Inside the War Chamber, the silence was absolute. Dren Havoc, usually a mountain of fury and unstoppable will, stood frozen, his mismatched eyes wide with disbelief. His mechanical hand, always humming with restrained power, hung limp at his side.
Magistrate Virellia's silver prosthetic fingers, which never stopped tapping against her datapad even under pressure, now clattered noisily as they trembled in her grip.
Marshal Korr Thane's gravel-rough voice failed him; his mouth opened as if to bark an order, but no words came.
Archivist Arodan Skell, the man whose knowledge shaped Varkath's very survival, could only lower his head, the shadow of his veilbands hiding the horror in his eyes.
It was impossible. Everything they had, the railguns, the island's hidden power reserves, the ancient defenses built into Varkath's bones, all of it had been for nothing. The railguns, their last hope, had not even scratched the Black Dragon. Outside the War Chamber windows, Varkath plunged into pure chaos.
Without power, the city's protective domes flickered and collapsed, the once-bright barriers fading into nothingness. Frantic alarms echoed in dead corridors, powerless to summon a rescue that no longer existed.
Mutants who had been imprisoned for their instability and danger—mutants whose powers could level entire blocks—escaped their cells as magnetic locks failed.
In the streets, panic exploded. Citizens screamed and stampeded through alleys and mainways, knocking over market stalls, crashing through doors. Families clung to each other as towering buildings lost their power and flickered into useless husks of metal. Emergency lights sputtered, and then died.
In the dark, the only thing visible was the terrible glow of the mushroom cloud where Sector 9 had once stood... and above it, Ao Shun, massive and terrible, circling lazily, like a god surveying the ruin he had barely bothered to create.
A slow, grinding groan echoed through the War Chamber—the sound of Dren Havoc's metal fist clenching tight enough to warp the alloy. "...We are completely," he rasped, voice hoarse with rage and helplessness, "plunged into the abyss."
The Black Dragon—Ao Shun—hovered above the decimated remains of Sector 9, his massive body twisting slowly, like a serpent in the sky. But his fury had only just begun. In one terrible, fluid motion, the dragon coiled tighter and arched his back. Then—shrrrkkk-THOOM!
From between his scales, blades of pure energy erupted—dozens, maybe hundreds—each one shimmering and screaming through the air.
They weren't simple blasts; they were perfect scythe-like arcs, slicing the air with such velocity that the clouds themselves shredded apart in long, bleeding wounds across the sky.
Wherever these energy blades touched the ground, entire streets, buildings, ships, and towers were cleaved apart as if they were made of paper.
Explosions of thunder followed every impact, shockwaves rattling the bones of the fleeing citizens, hurling debris miles into the air. The howl of the wind driven by the force alone sounded like a million banshees screaming at once.
Inside the War Chamber, alarms that should have been impossible to trigger blared. A massive Holo-Screen flickered to life, its cracked display desperately trying to keep up with the devastation. Charts, simulations, predictions—all useless.
Archivist Arodan Skell shouted above the noise, "The blades! They're reading as a fusion—Wind and Thunder! It's amplifying the velocity and the destruction exponentially!"
Numbers ran down the screen in red: Estimated survival rate of outer sectors: 2%.
"Dear gods..." Magistrate Virellia muttered, clutching the edge of the console, her silver fingers digging deep gouges into the alloy.
Marshal Korr Thane, face grim, barked, "Those strikes aren't random! He's carving the island apart on purpose! Driving us into the center like cattle!"
On the screen, Varkath's map lit up like a dying heart, flashing red at every new point of devastation. Dren stood there, the flickering crimson glow of the ruined War Chamber casting jagged shadows across his scorched armor.
The Council behind him argued in rising panic—voices like blades, slicing over one another—until Dren slammed his biomechanical fist into the center console, shattering it. The room fell into dead silence. His mismatched eyes—one burning red, one frozen blue—swept across them all with a silent command "Enough."
He turned sharply toward the Communications Officer, a trembling young mutant whose console still sputtered with minimal backup power. "Connect me to the Capitol." Dren growled, his voice low and cracking like a mountain splitting open. "Get me to King Ivan. Now."
The officer hesitated, eyes darting to Magistrate Virellia and Marshal Korr Thane, as if begging someone to countermand the order. No one did.
With shaking fingers, he patched into the only still-functioning secure channel, ancient crystal signal transmitters humming to life. Beep... Beep... Beep...
It was taking too long. Every second felt like an eternity as outside, the island was being carved apart like sacrificial meat. Finally—the screen flickered and King Ivan's crest appeared: a golden sun encased in a roaring blue lion. The call connected.
The face of King Ivan emerged—a man of such imperious bearing, even the holo-screen struggled to contain his presence.
His silver crown was worn like a warhelm; his sharp violet eyes, cold as glaciers, surveyed the desperate faces before him. He spoke first. "Dren Havoc. What madness stirs Varkath to call the King in the middle of the Night of Veils?"
Dren dropped to one knee without hesitation, his molten veins flaring like wildfire. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice heavy with urgency, "Varkath is under siege. Not by armies. Not by insurgents."
He lifted his head, his scarred face illuminated only by the fires outside. "It is the Black Dragon."
The council behind Dren gasped quietly as he uttered the name aloud, fear crawling up their spines. King Ivan's stoic face hardened further. He said nothing for a moment, calculating. Then, coldly "I the Black Dragon?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." Dren gritted his teeth. "Railguns did NOTHING. We have no defense left. Varkath's dome has failed. Mutants are loose. Citizens are dying. I..."
He bowed his head deeper, shamed beyond words. "We beg your aid, King Ivan. Or Varkath will fall before the sun rises."
King Ivan was silent. The weight of a thousand decisions seemed to grind behind his regal eyes. At last, his command boomed through the chamber like divine law. "Hold your line, Dren. I will send CPG."
The screen cut to black. The War Chamber exhaled all at once—as if they had all been suffocating—and Dren rose to his feet, clenching his metal fist. "We bought ourselves a chance. Now we survive until the CPG arrives."
Meanwhile, at the battered Hall of M, alarms still bleated like dying animals, flickering lights casting long, shaky shadows across the cracked floors.
Inside the main recovery room, where the wounded and bruised were supposed to be resting, a different battle was raging. Not against the Black Dragon outside—Against each other's egos.
"—I'm just saying," Silas snorted, slouching deeper into his hospital bed, arms behind his head like he hadn't a care in the world, "for a so-called legendary archmage, you sure didn't do jack against that lizard, Veymar."
Across the room, Veymar, hair sticking out wildly from static and exhaustion, glared at him over a cracked mug of cold coffee. The runes on his cloak were still sputtering, like his dignity. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. 'Sentinel Corps Leader,'" Veymar shot back, voice dripping with theatrical sarcasm, "weren't you the one boasting your shiny mechanical army was designed to 'handle any mutant threat in Tanasma'?"
He made exaggerated air quotes with his fingers. "Congratulations. You officially upgraded them from Anti-Mutant Units... to Dragon Chow."
Silas chuckled and lazily clapped. "Brilliant. Real brilliant. Should carve that onto a memorial stone while we still have mountains left."
Professor M, sitting nearby in a rickety chair with a datapad slipping from his lap, rubbed his temples as if they were both the actual apocalypse. "Children, please," he grumbled, voice hoarse, "save your bickering for AFTER the dragon finishes redecorating the island with our corpses."
Silas and Veymar ignored him entirely. "At least I didn't bring a shiny stick to a Dragon fight," Silas said with a grin, pointing at the battered relic staff still floating lamely beside Veymar.
"Oh yes, because your tin cans did SO WELL," Veymar shot back, mockingly bowing.
"ENOUGH." Professor M suddenly stood, wobbling slightly, his patience finally snapping like an overstretched bridge.
He jabbed a finger toward both of them. "Accept it." He gave a humorless, exhausted laugh. "Even if we all went full power—every relic, every mech, every spell, every mutant—"
He looked up, toward the distant, rumbling sky where Ao Shun's colossal form blotted out the heavens. "We wouldn't even slow him down."
Silas's smile faded. Veymar lowered his head grimly. Even the holo-screens around them, still showing scenes of the ruined Varkath, seemed to buzz quieter for a moment. Silas finally broke the silence with a mutter. "Well... guess it's official." He stretched his arms above his head lazily. "We're totally destroyed."
Veymar snorted. "That's the first sensible thing you've said all week."
Professor M sighed again, dragging a hand down his face. "This... is going to need a miracle."
Their pointless bickering finally came to an abrupt halt. A thunderous, bone-shaking rumble split the air. The three of them—Silas, Veymar, and Professor M—snapped their heads toward the flickering holo-screen on the wall. The feed—static-ridden and glitching—showed something new. Something massive. Something terrifying.
Through the broken clouds, dozens... no, hundreds of Mother Ships of the Capitol Patrol Guard (CPG) were descending in formation over Varkath. Each one like a floating fortress, bristling with railguns, pulse cannons, arc turrets, and specialized containment weapons normally reserved for continental level threats.
Whole squadrons of CPG strike crafts roared through the skies like locusts, weaving between massive battleships, forming an iron storm around Ao Shun. For a few long, heavy seconds, even cocky Silas just... stared. "...Holy hells..." he muttered under his breath.
"I thought CPG never committed this many assets unless it was a global extinction event," Veymar whispered hoarsely.
"They don't," Professor M said quietly, "Unless they have no other choice."
Before anyone could even process what they were witnessing, a sharp ping cut through the room. Silas's personal comm implant buzzed in his ear. Incoming encrypted transmission. He tapped the side of his head irritably, accepting the call.
A grim voice filled his ear. "Commander Silas—this is CPG Battalion Three. Request immediate authorization to deploy all Sentinel units under your command. Full release protocol. Priority One Clearance."
Silas gritted his teeth, his jaw flexing in irritation. He hated being ordered around. Especially by CPG brass who usually wouldn't dare to dictate to a Sentinel Corps Commander without layers of politics first.
On the screen, Ao Shun merely watched the gathering storm of CPG ships with chilling indifference, his colossal black scales absorbing lightning strikes like raindrops. Silas clicked his tongue, frustrated. Then he answered the call. "...Authorization granted. Deploy them all."
Silas flopped back against the bed with a humorless laugh. "Well, boys." He gave them a crooked grin. "Looks like we're throwing every damn thing we've got at the apocalypse today."
Right after Silas gave his grim approval, the entire Sentinel network across Edenia activated. Deep bunker doors rumbled open—massive slabs of reinforced steel grinding against ancient rock and soil.
One by one, Sentinel Outposts, once hidden behind mountains, underground, or within fortified strongholds, came to life. Warning sirens howled across the broken cities and scattered villages. From every Outposts—every single mechanical war unit surged into action with total deployment: 42,320 Sentinel Units.
The ground shook from the force of their synchronized deployment. Highways cracked. Old cities trembled. Flocks of terrified birds fled the skies. From above, the view of Edenia resembled arteries of fire and steel, as countless engines burned bright against the darkened, powerless landscape.