Turning Tides

There was once a tale of a god, a vengeful, jealous god, who saw his people enveloped in sin. Seeing this depravity, he rained burning sulfur over his people. Thus he overthrew the cities of the plain, destroying the living upon the earth.

Sahyat read the passage countless times as a part of her compulsory education. Ancient world religions; Wisteria specifically. The story always haunted her. More so than the others. The bellowing flames. The pillars of smog. It was an act of wrath so cruel, so utterly depraved, that it returned to her often in dreams.

Today, however, was all too real.

The Gaulf Strait had received the wrath of god.

Any semblance of order had been replaced with unrelenting violence. Androids and humans alike had been engulfed in the massacre, reduced to bits of scrap and viscera beneath a red sky.

Sahyat had not escaped the bombardment.

A stray piece of shrapnel shot in her direction. It was large enough to crush arm in two and penetrate her side. The last of her strength was gone. The impact hurled her into the rubble. She did not rise again..

“General…!”

Even amidst hell’s flames, Sahyat’s final concern rested with her superior, Mai’wen of the Third Seat. Śūnyatā was a powerful technique, perhaps the most powerful among the generals, yet it was not invincible. Her cost, Anitya , set a harsh limit on Śūnyatā’s activation time. 5 minutes—that was the farthest limit she could handle before breaking.

Over half the activation time had already elapsed.

Organizing a rescue effort was impossible, at least with her strength alone. She needed the assistance of her men, but what could she truly do in her condition? She would shortly lose consciousness, and with it, the army its leader.

“L-Liutenant…?” said a soldier.

“No…” said another, eyes filled with tears.

“Liuentant!” shouted the last, his eyes filled with terror.

They cried out to no avail. Their words would reach neither General Mai’wen nor Lieutenant Sahyat, and with this realization, all hope had been lost.

Men once organized under Sahyat’s lead had been broken by terror. Some froze. Some ran. Some hid at the corners of the battlefield, only to be crushed by falling rubble.

What more could they do but pray? Pray to whom? God? A savior? A hero of legends ready to swoop them off their feet? Of course, prayer alone meant nothing. The soldiers of Wisteria would be massacred all the same, clinging to a selfish desire for salvation, a desire they did not spare their victims.

It was all too grotesque. All too human.

“Please…help us!”

Dorian Evans was an ordinary soldier; 19 years old. At night, he would imagine himself a great hero, dashing across the fields of battle, standard in hand. Yet here he was today, hiding under an abandoned building, arms clasped in prayer.

He knew that it likely meant nothing, that there were no heroes, and fate would not be so kind as to spare him. The young man was a killer, no doubt. He had slain shura by the dozens, some innocent, some not. Some young, some old. Distinctions in violence mattered little.

The fact remained all the same; Dorian Evans was a killer, a killer who would meet his rightful end.

At least, that was what he believed.

Perhaps it was true that heroes did not exist, that they were but a means of escaping guilt. A hypocrite’s cry for mercy.

However…

There was one such man who chose to follow in the path of the Legendary Hero. Even if it was fake, even if it was but a fragile dream, he wished with all his might to soothe the hearts of everyone.

In this story devoid of heroes, a hero had risen all the same.

Cutting through the red sky was a golden comet. It crashed upon the earth, and from plumes of rising smoke emerged a young man. Dark skin, curly black hair, and a boyish face that seemed both naïve, yet utterly determined. A long black sword with golden accents rested on his shoulder. His presence seemed to dwarf the surrounding chaos.

If this moment, this story, was nothing but a fairy tale, then this man must be the world’s protagonist.

“I’m sorry I’m late. It looks like things have gotten ugly around here.” The young man turned to Evans, his mien carrying a benevolent expression. “I’m here to save you.”

His eyes scoured the battlefield. To his left, he spotted his superior, Lieutenant Sahyat, slumped against a stone wall. Before her stood a melee-type combat drone, its blade poised to strike. Her execution was imminent.

“...!”

He closed the gap in an instant and repelled the android with the flick of a wrist. It was as though the hundred-ton machine weighed no more than a feather. In the next instant, he struck, splitting the iron soldier in two.

With power alone, the young man averted disaster. Sahyat had been saved, and Dorian Evans, the pathetic man he was, could not help but prostrate before him.

“Thank you…” he said through teary eyes. “Thank you!”

The young warrior did not give an immediate reply. Instead, he placed an ear against the lieutenant’s chest. “Alive…if barely so. Though Mang keeps her body stable, it will not last for much longer.”

He lifted Sahyat gently before carrying her over to Dorian Evans, whose reverence had yet to cease.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’ve had enough, but I have one last role for you. Please, take the lieutenant to the safe zone and get her immediate treatment. With these wounds, I’d say she has less than an hour to live. Can you do that?”

“I…” Dorian Evans was dumbfounded. Did this man, no, this legend, just make a personal request of him? Language had escaped him, yet his body knew well its purpose. As though possessed by an auxiliary force, Dorian took her in his arms and headed south. This woman, after all, was Lieutenant Sahyat of the Imperial Wisterian Army. Was it not natural for a lackey, a commoner devoid of strength or conviction, to aid their superior?

It was a task far too important for him, a side character among side characters, yet it was a burden he must bear all the same. If the man before him was the protagonist, then he would gladly serve the supporting role.

“Alright, let’s get started.”

Each of the remaining problem children upheld different objectives. Derrick would rescue Mai’wen, Keresaspa would go on the offensive, and Ereth himself would defend the retreating humans from the frenzied combat androids.

There were hundreds, no, thousands of combat androids rushing to his location, their cold steel drenched in freshly wrung blood.

A familiar rage boiled at the pit of his stomach. It was filthy, disgusting, repulsive, and depraved. Such a one-sided massacre could not exist. It must not exist.

Of course, he was not naive enough to believe every soldier was a good person, or that they weren’t guilty of the same sin as the shura, but the Wisterians were his people, his comrades, and he would not let their deaths be in vain.

“Gather them, Divine Sword!”

He raised his sword to the sky, gathering the golden embers scattered across the battlefield into the blade blade.

I don’t want to die!

I want to see my wife.

I want to breathe fresh air.

I want to buy a home on the shore-side.

I want to live!

Ereth could hear them; the hopes and dreams of the beaten soldiers. With the power of [ Resonance ], he would harness these dreams and give them form.

[ Crepusculo Perfusus! ]

He swung his blade, and the golden arc fractured into countless streams of light. They rained across the battlefield like divine javelins, each impact swallowing entire platoons of mechanized soldiers.

“Please, hold out everyone. As long as I’m here, nobody else will die.”