dozen rifts split through reality, swirling with crackling blue and violet energy. From their depths, they came. The mages of Arcaneum Academy.
Each one stepped forth, clad in robes, their hands glowing with raw magical power. Some floated, others walked, their eyes fixed on Malak like hunters who had finally cornered their prey.
Malak snarled, wings flaring. The heat around him intensified, melting the pavement beneath his feet. But Veymar merely smirked. "Bind him."
The mages struck at once. Runes ignited in the air, forming rings of luminous chains that lashed out toward Malak. Bolts of arcane fire, streaks of silver lightning, and beams of pure force pounded into him, each impact forcing him back. Malak roared, swiping at the chains—but they did not break.
Each time he struggled, Veymar amplified the bindings, pouring more magic into his students' attacks. Sigils burned into Malak's skin, glowing brighter with every second.
He thrashed, but the magic wrapped tighter. His wings flickered, trying to unleash another inferno—but before he could, Veymar raised a single hand. The moment he closed his fist—BOOM!
An immense golden chain shot from the heavens, slamming into Malak's chest, pinning him further. He howled in fury.
Veymar tilted his head, watching Malak struggle with the casual amusement of a scholar observing an insect under glass. "You know, Commander," Veymar said lazily, not even looking at Silas, "this is precisely why I told you not to meddle with things beyond your comprehension."
Silas, still struggling to move, gritted his teeth. Veymar smiled. "And yet—here you are. Broken, beaten, and watching me clean up your mess."
He turned back to Malak, his grin widening. "Tell me, demon. Do you still think you're in control?"
The battle raged across Havenford. While Malak was bound in chains of arcane light, the Sentinels fought relentlessly, pushing back the horde of Hell Spawns that had erupted from the underworld. But the cost was catastrophic.
Most of the Sentinels lay in ruins, their shattered forms littering the battlefield, sparks flickering from their broken circuits. The city itself was scorched and crumbling, a burning graveyard of what once stood tall.
Veymar clicked his tongue in frustration. He hated using it. But there was no other choice. Reaching into his robe, he pulled out a gleaming artifact, an ancient pendant pulsating with celestial light. The metal was obsidian-black, yet veins of violet and gold ran through it, shifting like liquid magic.
As Veymar clutched it, his entire body surged with power, the runes on his robe glowing brighter as he uttered the incantation. "By the will of the First Archmages… by the Law of the Infinite Tome… by the Judgment of Sol'Thyrael… I BIND THEE."
The pendant flared—a blinding explosion of celestial light. Malak screamed. The golden chains tightened, glowing hotter than hellfire itself. Runes carved themselves into his flesh, forcing his body to stillness. His demonic wings shriveled, his fire extinguished as he was utterly paralyzed. Veymar panted slightly, gripping the pendant tighter. "There. Now he's helpless."
Just in time. A soft whirring sound. Silas nanotech systems rebooted.
POWER RESTORED.
MOBILITY ONLINE.
WEAPONS—ARMED.
Silas rose from the rubble. His armor, still battered and cracked, adapted instantly. From his shoulder plates, a blade extended—sleek, serrated, vibrating at a molecular level. Malak's molten eyes widened.
Silas didn't hesitate. With a battle cry, he lunged forward, blade humming—and sliced through Malak's neck.
The world seemed to slow. Malak's severed head tumbled through the air, his expression frozen in a mix of shock and fury. His body remained upright for only a second before cracks spread across his charred skin.
The runes ignited. A sickening, cracking sound echoed—Then Malak's body shattered. Like brittle obsidian, it crumbled into ash, dissolving into the wind. His head disintegrated mid-air, his power erased from existence.
At that very moment—the Hell Spawns stopped. One by one, they burst into flames, their wretched screeches fading as they burned away, reduced to nothing.
Veymar exhaled slowly, his grip on the Pendant of Sol'Thyrael loosening. His eyes flicked to Silas, who stood over the remains of Malak.
The air still smelled of burning flesh and molten steel. The city blocks, once teeming with life, were now nothing more than smoldering ruins. Smoke curled into the night sky, and the distant cries of the survivors barely pierced the heavy silence. And in the midst of it all—Veymar collapsed to one knee.
The Pendant of Sol'Thyrael flickered weakly in his grasp before dimming completely. His breath was ragged, his body trembling as the mana drain took its toll.
"Master!" Two of his students rushed to him, each taking an arm. They hoisted him up gently, supporting his weakened form.
"You pushed yourself too far," one of them muttered, his voice tinged with concern. "Using the Pendant…it could have killed you."
Other shot Silas a glare. "And for what? Because he wanted to play warlord again?"
Silas ignored them. Still clad in his battered nanotech armor, he stepped forward, his boots crunching over the ashen remains of Malak. Slowly, he knelt, sifting through the blackened dust until he found it—a single, smoldering remnant. A shard of Malak's horn, still glowing faintly with hellfire. Silas smiled.
He stood up, turning to face Veymar. With a low, amused chuckle, he opened his helmet, the nanotech mask retracting to reveal his grinning face. "And you keep asking why I do this, old man."
He lifted the horn fragment, pointing it at Veymar like a trophy. "This is exactly what I wanted. A mutant beyond level six. Or maybe… beyond level seven?"
Then, he laughed. Veymar sighed heavily. It wasn't even anger anymore. Just pure, bone-deep exhaustion. "You are a childish, Silas. And one day… you will burn for this."