General Gorthow licked his lips, his eyes shining with dreams of mana. The message from the System could only mean one thing – they had the System's blessings, their cause was a righteous one…not that Gorthow ever doubted it.

  “Number Two, you heard the System, the way ahead is unlocked, I want concentrated fire synced with my HUD – in five…”

  Across the armada, safety’s disengaged, sweat beaded on the brow, and hearts thundered – for the soldiers of Xylos knew the awesome power of their great General, and they feared what would come next.

  “...One!” Gorthow lowered his arm, unleashing the full might of the last great city of man, and the Mire responded – an ethereal tide rose to meet the oncoming firestorm.

  The General would not relent, his will was iron – the System had spoken, the Emperor would prevail.

  Skin like a clear blue sky and eyes that burned bright like the sun – golden discs with the inquisitiveness of youth. His shell was constructed of interlocking armored hexagons, and their starbursts of colour hid the mysteries of the universe – or maybe a snack for later.

  Gimblox blinked like an eclipse, before peeling his eyes from the viewing pool – he’d seen enough. It seemed the time of peace was at an end, such as it was. Oh, there were skirmishes between the barbarians and the Xylosians, but nothing like what was to come. The balance of power had been stable, with each side holed up in their strongholds, but if the Mire were now in play, things in this world would take a very dark turn indeed.

  He hobbled along the catwalk of his domed observatory, its very structure swirling with the living waters of the Ganges, carefully fostered and tended to all these years – the legacy of his people.

  If the world were to soon be at an all-out war, then Ganges would be at risk. It was only a matter of time before a new world power emerged. His home would be at risk – he knew not when, but it was only a matter of time now.

  He would remain neutral and bolster his defenses – only one thing mattered – the Ganges must survive.

  Nom flung his wok at an oncoming enemy while severing the head of a melee attacker. He didn’t know what had happened to the Watch – but they weren’t people anymore – they were mindless beasts at best.

  The noodle cook raised his fist, and his wok appeared – blocking an incoming blow – simultaneously, he buckled his assailant's knee with a retaliatory kick, before rushing forward, he had no time for this.

  I’m too late – was all Nom could think as he dove into the Great Hall. His fists lashed out reflexively as his eyes scanned the room. It was pure chaos, but above the din, center stage – Kythan.

  The cranekin was ruffled and bloodied, yet unbowed in the face of death. Nom’s heart faltered when he noticed the limp figure – gritting his teeth, he bit back rage; control was needed.

  Nom parried, blocked, and darted ahead – his movements economical, he would not be stopped. His eyes locked with Marraka’s for the span of a heartbeat, an unbearable sadness crossed her face – Nom would perish with the rest of them.

  The moment passed as he dove between two attackers – leaping up the steps and sliding to a halt at the top of the dais. His friends at his back and the vatagand’s abyssal maw before him. Nom only wished he’d practiced this more. He still couldn’t believe the twins had gifted him a new class – the system worked in mysterious ways. Shaking his head, Nom broke into a jig – it was now or never.

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  Korgh’s neck bulged, Alyndra snoozed, Marraka gaped, and Kythan’s eyes were far away.

  The vatagand lowered its head, exposing a toothy maw – hot aether rippled across the room as it let loose a discordant roar, before snapping back in preparation. Nom threw his wok without losing rhythm.

  The vatagand gagged, shaking its spiny bulk, sending plas-crete and debris showering.

  The [House Noodle Chef] called over his shoulder, “Dance! Dance like your life depends on it!”

  Nom threw his cleaver, as he spun around, skipping in place while orbiting his fists, “Kythan, for Garzha!” Her name broke the spell, and their eyes met – Kythan woke from his trance, his body responding reflexively to their leader's orders.

  Nom faced their imminent death as he stepped back, holding his arms up in a Y – his tools returned. “[Pop-up Rave]!” The parties' forms flickered, and their world spun, but before they vanished – a gibbon in a bowtie cartwheeled onto Nom's shoulder, its tail swaying to the beat.

  The vatagand struck, and its toothy maw sank into the dais, where moments before the broken and battered party had stood.

  The vatagand raged and thrashed, like a miremander in a tea shop.

  Murkspire let out a collective gasp, as Eldrin’s legacy toppled – and stuck in the muck.

  The city fell, chaos ensued, and Murspire was no longer safe. Beast and kin, with orc in tow, had no choice but to go. Elevators jammed, and those with skills leapt for the ground. Flyers were loaded up and sent on their way.

  The vatagand was victorious as it sat coiled atop the Keepers' District – feeding, like a bog-tick on an open wound – when the sky opened up. For the first time since the tearing, unfiltered sunlight bathed the Mire, its warm rays beliying the devastation in the air.

  The Shining Ones did not struggle, for they knew not the meaning of the word – but they perished nonetheless. Their essence existed in every wisp and tuft of mist in the aether, spread out across the dimensional folds of Sinking Gods Mire. It knew only one thing – to protect, and protect it did, as an endless barrage struck in a pinpoint attack.

  A sea of essence crashed into the beachhead that was the aramad's assault, lighting up the aether like a meteor shower. The barrage increased, and the rate of fire doubled – the might of a General brought to bear.

  So the ocean became a river, and the river a stream – until a single sparkling mote existed – only to be blown away on the wind.

  And so the Empire of Xylos tasted victory – their bombs falling – splintering titans as aeons of life vanished in a blink.

  Ren’s whole body was wracked with pain – the veins in his neck swelled and pulsed, and his core cracked, as untold amounts of mana were flooded through him. He teetered on a razor's edge, his sanity on the brink, a fist in the gut sent him spiraling into the brush.

  “Fool.” Eldrin spat into the muck; the look of disgust on his face quickly turned to elation as the flow of power returned.

  Once finished absorbing his creations, the [Dread Druid] focused his attentions on the Spire, its essence like a beacon in the night. “[Travel Form].” Eldrin dropped onto all fours, his cloak flowed into a muscular tail, webbed feet, and powerful legs – Eldrin the wyrmback scuttled across the bog with the ease of a natural predator.

  His revenge was near.

  Meen-Tra didn’t know what she was looking at. The wagon train slowed to a halt. Hecate the heartys, jaw hung wide. Something was happening. It started with frantic beeps and whistles, as DG4 went crazy – flying in circles – before crashing into the bog, only to re-emerge as a spiralling torpedo, before splattering like a bug into the trunk of a titan.

  DG4’s balloon stretched and tore as armored bark flowed across its surface – the bug became a bird, became a duskwing, became a mighty ship. Pat’s helmet, the adamantite chains, and its entire assembly folded in on itself like the steps on an escalator.

  DG4 evolved. Sleek tinted windows ringed their balloon. Jets unfolded. MaxTech’s aggressive and aerodynamic designs were integrated. The duskwing masthead could crush its namesake.

  DG4, the [Synthesized Zephyr], hung in the air – with an unnatural elegance that belied its bulk. It had become a perfect balance of nature and tech. Observation deck lights flared to life in a kaleidoscope of energetic pulsing as they ran with excitement. Gone was its signature fin – replaced by prehistoric spines.

  DG lowered to the ground – a ramp extending – the zephyr held position as it touched down. “All aboard! The DG Express will be leaving shortly.” Pat’s bionic yet cheerful voice echoed from DG’s loudspeakers.

  Before Meen-Tra could respond, or Hecate could close his jaw, Mitzy scampered aboard – stars in her eyes, pigtails bouncing.

  Mog and Nosh shrugged, leading their mounts up and into the superstructure. Soon, the rest of the party followed suit; there would be no objections – not today.

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