— CONTESTED BORDER, NAAH’MI MOUNTAINS, YEAR: 7298. SEASON: NEW BEGINNING.

  In the depths of night, the Federation slept. Armies stood watch. Confidence lingered in the air like the final embers of a dying fire. Even in war, there are hours their world pretends it is safe.

  That illusion did not survive the dawn.

  Meteors streaked across the sky, giving light to those below as if dawn arrived. The Edryan attack came suddenly, fiercely, and with disregard for conservation of energy.

  Ai’esha was sleeping when it happened. She woke up with a start, rushing from her tent to the open starry sky, her mind buzzing with warnings. She was partially equipped, and attendants rushed to her, preparing the rest of her gear. Ai’esha gazed upward, the red of the meteors reflecting off the red of her irises.

  Men would die today.

  Magi would die today.

  Ai’esha would ensure it happened.

  “Form ranks, prepare for battle.”

  She gave a simple shout, a simple command, and her men moved, rushing to obey. She didn’t know what was happening, wasn’t even fully cognizant yet, but the years of training had honed a warrior who stood at the pinnacle of the Federation. She was a young lady trained in every matter possible when it came to strength and leadership. Meteors covered the Federation’s airspace, surpassing their stationed armies and moving further beyond.

  “What… what is this?”

  Ai’esha gazed at the mountain range before her. Her eyes were confused as meteors rained across the mountains. One passed directly overhead, and she turned as she trailed it. Her mind was blank, not understanding this move the Edryans did. This looked like a Mythical-level spell had been cast, but that was impossible to do without great mana fluctuations, nor could such a strong attack come without a nearby caster to direct it.

  It was a lieutenant who reminded her. “Theater Commander, that trajectory… our supply depot near Fiya…,” their voice trailed off, but Ai’esha didn’t need to hear anything else.

  “Just.. how…?”

  Her question was barely a mutter, not something to be answered by her gathering men.

  The distance lit up. Ai’esha’s gaze remained on Fiya, which held a rather large military supply depot created to support the front lines. It held protection, but lacked the mighty shield’s bases like Forger’s Keep, Isiro’s Hammer, or the main cities of the thirteen clans held.

  Her fist clenched. This warfare… this was something she’d never seen before.

  If launched by mages, the vast amount of power would have been detected long ago. Yet, Ai’esha was certain this type of long-range strike couldn’t be dealt without a certain proximity. The origin of these meteors shows them coming from the mountains…

  “Theater Commander… from beyond the mountains… from beyond Naah’Mi…”

  The report came swiftly, likely from one of her Battle Cognition Officers .

  “We’ve received an Era Magic Message—the Federation has entered a State of Emergency… We have received commands to activate the Grand Mechanism.”

  Ai’esha hissed, grasping at the medallion around her neck. Then, slowly, gently, she dropped to her knees and prayed. This prayer was not one born from a desperate hope for salvation to Demigod Isiro, but the key required to activate a grand protection of their state.

  Divine Weapon — Grand Mechanism.

  The greatest work of Demigod Isiro and the greatest gift given to protect their nation.

  Even with the capture of Asan and Mojo, only half of the Arbitrators were necessary to activate the Grand Mechanism.

  Ai’esha prayed. Her words were resolute but shaky.

  “ We praise Thee, for you are the Shepard and We, the People, Your Lambs. We call to Thee, for our nation has suffered, your Lambs slaughtered, and dominion challenged. Oh, greatest of greatest, our Shepard, our Protector, come forth and shield us back into the pen…

  “ Oh, greatest of greatest, who dominions over Mechanisms, over devices wrought by mortal hands and guided by unseen law, over gears that turn without complaint and levers that answer to pressure alone—

  “ You who breathe motion into still metal, who grant purpose to spring and tension, to counterweight and seal, to piston and chain…

  “ We praise Thee, calling the name of your great work, Grand Mechanism.

  “ We call to Thee, calling for Your power to protect Our nation, protect Your Lambs upon this mortal coil.

  “ Thirteen Pillars, Thirteen Sols, activate the Mechanism, Grand its goal! ”

  Thirteen pillars of light shot upward, pulling the nation’s inhabitants from their sleep. Within these pillars, steles rose, stone and metal entwined with complex runes combined—shaking the very foundation of the nation. Ai’esha held her breath, raising her head to look at the next volley, flying over the mountains.

  The light spread from the pillars; twelve circled the nation, while one remained central, the core that connected them all. Grand Mechanism — a divine weapon that worked as a giant shield, protected the nation. Ai’esha swallowed, flinching as the next wave of meteors bashed against the light radiating from the pillars. Flaming rocks were cracked and broken, falling from the sky and igniting the lush vegetation beneath.

  Grand Mechanism would not reverse the damage already done, but it would halt any other incoming attacks. Should the Edryans wish to deactivate it, then only by marching forth and destroying the pillars could it be stopped.

  Ai’esha’s gaze slid forward as she slowly stood. Her eyes hardened with rage, and she held out a hand, grasping the two-handed axe as it was presented to her.

  Banners flew in the distance.

  Edryan had come knocking.

  The next part of the invasion was beginning.

  “Magi will die today.”

  Ai’esha would ensure it.

  “Bring out the Mechanics. Prepare the Cogborn,” Ai’esha ordered.

  She pressed a button on her axe, and the weapon began to hiss and steam. Its parts reorganized as it connected with her armor. “And, prepare to unleash your Mechanism.”

  *****

  Ninjaro placed a hand on his neck, the tension easing as he cracked it. He watched the meteors slam into the shielding of Grand Mechanism. Steam fell from his person, activated by the armor he wore and the weapons in hand.

  The Edryans held no idea what they would face. The armies stationed at Forger’s Keep and Isiro’s Hammer held the previous era of weaponry. Isiro was the Demigod of Mechanisms, and his craftsmanship had opened new doors to the Asigbonle. Weapons that were meant to stay secret until they could no longer do so finally showed.

  “Hmm, I didn’t think their next move would be this grand,” Ninjaro muttered. His cold, calculating gaze remained on the bursting meteors.

  The meteors shattered against Grand Mechanism. Depots burned. Cities remained untouched.

  Interesting.

  They could reach the heartland, but they chose not to.

  A statement.

  Ninjaro exhaled slowly. Good.

  He’d been prepared, but the move was still a bit sudden, and several depots were hit. Edryan possessed long-range capabilities that could attack from their side of the border, but they didn’t use them to inflict the most damage possible.

  It was… honorable.

  That meant the game was still being played fairly .

  Ninjaro respected the Chosen of Madris, or whoever it was that did this. It opened his mind but hardened his resolution. What this demonstrated was that they could, but didn’t. They weren’t after the senseless slaughter of the Asigbonle.

  That gave hope for the lives of Asan and Mojo and their men if they survived the Battle of Forger’s Keep.

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  That hope was dangerous, and the calculative mind of Ninjaro squashed it. All it was, was a fleeting thought—a mayfly in the summer wind.

  Ninjaro turned from the burning horizon and gave a quiet order.

  *****

  The light hummed. Nothing else did.

  Was it the first day or the second week? Mojo couldn’t tell.

  He lay on his cot, nothing too soft, but not a stone board. His eyes remained fixed on that ceiling. If Mojo could describe the room he was in, then bland would be an apt word. Four grey walls. A single white light overhead. A toilet in the corner. A desk and its accompanying chair. Two pairs of clothing. A spoon. A fork. A dull knife.

  And the heavy Attribute Limiter Chains around his wrists.

  Mojo stood, then slowly paced the length of the cell. Mojo paused at his favorite wall, the one near the desk, closest to the toilet.

  “How many days?”

  …his jaw tightened.

  Mojo punched…

  “JUST HOW MANY DAYS ARE YOU GOING TO KEEP ME FUCKING LOCKED IN HERE?”

  He punched, striking the wall.

  Again.

  Again.

  AGAIN.

  AND AGAIN.

  AND AGAIN.

  Mojo punched, but pain never came.

  Only his grunts of exertion accompanied him; that, and the soft buzz of the light overhead.

  The walls were enchanted, preventing his fist from truly hurting himself. He turned, gripping the desk, but the thing wouldn’t budge. His raging eyes alighted on the chair, only for the result to be the same. He could roll it, but lift?

  All his strength was reduced to 0.

  He could be slaughtered like a chicken or dog.

  Mojo suddenly calmed, sitting at his desk. He closed his eyes, silently chanting a self-created mantra to control his emotions and retain his sanity.

  You are Mojo, Arbitrator of the Federation. You have value, whether it be knowledge of the Federation’s internal structure, its hidden weaponry, and so much more.

  Yet, why did no magi come? Why hadn’t he seen a face since his capture and placement within this cell?

  Mojo couldn’t answer those questions. He opened his eyes, and a plate of food appeared before him.

  That was it.

  That was his sole interaction with the outside world. If he sat at his desk long enough, a plate of food would appear. It wasn’t anything bland—steak, potatoes, and a mug of light ale to drink. Or sometimes it would be a vegetable rice mixed with different meats.

  At least he received something decent. A Federation cell would be far worse for any captured magi.

  He finished his food quietly, then began to pace the length of the room once more. How many kilometers had he crossed in this room? How many times had he wondered if the cell doors would open and the interrogation squad of the magi would storm in, dragging him out and forcing key information about the Federation from his mouth?

  Not one of those things happened.

  Not one thing that could give him a semblance of confidence, of strength.

  Nothing.

  Was Mojo not important?

  Did being one of the thirteen Arbitrators mean nothing?

  Perhaps this is a scheme aimed at breaking my mentality, until I spill everything before them humbly. Hmph, not in this life.

  “Not in this life.”

  Mojo would not allow his principals to be shaken again. His thoughts drifted to that man— that saphen— that thing. He heard stories and first counts from Ninjaro and Ai’esha, but hearing is one thing.

  Facing the Chosen of Madris…?

  That was something else entirely.

  He, Asan, they had gone into the battle confident. Hell, even if they were using older age weaponry in an attempt to keep the true depths of the Federation’s abilities hidden, he’d still be able to put up an excellent fight.

  At least that’s what he believed .

  That man, thing , was no saphen, no human. That was a God in the flesh of man.

  And…

  Mojo hated himself for believing so.

  It took everything he had just to raise his head in his presence. That was not something any normal leveler could do. He’d only felt that type of pressure from those beyond mortality. From Path Walkers already solidified in their new prowess and understandings.

  He’d never felt something like that from someone of the same generation.

  Perhaps Ninjaro, when he activated his law in its full might, could come close, but that was a dangerous state. A state he wouldn’t activate lightly for the disregard of life that came with it.

  Mojo found himself lying on his cot, his mind wandering. Outside of pacing, there was nothing to keep him entertained, but he had found ways to entertain himself.

  Mojo had never been a spiritual man. Yes, he believed in Demigod Isiro. Yes, he did his standard prayers and whatnot. But… but he wasn’t one to truly kneel and pray unless it was out of courtesy. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in the strength and legend of Isiro, it was that he’d always held the ambition of achieving such a level himself. He had living, breathing proof in front of him that it was possible, and there was no greater age than now to achieve it in the Mortal Realm.

  The prior established powers were being forced to vacate, giving room to a new, younger generation to rise. That’s what this battle was about, that’s what this game between the Twelve Thrones meant to him.

  Out with the old and in with the new.

  But…

  But…

  Right now…

  All he could do was pray…

  All he could hope for was some vast power… powerful beyond his comprehension to act… to strike at that thing and finish it before it could cause true harm to the continent.

  He didn’t understand how a single man could conquer ten thousand.

  10,000.

  That number of men was not small. It was a force composed of anywhere between level 100 and 250, yet none on Battle Terrace Three managed to strike him.

  That was not something a mortal could do.

  Mojo refused.

  He refused.

  HE…

  REFUSED.

  He refused to believe that mortals could do something like that and walk away unscathed. In his brief glimpse as he observed that thing, he’d never once seen a hint of damage dealt to him. But the blood of his soldiers, his brother, lay strewn across that thing’s armor.

  The Chosen of Madris.

  The Chosen of Madris?

  If this is what it meant to be a Chosen of one of the first Gods of the Elrunian Continent, then he couldn’t imagine what the other two were like.

  He thought he understood them.

  No, the Federation, Ninjaro, Asan, the Arbitrators thought they understood them.

  It.

  But…, that was not the case.

  They didn’t understand anything at all.

  So… slowly, gently, Mojo got to his knees. He didn’t know the direction the Federation was in. He didn’t know whether his actions would be perceived, but it was all he could do.

  He prayed.

  Mojo prayed for the Federation. He prayed for their victory. He prayed to Isiro in hopes of him taking action and stopping that thing.

  He prayed for his brother, for Asan.

  He prayed for his wife and unborn child.

  He prayed…

  …for that was all a powerless man could do.

  Pray.