The ruined stone bell tower stood high above the outer walls of the capital city. Its old wooden roof had burned away long ago, leaving only jagged stone pillars that pointed toward the dark, smoky sky. From this high perch, the members of Squad Seven could see everything happening in the valley below. The ground was covered in a thick layer of red volcanic ash that fell like silent snow. Down in the main staging grounds, the scene was full of chaotic movement. Bright torches flickered in the dark as hundreds of heavily armored soldiers ran back and forth. The heavy iron wheels of the Vanguard artillery wagons groaned against the dirt as the massive divisions began to roll out, their long cannon barrels aimed directly toward the narrow mountain pass.Quinn stood at the edge of the broken stone wall, his dark blue cloak snapping wildly in the cold mountain wind. He raised his right hand, watching the small, erratic arcs of dark purple lightning cycle across his knuckles. The electricit

The mountain peaks screamed with the sound of grinding metal. Fifty heavy mechanical horses trod up the final volcanic slope, their iron hooves smashing the dark rock into fine black powder. Lord Malakor’s elite cavalry moved like a wave of dark steel. Their custom armor did not look like the standard silver plate of the common Vanguard foot soldiers. It was painted a deep, glossy black, and it was etched with bright crimson lines that glowed with a sickening heat. These lines were fueled by high-tier mana crystals, packed with condensed offensive magic designed for one purpose: big-game hunting. The long lances held by the riders did not have standard steel tips. Instead, their points were massive, three-pronged iron forks that hummed with jagged arcs of red electricity, built specifically to tear through the thick, magic-resistant hides of giant beasts.At the front of the line rode Commander Vane, a giant of a man whose armor hissed with hot steam from the internal boiler on his ba

Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors of a small, hidden transport carriage at the very back of the staging line flew open with a violent crash.Lord Malakor stepped out onto the red dirt. He had followed his elite cavalry up the mountain path in secret, wanting to be there in person to witness the death of the Crimson King and secure the Mythic-tier core with his own hands. But now, his expensive purple velvet robes were torn and dragged in the volcanic mud, his heavy gold chains clinking loudly against his chest as his fat body shook with a frantic, desperate terror. He held a small, glowing communication mirror in his hand, watching in real-time as the royal guards back in the capital city began to surround his estate, his political empire crumbling to pieces in a matter of seconds."No, no, no!" Malakor shrieked, his eyes wild and bloodshot with madness as he looked up at the stone wall where Quinn stood. "You ruined it! You ruined everything, you nameless little anomaly! Ten years of

A tiny, scratching sound echoed from the dark depth of the cavern entrance.The small, dog-sized Crimson King offspring limped slowly out into the bright morning light. Its body was still thin, and its small, soft scales were still dusted with the white ash of the inner nest, but its gold eyes were wide and clear. It looked around the wide plateau, its gaze passing over the broken mechanical parts and the regular soldiers, before its attention locked entirely onto the massive, unmoving form of its mother.The infant beast let out a heartbreaking, high-pitched whine that sounded like a cracked silver bell. It scrambled forward as fast as its small, bandaged legs could carry it, its tiny claws clicking rapidly against the obsidian stone. It did not look at the humans. It slid directly up to the mother’s giant head, curling its small, scaly body tight against the massive curves of her snout, its tiny nose nudging her closed eyelids as if it were trying to wake her up from a long, heavy s

At a heavy oak table in the deepest corner of the restricted section, Squad Seven was enduring the absolute worst part of their curriculum: theoretical mana logistics."I am going to lose my mind," Darius groaned, letting his head hit the wooden table with a dull thud. He shoved a massive textbook titled *The Aerodynamics of Gale-Class Summons* away from him. "I slice wind, Felix. I don't need to calculate the precise drag coefficient of a harpy’s wing to cut its head off. This is a waste of time."Luna didn't look up from her thick medical grimoire, her icy blue eyes scanning the dense, archaic text. "If you don't understand the anatomical weak points of an aerial beast, Darius, your kinetic strikes will waste twenty percent of their optimal output. Read the book.""You read the book," Darius muttered, flipping his disgraced silver coin over his knuckles in a rapid, agitated rhythm. "I’m a Striker. I strike things. I don't do math."Quinn sat at the head of the table, his posture per