The sky above the Drakon's Spine mountains had never known the sun. For fifty years, thick gray-green clouds of toxic Aether had permanently shrouded the peaks, creating an eternal storm that swallowed anyone foolish enough to attempt the climb. But today, that sky was forcibly torn apart. From behind the massive banks of poisonous clouds, a dozen colossal silhouettes descended with arrogant grandeur. They were not mythical birds. They were Lumeria's aerial fleet. Fifteen pearl-white battle cruisers, adorned with golden engravings that reflected pure light magic, sliced through the storm like divine blades carving through rotten flesh. At the front of the fleet, a massive Dreadnought-class warship led the formation. The vessel's prow radiated waves of heat that burned away the Aether particles in the air, creating a safe corridor for the ships following behind it. Lumeria had not come to negotiate. They had come in full force, driven by a single thing:

The sound of a massive iron bolt sliding into place echoed deafeningly through the damp obsidian walls. Clive dragged his legs, each step feeling as heavy as lead. In one hand, he gripped the collar of a Lumerian knight whose armor had been burned away by half, dragging him into one of the ancient prison cells buried deep within the tomb chambers of Drakon's Spine. He threw the young man into a dark corner, then locked the steel-barred door, thick as an adult man's arm, from the inside. Only the two of them remained inside the cell, illuminated by the faint glow of Aetherium moss growing along the walls. The scent of rust, dried blood, and dust that had slept undisturbed for half a century hung heavily in the air. In the corner, Leo sat slumped against the stone wall. His helmet was gone. The face that had once been cheerful and full of hope when they scavenged stale bread from Lumeria's garbage bins now looked like that of a living corpse. His gaze was empty,

Three hours had passed since the sky came crashing down onto the slopes of Drakon's Spine. The snowstorm, usually pristine white, had turned a dense shade of gray, mixed with soot, metal dust, and flakes of ash from burned flesh. Black smoke billowed from a massive crater hundreds of meters wide where the Lumerian Command Carrier had slammed into the earth. The wreckage of the vessel, weighing tens of thousands of tons, was now nothing more than a torn iron coffin, leaking remnants of blue fire from its ruptured reactor. In the middle of that sea of flames and molten metal, a lone silhouette walked forward at an unhurried pace. The sound of boots crunching over shattered glass and steel plating echoed rhythmically, as if conducting the symphony of death surrounding him. [Tactical Report: 314 Lumerian biological entities eliminated within the last 180 minutes. Host body temperature: Stable. Left shoulder joint fusion process: Complete.] "Anybody still breathing?" Cl

The four stolen Lumerian cruisers sliced through the poisonous cloud layer that separated the Upper and Lower worlds. The moment their hulls broke through the final curtain of thick fog, the sight before Clive was enough to freeze the blood in his veins. Onyxspire was no longer dark. The wasteland city that had spent centuries buried in shadow now blazed with dazzling, deadly golden light. Suspended beneath the ceiling of the colossal cavern that sheltered the Gutter and Sector Nine floated a massive sphere of pearly white energy. The Orb of Light. It was as large as a city hall, radiating impossible waves of heat like an artificial sun crammed inside a sealed furnace. "WREN! What the hell is that thing?!" Clive barked, narrowing his eyes against the glare that pierced even the darkened bridge windows. [Scanning Aerial Anomaly. Identification: Orb of Light (Lumerian Mass Purification Weapon). Core temperature exceeds 6,000 degrees Celsius. The devic

A warm wind carrying the remnants of charred ash swept across the Gutter District. Atop the remains of a half-collapsed steam tower, Clive Collins stood tall. His tattered black cloak, crudely stitched back together with rough patches, fluttered in the breeze. His bone-white hair stood in stark contrast against the endless darkness of the city of waste. His eyes gazed down at the people below. Thousands had gathered in the ruined district square. They were no longer beggars stretching out their hands for oxygen coins. Men. Women. Scavengers. Former street thugs. Every one of them stood proudly with their chests raised high. Each gripped whatever weapon they could find. Modified steam pipes, rusted machine guns stolen from Sector Nine, and ancient swords left behind by the Kingdom Below. Silas stood at the very front of the crowd. His rebel cloak was stained with dust, and the stumps of his severed arms were wrapped in clean bandages. He