Mhaieiyu

Arc 2, Chapter 1

The Crackle of Fate

The clutter of iron. The grind of machinery. The shouts of an army. These noises permeated through the shroud of the whistling wind, growing closer and louder with each thundering step of the opposition’s troops. Their formation had been cut short thanks to Kev’s efforts, who dismantled any soldier or artillery injections that could have left the Syndies outmanned and outgunned. Even still, the tally was obscene. The men lining the Yanksee force marched boldly with double the manpower of that of the Syndicate’s. Their only disadvantage could be chalked up to their innately intolerant behaviour towards beasts, which left them with few—if any—Cryptids to cooperate with.

With a final cheer and a conclusive slam of their boots against the loose earth, all became quiet. The Yanksie army had peered over the dunes of ash-coloured sands, allowing the two nations to face each other yet again, as history had long and many times seen before.

This endless divide, this perilous confrontation and all its predecessors could seem imprudent and purposeless, and in many ways, they might have been. From an outside perspective, this needless loss of life could be aptly titled a fool’s game. Chasing geese without hunger blissfully ignorant of the damages made in the process. But, to these men and women, the conflict was driven by purpose. Be it for survival, pride or to preserve their homes, every gun, sword, lance, axe, shield or otherwise held within unprecedented amounts of importance to the wielder. This fact was one of the few things both countries’ populations agreed upon, and as such, each weapon was treated with utmost care and devotion. Every soldier carried with him or her the right amount of hope and fear necessary to both carry them forth as well as keep them alive during the battle ahead — and not one lacked a history. They all had lives to live, a family of some sort to return to, a dream to fulfil…

The Syndies stared off into the distant military, trying to catch eye of as many features of the army as possible. While the Syndicate had many a Mynotaur, Wylven, Felyn and other beasts on their side, so too did the Yanksies sport machines of war in the form of wheeled vessels of steel outfitted with metal chains and plates that formed tracks with which the machines could drive upon uneven land; their rooves topped by either cannons to reduce flesh to ash or automatic guns of heavy calibre that could shred a bull’s leather to bits.

Just as Kev’s were, Alpha’s eyes seemed all too focused on the midsection of the sea of men, for within, somewhere, stood the man responsible for leading just about every affair within the nation’s confines. No, not the King. He had long since lost favour. It was he, the one with the iron eyepatch, whom Alpha loathed and respected the most; certainly among the mass of men, and potentially on a worldwide basis. The opposing General: Ducasse Mensomóte.

Raising his greatsword into the sky, its engraved symbols and expertly crafted edge reflecting the moon’s light, Alpha yelled with a voice befitting a man of greatness, his volume unparalleled.

“Soldiers! Raise arms, all of ye! Our distant cousins stand before us. Let us settle this score once again, for our land!”

The army cheered once.

“For our people!”

And they cheered twice.

“For the favour of our Goddess, may she guide and protect each and every one of us!”

A third full cry of rage and emotion tore through the desert, all weapons raised high for all to see.

As the soldiers of the opposite horizon too began to cheer for their own country, Kev placed a hand on Alpha’s shoulder.

“I wish you luck, o great Head of Men. This won’t be our last, I hope?” Kev chuckled, facing the enemy with a veteran’s content.

“Do nay fret. If we fall today, we may rest in the heavens. She has reserved time for us, I assure ye,” Alpha said, full of peace and assurance.

“I would wager so,” Kev hummed.

“Oi…” Emris said, stepping to Alpha’s left. “Ye best not make any shite choices, aye? I want ye both safe and kickin’ once this is handled.”

“Good man, worry not!” the Head of Men laughed, patting the Brig’s back. “We fight for glory together. I couldn’t wish for better.”

“Glory, ah…? I see lil’ more than the corpses we stand upon.”

“You will see in time. Just as mine stand before me now, you will see with your own eyes that your brothers and sisters wait patiently for you to return to them.”

Giving the noble a look, Emris flared his teeth scornfully. “Ye’re speakin’ like ye’re resigned.”

“Resignation? Bah, hah! Worry not! I refuse to meet my end that way, dear friend," Alpha reassured, standing proud and facing his opponents with dignity. Emris sighed, whispering something under his breath. There was little to concern oneself with as far as the safety of the 'king' of the Syndies went.

Alpha wore a set of luxurious armour, its design more akin to that of an old-fashioned knight than the sleekness standard of Nynx suits; albeit welded with the same materials. His pauldrons protruded dramatically, and his chest stuck out mightily, giving his body the fortitude to withstand hell’s blows. His helm was a gorgeous gold, forged from the same metals as the Great Pillar of Sylvves, upon which the heavens birth Celestials. The armour was heavy—much heavier than that of most—but every pound served to keep the King in top-notch condition. If there was a blade that could penetrate the thickened portions of the suit, it hadn’t been made yet.

With an explosive shell smashing against the sand some feet before them, Alpha raised his blade once more, proclaiming, “All soldiers! Assume formation: The Forward Trinity!”

The army cheered once more, splitting into three like a trident as the militaries made their move. The ‘prong’ of soldiers in the centre formed a long, slim mass that faced the enemy vertically, leaving only five footmen visible at a time before the vast array of troops. At the same time, the two outer ‘sideprongs’ split off at a forty-five-degree angle from the rear, creating additional lines composed almost entirely of marksmen.

“Are ye startled, mate?” the hulking monarch jabbed at Emris, giving him a friendly yet mischievous simper.

“Nay, not in the slightest. Just… don’t get too cocky, aye?” Emris said in half a plea.

“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Kev added, to the amusement of Alpha, who guffawed powerfully.

“At ease, gentlemen! See there, and stand proud. We live and die for our homeland; let it be so.”

The three elites had positioned themselves around the midsection of the centre prong; the soldiers dispersed randomly so as to prevent easy pickings of veteran powers. Due to the laws of war, firing at the army at random could easily prove a mistake, as the unintentional killing of the Head of Men by common ranks would sully Yanksee’s reputation, even amongst their own people; a feat often exploited during the tides of war. This rule applied inversely too, of course. Though the status of protection had shifted from the meek king to the far more fitting General of Yanksee.

With the formation prepared, the middle prong began to rush forward, becoming the needle that would sever Yanksee’s formation from front to back.

Before the crackles of gunfire could be set off, two teams of monstrous feline quadrupeds with chisel teeth and spectacular sunny manes broke out from the rear, swarming around the needle. They were steeds of war, and atop them sat mounts — lancers and riflemen, most of which cloaked in their own fur and brawn. These served as effective shields for the brigade, distracting the enemy from the presence of the rear companies as well as giving aid to the battalion’s advance.

As soon as the threshold was passed, a massive barrage of explosions rioted the formation as gunfire was unloaded with impunity, before ceasing, awaiting the clouds of sand to dissipate.

Parting through the fog, the Syndies pushed on. Despite the heavy fire, Alpha’s slim but long formation proved successful in minimising casualties. Less than a dozen had fallen.

The advancing Syndies roared as they ran, only to be met with a second barrage from the Yanksies. This time, the riders would peer through the clouds of smoke, forging a hammer-like organisation that would keep eyes away from the faraway riflemen.

The distance was closing fast, and so, the cannons of the vessels turned, releasing the first of the artillery shells upon the Syndie force. In the explosions, many a troop were raised from the floor, their bodies annihilated beyond repair — some of which reduced to nothing. Forty casualties. Still few were the losses.

A hundred feet from the running soldiers stood the first row of Yanksies, who cried bloody murder before unleashing yet another torrent of rounds. This time, the fire would be returned, as between the riders, all manner of bullets broke through. Many missed—the distance guaranteed it—but there were hits too. Eighty-nine casualties for the Syndies, thirty-two for the Yanksies. The living on either side still overshadowed such feeble counts significantly, but numbers meant nothing to a good leader. People were dying. Those same people who had been raised by their countries, for which they fought for. Neither Alpha nor Ducasse took pleasure in the fact.

Sixty feet from their targets, the northeastern soldiers delivered their shielders forth, parting through the diamonds of shooters; spears at the ready. With a thundering quake, a large shell was launched into the sky.

“Blasted fiends! They aim for the rear!” Alpha shouted, watching as the explosive fell near the left—or the northernmost—side prong. “Charge! Charge them, give them no room to lay waste to us!”

“Aye!” many of the men shouted back, running at full force against the mob. Some would surely die, but priorities demanded sacrifice, as hard a fact as that may be for the Head of Men.

Fifteen feet. Ten feet. Five feet.

As the first line of Syndies sprung to the air, the third barrage of fire struck, sending many of them backwards. Over a hundred casualties, but still, the Syndicate pressed on.

The remnants of the injection bashed against the enemy, forcing their way past the first and second line before spreading the army upon them. Like a live siege weapon, the wall of men was shattered, disrupting their formation and propagating chaos among them. All according to plan.

“CHARGE!” Alpha roared, his command reciprocated by his closest compatriots.

Countless blades of all shapes and sizes met with a clatter and a spark, and soon, the whole battlefield became a tirade of yells, scrapes of steel and gunfire. The rearmost companies inched forth, struggling to engage the enemy as the Syndies began to merge with them. The needle had melted like a candlestick, fusing into the Yanksies while simultaneously breaching their way to the core as swiftly as possible.

Kev and Alpha worked together, the first of which employing rifle suppression whilst Alpha worked away with his greatsword, cutting through shields and devastating armour with sheer force. Paired with the hulking man, the sword resembled a hammer as he mashed it into his opponents. Kev, on the other hand, employed his versatile suit to its fullest, tackling the men that approached the pair faster than they could pull their armour before swiftly dispatching them with his guns.

Emris soon rolled between the first few lot, standing before the king to batter away any opponents that came close with walls of conjured crystalline-blue energy. He served as the battering ram of the trio, fulfilling his role as the Guardian to the truest extent while simultaneously giving way for the army’s advances.

Gulping down air as he laboured, Alpha turned to face Kev.

“Let us see to it that this war ends properly! Cover me!”

“I’ve got your back, sir! Just keep pushing!”

“Onwards, men!” Emris roared with monstrous laughter as he slammed a swordsman onto the ground with an overpowering slam of his fist.

The Yanksies may have had more guns, but the Syndicate focused on quality above all else. Their sturdy plates of iron couldn’t hope to compare against the Syndies’ use of efficient, light metals that could absorb twice the impact for a third of the heft. That said, there existed no gear that could survive a blast from their tank shells.

The Wylvens and Mynotaurs proved a menacing display for the Yanksies, who already saw them more as monsters than adversaries. Even the canine-like Cryptids carried significant mass in some specimens, and those that did swung large broadswords so heavy they would break a hand if wielded with just the one. As if their features weren’t terrifying enough, the Wylven’s teeth were used almost as lethal as their weapons, which they would often discard in favour of grinding the humans’ necks between their molars; ending their existence with a sharp snap.

The Mynotaurs could just as easily crush a man by falling on them, and their brute force could sweep multiple soldiers at the same time; their leather so thick that swords struggled to make even paper cuts. What’s more, their chest and even their skulls could absorb whole magazines of ammo before relenting, and their horns could mutilate the most heavily armoured individuals. This said, even they fell swiftly upon the impact of the artillery. The sheer brute force of their explosives was too much for even the most biologically sturdy of creatures, which proved a serious advantage on behalf of the Yanksies.

Of course, this wasn’t a surprise. Yanksee always was notorious for their engineered approach at combat. Their technological advances seemed to serve none but their military — yet another design the two countries contradicted in. Sturdy men versus violent guns.

Alpha, Emris and Kev continued to poke a hole through the Yanksie defence, tearing their forces in half as they reached the other side. The three were shocked. Not a single sighting of either Ducasse or anyone resembling an escort. It was then they noticed the armoured, mechanical carriage idling before them; its gun pointed directly at them. With a stumbling holler, Emris immediately dragged himself between the machine and the pair of elites before leaping, just barely managing to cast a wall before the shell was launched. In an instant, the artillery exploded upon the shield, disintegrating it and hurling the Guardian several feet back and rolling him on the floor. The blast pushed back at Alpha and Kev, who struggled to maintain their feet on the sand. By the time they could open their eyes again, a clunk confirmed a second shell had been loaded.

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

Corvus stood with his hands on the handle of his sword, which pierced the sand beneath him. The looseness of the ground he stood on always felt uncomfortable to his shoes, but nothing could compare to the unnerving possibility of stepping on someone’s burial site. With the aid of the wind, all bodies left behind after these battles would soon be swallowed up by the dunes; and as such, one never knows how many resting places they have trampled during the conflict.

Shuddering at the thought, Corvus kept his eyes focused on his task, taking flight once more to scan the surrounding area. He had been stationed with the eastern wing of the formation, charged among few others to protect and guide the marksmen, using his wings to his advantage to better see any signals given by the army to mobilise. Aside from him, the only other wing-blessed individual was Erica, whom he noticed hovering over the western prong. The lack of Celestials could be explained by an inherent lack of interest regarding the Syndicate’s affairs, so long as Crimsoneers or other more substantial threats weren’t involved. Unfortunately, not even their alliance could convince the angels to partake in such filthy battles.

Looking onwards, Corvus assessed the sheer state of the battle. While he couldn’t tell for certain, he could estimate at least a hundred Syndie cadavers blotched the dunes; the tally of Yanksies uncountable under the chaos of the clash between footmen. The dozen or two riders had been halved, with either the steeds being slain by cannon fire or their mounts assailed by lead. Those that still lived roamed around the area, plucking soldiers from their ranks, dodging projectiles to the best of their ability and taking cover behind the uneven mounds to allow the beasts rest.

The gap forced into the opponent’s formation, which severed the army in half from the injection’s point of entry, became visible even from afar as Syndies pushed the two masses back by the crack; shaving away at their core defences so as to target the enemy’s most vulnerable troops as fast as possible. Despite their best efforts, the Yanksies were dropping like flies. Their weak bodies and large numbers balanced each other out by staying in close-quarter formations, standing shoulder to shoulder to create a bulk of dangerous armour. Having the mass split apart was doing them no favours, especially once the larger Cryptids squirmed into the fray, smashing away their retaliation. Worse still, at this proximity, their guns lost effectiveness and became a hazard even to themselves.

As far as their engineering had advanced, the Yanksies still didn't possess aerial arms. Their best attempts were haphazardly duster planes, and even these broke down in heavy winds. The reason behind this failure wasn't entirely theirs to blame. Celestials had become notorious for destroying any aircraft delivered to the sky; their pride threatened from the possibility of common man ever flying as they did.

For this reason, the sky was clear of enemies, and at this height, bullets would fall and explosives would detonate long before they could reach the angels. This vantage point was, by all accounts, the safest place they could be in.

Pressing two fingers on a gadget on his wrist, Corvus could provide intel and advice to his peers whenever needed. Besides the filthy air he was breathing, there was little to report; that is until one of the tanks turned ninety degrees and fired barely fifteen feet in front of it.

Concerned, Corvus reached for his device.

"Cannon fire at short range, rearmost. Report."

Seconds passed and no answer came. Shortly after, a second shell was fired.

"Another shot. Answer me!"

Nervous, Corvus turned to his right. Erica had already zoomed away to inspect the scene. Flapping his wings, Corvus was about to follow behind before he suddenly noticed a blur closing distance from him. It moved too fast and his panic blinded him to the suspect, but judging from the colours, he knew it wasn't Erica.

"What in the hell——?"

Bang

With pinprick eyes, Corvus reflexively pushed himself away with his wings, missing the bullet by the skin of his teeth as it narrowly flew by his right shoulder.

Trapped in the air with a gunman was no way to live. Literally. Instead, Corvus opted for an immediate nosedive, constantly changing directions as bullets just barely skimmed him.

"What is this aim?!" he shouted, inaudible in the turbulence as he rapidly descended to the earth, approaching what appeared to be an abandoned stone building that for aeons had decayed and turned to ruin. All that remained of it were a few pillars and walls, but it would suffice for cover long enough to call for help.

It was then that he felt a burning sensation lash against his chest.

In the pain, his landing became awkward, forcing him to roll against the dirt several times before hiding behind one of the rubble surfaces. His body was sore from the impact, and his chest bled a silver-white plasma. That which dribbled didn't stain the ground a heavenly colour, however. Instead, it would cook and sizzle into less than smoke as soon as it touched the unholy floor. These injuries alone wouldn't suffice to put down one such as he, but it didn't make things easier.

With seconds to spare, he tapped the device again.

"I've been hit! Anonymous shooter. They don't have wings but they were hovering. Send backup! I'm hiding in a ruined building, two clicks northeast from my station. I'm a Celestial. Send backup, urgently!"

He spoke rapidly between long breaths, hearing as the attacker landed upon nearby soil with a resounding thud. Judging by the sounds they made, they were wearing some kind of armour.

"Listen up, whoever you are," Corvus spoke up, taking his sword steadily in his clutch. "My name is Corvus. As you can tell, I am a Celestial, but I am more than that. I'm the Guardian's Sword, do you understand?"

No answer came. The enemy moved around the rubble carefully, taking cover behind each vertical surface available.

"I'm just saying, I figured I should warn you. You are going to die."

Despite his confidence, all he heard in reply was a click followed by the clang of a bullet casing hitting the cobbled floor. Applying pressure on his wound, Corvus grit his teeth before moving, his footsteps ringing loud as he tossed several stones in his path. Immediately, shots were fired; the bullets shattering through the thin walls and exiting the other side as shrapnel, slicing the Celestial’s skin. What’s more, some rounds even slipped through the slits and cracks of the crumbled stone, making every move a gamble.

The figure firing at him stood in the centre of the building, turning like a machine as Corvus slipped and rolled from wall to wall, closing in on his target. Every time the angel thought he escaped the attacker’s sight, they would turn almost instantly and shoot mere millimetres from where he sneaked; the impact noise ricocheting dangerously off the stones.

Finally close enough to his target, Corvus sat quietly, taking in a deep breath of air. He had managed to count every bullet fired between reloads. He had to make this count, as the person he fought seemed to exchange magazines faster than he could unsheathe his sword. These speeds weren’t human. They couldn’t be.

Sprinting from his position, Corvus was surprised to meet a lack of gunfire. He couldn’t afford to even glance at his opponent’s position as he swerved and ducked from barrier to barrier. It was then that the figure dragged against the floor in front of him, giving him a fraction of a second to roll before they fired. By the time he stood up again, he had been shot twice. Corvus managed to throw himself behind cover once more, but he was growing weak. He couldn’t keep this up.

“Too many bullets. Damn it…!” he groaned, anguishing.

With no time to test his opponent, he kissed his blade with a prayer before throwing it high in the air. The sword flew wildly, spiralling and radiating the rising sun’s early light off of its entirety. The splendid and unusual sight caught the offender’s attention just long enough for the weapon to close enough distance before suddenly, Corvus appeared with it. The transition from his absence to his presence was so smooth that one might wonder if he was there the whole time.

The marksman was startled but wasted no time in redirecting their aim towards him. A single shot was fired from the pistol that was so quickly withdrawn from their hip, and while all odds dictated it to be impossible, Corvus reacted thusly by slashing against the bullet’s course with an expert flip, splitting it into pieces before tackling the enemy with full force and rolling the two against the floor. Corvus’ intentions to stab his opponent were thwarted as the sword slipped off their armour — a fact that caught him off guard as he was propelled with a brutal kick. As they stood up, Corvus noticed that the enemy still clutched their pistol, and aimed down sights. Truth be told, the Syndie was distracted; he never expected his attacker would wear a Nynx suit.

His head would have been blown to pieces, but thankfully, the piercing sound of gunfire raining sideways against the threat blasted the area, leaving them with no choice but to abandon the kill before retreating behind cover.

“It took you long enough!” Corvus exclaimed, frustrated yet relieved.

“Were you not paying attention? Look around you!” the soldier with two rifles shouted, pointing towards the several other Syndies that had fallen victim to the misfire.

Corvus’ mouth was agape. Two dozen riflemen surrounded the rubble, all split off from the withering left wing. The bullets fired by the impostor never missed. Every time they did, their mark would change, slaughtering his incoming backup in the process. Like crackles of fate, every gunshot had a purpose. Only four soldiers were left, and among them was Emris’ platoon subordinate: Colonel Elena.

“How many are there?!” she said, mounting her assault rifles on a half wall.

“Just one.”

“What? You're kidding me.”

“Trust me, I don’t get it either. Stay on your feet.” Corvus took his sword from the rubble. “And dance. I'm serious.”

“Got it. Anybody have a visual?”

“No, Colonel,” one of the men responded, arms at the ready.

“Are we really the last ones left…?” another asked, unsettled by the silence.

“Looks like it. Whole formation is getting wiped out,” Elena sighed, squinting her eyes as she noticed movement through a missing brick. A mortar shell smashed into the distance as if to confirm her statement. Lowering her head, she hoped nobody she knew suffered from the blast.

The soldiers and the angel were tense. Stern and locked to the wasted floor beneath them, they awaited under an orange sky for any movement worth obliterating. What they would never expect, however, was for the perpetrator to walk right around the corner, head hanging slightly, casual paces, a calm disposition… The bold move was so audacious that for a good few seconds they were mistaken for an ally; the stolen suit didn’t help either. Nonchalantly raising the pistol to eye level, Elena barely had time to shout before two of the men to her left were shot down.

“Three in the chamber!” Corvus said, springing into action.

Elena screamed a desperate warcry, unloading a torrent of lead their way. Accuracy may not be her strong suit, but the suppression fire was good enough to keep the enemy on their toes. The evasion led the stray bullet of the enemy off-course, hitting Elena in the knee instead of the head. Still fantastic aim on their part.

Gritting her teeth, Elena leaned against the cobble while continuing her mayhem, firing with impunity while Corvus chased the target through the maze of destruction. The grey colours the standard Nynx suit provided coupled with the morning shade gave the impostor camouflage enough to disappear into the rocks; their agility and quick wit matched that of the swordsman’s. Springing into the air, Corvus could find his target easier, but at the cost of exposing himself. It was then he was suddenly swept to the ground by a kick on his legs, he reacting swiftly with a roll against the dirt. He stood as fast as he could, but was immediately struck in the nose and then the chest, pushing him against the stones. These deadly-fast martial arts were impressive, but not something he hadn’t seen before. Corvus pushed himself off the surface, using his arms to block the physical onslaught as it came.

He had dropped his sword, and he knew he couldn’t retrieve it in time, so he opted instead to use his second set of weapons: his hands. He ducked, swerved and strafed to evade the blows, blocking incoming limbs as they assailed him. They were fast, but their strength was lacking. Judging by size, he could deduce that the person he fought was either young or a female. Nevertheless, the strikes that did land stung to the bone.

Corvus used an opening after blocking an arm to kick back at the attacker's torso with full force in a reckless attempt to get a fighting chance, pushing them against a slab of rock before ducking down to rip his sword from the mud. In that instant, the aggressor leapt forth, clasping their legs around his neck.

Corvus' vision blurred as his body spun in place, struggling to stand against the momentum. He was being ridden on. Knowing of their intentions, he slammed against their shoulder, pushing their gun away right as it fired. An uncanny feeling welled in his chest. Did that count as a miss?

Dropping onto his back, he spun the enemy beneath him, struggling against their strength to the best of his ability before feeling his knee slip from under him with a rapid kick. The two exchanged positions, with Corvus pressed against the grit. Even still, the angel grasped the shooter’s wrist, forbidding the gun to be aligned with his skin.

“That’s enough!” the last of the men said, pointing his rifle against the assailant's skull. Corvus felt a lack of resistance as they loosened their grip, giving him the chance to restrain them. However, with a quick duck and a thwack from an elbow, his grasp was robbed from him, but not before he slammed their pistol with his knuckles. It didn’t slip the weapon away, but it did release the holding mechanism, leaving the magazine to clutter awkwardly on the stone.

"One in the chamber!" Corvus shouted.