Chapter 49 - The Dragonslayer [Part 1]
A prototype forged in the last gasps of the Cataclysm, the Ballista was assembled in defiance of both military regulation and sacred ordinance. Its frame was not cast in mere steel or synthetics. Instead, it was built from the fallen remains of Xenodraconis invaders—the scaled titans whose flesh resisted our weapons, whose bones defied Entropy, whose sinews thrummed with residual power. Where most later Nex Frames were fabricated in sterile orbital foundries or similar zero-G environments, the Ballista was hewn from myth.
Designed under the clandestine oversight of what was later dubbed the Dragonslayer Project, it was a joint initiative between Voss Heavy Industries and Ingram Securities. The project was an answer to an unanswered question: What if we built a war machine not only to kill dragons—but from them?
- Chronicles of the Cataclysm by Professor Elaine de Laney.
Seraphina ducked and slid into the prototype’s coffin-shaped cockpit, silk skirts whispering across dark grey alloys. The hatch clamped shut on hydraulic pistons, sealing out the hangar’s distant clangor and trapping her in the dark red gloom of the standby lighting. Questing hands searching, she found the master ignition by touch; one decisive flick ignited the gloom in a pulse of blue luminescence.
“Unit Zero Ballista Initialization sequence engaged. Main reactor—initializing. Weapons linking—initializing. Sensorium—initializing,” the sub-AI reported, its voice flat and feminine.
Suddenly, before her eyes, expanded a panoramic view of the hangar—the convenience of advanced, fictional technology.
She placed the Sceptre of Wisdom between her legs, locking it in place with a strap, and cinched the five-point harness around her torso and waist. Settling in, she felt the cockpit’s seat hardened around her, ribs of adaptive polymer locking against her spine. Concentric rings of green light strobed outward, each a measured heartbeat, and she could feel Dragonslayer stirring from its centuries of slumber.
“Reactor containment at ninety-one-point-seven percent,” the sub-AI continued. “Minor decay within tolerances. Ethereum fuel banks are at one hundred percent. Reactor online. Weapons online. All systems nominal.”
Status screens flared from a warning crimson to healthy blue, unveiling the cavernous hangar. Around the Ballista, maintenance drones continued to hover and flock around, engaged as they were in last-minute checks and adjustments.
The facility’s GAI cut in on a command channel, its tone iron-flat. “Strategic sweep confirms Xenodraconis entity, mass category Seven, bearing zero-three-one. Time to breach local aerospace: fifty-eight minutes,” it warned.
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“Deploy every functioning defense grid emplacement,” Seraphina ordered quickly. “Fire on acquisition.”
“Warning. This measure will not be enough to stop the incursion of Xenodraconis entity,” the GAI replied. “Operational capacity of local defence grid: twenty-seven percent. Recommend continent-wide unlock and networking of all facilities.”
“Too slow. Oh, and negative to networking, but allow timed interval release of facilities from imposed lockdown,” the young girl commanded, letting frustration color her voice. “Use orbital assets to dissuade the entity. Initiate Orbital Pattern Delta—password Delta Five Six, Hammer of the Gods.”
“Orbital assets degraded. Coordinated strike probability: eight percent.” A pause, ancient processors grinding. “Prototype Unit Zero: Ballista remains the only viable interceptor. Calculated success rate: thirteen percent. Projected pilot fatality: eighty-three percent.”
The sub-AI resumed, clinically. “Vernier engines exceed current human pilot’s G-force tolerance. Safety limiters recommended.”
“Negative. Full output.”
“Limiter override acknowledged. Risk of catastrophic physiological trauma: extreme.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Seraphina's breath rasped through clenched teeth. “Begin synchronization.”
“Current configuration is set to neuro-cortical total integration,” the Nex’s system intoned. “Recommendation: engage AI assistance for subroutine management—”
“Negative,” she snapped. Seraphina de Sariens did not cheat.
“Warning: proceeding without AI support will place extreme stress on the biological neural cortex. Predicted symptoms include nausea, cognitive disorientation, coronary failure, acute anxiety—”
“Do not make me repeat myself,” she growled. “No limiters. No AI aimbots. No cheating.”
She toyed with a red ruby earring, fingers absently tracing its smooth curve. Her thoughts wandered randomly back to the days within the Trial—how she had bartered one of her earrings for the goodwill and aid of the peasants. When she emerged victorious, it had been returned to her, polished and intact. That was the rule of the Trials of the Goddess: you left with everything you brought in, and only what the Trial deemed you worthy to gain.
She had tried to cheat the system before, and it had not worked. To this moment, it had been a source of vexation. Perhaps by setting the difficulty to the absolute maximum, she could reap greater rewards. However, this was to be a battle in the “real” world. If she were successful, she could get to keep all of her loot.
“You may wish to relax for this. Neural mesh engagement commencing.” Blue latticework crawled across her, penetrating flesh and thought alike. Her pulse hammered as the machine’s cold awareness bled into her own.
The reactor became her heart; she could feel it pulse with raw Mana. There was rhythm, a song, that she knew the melody if only she could find the notes of command and surrender.
The war suit’s AI chimed. “Link integrity reaching eighty percent… eighty-seven…”
As the Mana of the New—the first Dragonslayer—intertwined with her own, a surge rippled through both. Her Mana touched its core, and in turn, it touched hers. The dull grey armor plating shimmered, flooding with rich crimson, its edges trimmed in a deep, resplendent gold.
