Prologue: Where Lighting walks
Transport ships whined as they descended beneath the stratus cloud layer, slowing as they reached the drop zone. My feed remained steady, as expected, until the familiar dip in pressure rolled through the cockpit. Then came the signal.
"Green light."
I disengaged and unshackled my mech, mana circuits igniting as the engines roared to life. A moment later, gravity took hold. I dropped fast, guiding the descent with practiced control before slamming into the battlefield with a heavy thump, locking into position alongside the tank-class mech line—steel forming a wall against what was coming.
"The battlefield is live. I repeat, the battlefield is live. Permission to fire granted."
Acknowledgements filled comms, mine among them.
Then came hell.
Magic arrows flooded the sky, too many to track. My HUD flared red instantly, alarms screaming as the system identified the threat—dispersal magic.
"Slag!"
I engaged the firing system, railguns cycling left and right in controlled bursts. Shots ripped upward, detonating arrows mid-air as explosions lit the sky. Behind us, ranger-class units added precision flak fire, catching what slipped through. The tank line maintained constant pressure, alternating barrels to manage heat and sustain fire. Even then, stray rounds tore past dangerously close as I turned—slow, heavy, always just behind the pace of the battlefield.
That was the cost of heavy armor.
"Focus fire on ground—"
The command cut out. His signal vanished mid-sentence.
Then I saw it.
Lightning.
Not falling. Not striking.
Moving.
It crawled across the battlefield, branching outward like the roots of a tree—if roots could walk. Wherever it touched, mechs simply went dark. No explosions. No resistance. Just gone. My sensors screamed in response as training took over—zig-zag patterns, delay movement, survive as long as possible.
It didn't matter.
Lightning still fell from above, but below, something worse began to form. At the center of the battlefield, a structure of pure energy took shape—a tree of lightning, its branches stretching outward as its roots spread across the ground. It grew rapidly, violently, rewriting the battlefield around it.
Then it turned.
Toward me.
Everything in its path vanished. Mechs, infantry, riders—devoured without distinction. Branching tendrils lashed out, striking soldiers mid-run, turning them into mist before they could even scream. My hands began to shake as warnings flooded my systems, too many to process.
Too fast. Too much.
Then—
Black.
I died before the battle lines even converged.
Arrows broke through the gaps in flak coverage, screaming as they fell. Not random—deliberate. Whistle arrows. Psychological warfare. The sound hit first, digging into the mind before impact. Then they struck, igniting on contact. The ground didn't burn—it erupted with mana, spreading rapidly outward in violent waves. Anything caught inside it didn't stand a chance. It didn't burn. It came apart.
I swung my blade, steel ringing as it clashed against a spear. Once, twice, again—too fast to think. I slipped inside his guard and cut him down cleanly. He fell, and for a brief moment, I thought I had survived.
Then lightning came.
Not from above, but across the battlefield, staggering forward like a mad dog. Unstable. Violent. Hungry. Men vanished where it touched them, bursting into mist instantly. Mechs ahead of us followed, devoured just as easily.
"Lightning mage—"
Too late.
I turned and saw it coming, felt the charge in the air before it struck. There was no time to run, no time to react.
A flash—
And I was gone.
Lightning thundered constantly in the distance as I drifted across the battlefield, my mech moving in controlled, fluid motion—more like dancing than fighting. A lightning-class unit closed in, and we clashed immediately, blades screaming as metal tore against metal. I fired from my right arm, light-fire rounds forcing him to adjust as he returned fire, trying to limit my movement and box me in.
Too slow.
I surged mana through my circuits, the world slowing just enough for me to act. I closed the distance in a burst, blitzing forward. My blade tore through his mech in two clean strikes, splitting it apart as I passed. The explosion bloomed behind me, but I was already moving.
Lightning cracked nearby.
I twisted and boosted sideways, skating between branching arcs as they tore through the battlefield indiscriminately. Friend or foe didn't matter—if it was metal, it was struck. That's why they used whistle arrows. I saw it now. The arrows struck the ground and ignited, creating concentrated mana surges. The lightning followed those surges, redirecting toward them almost every time.
Not random.
Guided.
"Smart…"
I moved faster, weaving through the chaos, then made a decision that bordered on stupidity. I jumped toward the lightning.
It split.
Timing was everything.
Too early, I die. Too late, I die.
I moved at the exact moment it branched, slipping between the split just before it fully separated. Heat tore past me as gravity slammed down immediately after. My stabilizers screamed under the strain, but held. Systems flashed green.
Alive.
No hesitation.
New target.
A tank-class mech.
Heavy. Slow.
Perfect.
Two strikes split it apart. A final shot removed the head cleanly. The explosion followed as my sensors screamed once again—
I am Eskrid, Hero of City B.
Mana surged through me—through circuits and flesh alike—as I shaped it into something greater. Lightning answered my call, not from the sky, but from me. My mount moved beneath me, dodging stray arcs as power gathered and coiled, alive and waiting.
I rose into the air, drew my bow, and fired.
The shot tore through over a hundred troops. Lightning gathered in response, forming above, concentrating as I commanded it forward. It roared to life, hunting across the battlefield without distinction. Enemy. Ally. It did not matter. Their sacrifice would be remembered.
Then I saw him.
A warrior in black, blade in hand, watching me.
Good.
I fired again, lightning streaking toward him, but he cut it apart cleanly. Again, I fired. Again, he blocked. Over and over, until the strain began to show. His movements slowed. Then he adapted, shifting into motion, dodging instead of blocking.
Too late.
I aimed upward and fired into the sky.
The arrow struck the clouds, and the sky answered.
Lightning fell—not in strikes, but as a structure. A tree of lightning split the heavens and crashed into the battlefield, expanding instantly as its roots spread across the ground, devouring everything in reach. I split my mind, extending my perception through the lightning itself. I could see through it. Feel through it. Track every surge of mana across the battlefield.
And I struck.
Again.
And again.
It fed, recovering mana from everything it consumed, growing stronger with each passing moment.
Still—
Not enough.
My vision snapped back.
The scorched warrior was losing. The black-suited fighter pressed forward, overwhelming him.
I moved instantly, drawing and firing in one motion.
The arrow struck.
Lightning followed.
Too late to save him.
But not too late to kill.
The warrior fell.
The battlefield belonged to me now.
My zone. My grid.
Power surged uncontrollably, flowing in and out of my body faster than I could regulate. It was too much. Far too much.
My body began to burn.
My mind fractured under the strain.
Thoughts broke apart—
Slipped—
Faded—
Then—
Black.