He wore a streamlined, silver-grey light combat armor. A semi-covering wind mask hid his face, revealing only a pair of indifferent grey eyes. No sword on his back; instead, three cyan wind blades, like liquid storms, floated behind him, cutting the air with a low, humming frequency.
He looked down at the ruins, at the Wolf King nailed to the ground, as if looking at trash.
"This is the Wolf King of the North?"
The "Skywalker" spoke. He didn't use an amplifier, but his voice drilled clearly into everyone's cochlear nerve through the air pressure difference.
"Forced into this state by a bunch of mud-grubbing monkeys. Truly a disgrace to the Ancient Blood."
He lifted a finger gently.
And beckoned.
The sound of metal screaming in agony pierced the silence.
Immediately after, a cyan whirlwind generated from thin air, gently but irresistibly wrapping around the dying Ironfang.
Ironfang's broken body was lifted by the vortex, slowly ascending, floating towards the Thunderbird.
"Put him down!"
Zayla, perhaps out of trampled warrior dignity, found the courage. Gritting her teeth, she tried to stand. "He is our prey! We won!"
The Skywalker's grey eyes shifted down, looking at Zayla with utter indifference.
He simply gave a casual, dismissive flick of his hand.
Three deep, parallel gouges instantly tore through the solid rock beside Zayla, as if slashed by an invisible giant's claws. If she hadn't instinctively thrown herself backward, that casual wave would have diced her into three neat pieces.
That wasn't magic.
That was air compressed to the extreme limit, acting as a guillotine.
"Prey?"
The Skywalker scoffed, the air around him vibrating with his amusement.
"Only the strong are qualified to discuss prey. And you..."
I felt his gaze sweep the field, over the shivering Bears, the critically injured Brad, and finally stopping on me, covered in blood.
"You are just bugs with slightly better luck."
Ironfang's body had floated to the Thunderbird's back.
The Skywalker didn't even look at the former Wolf King, dumping him at his feet like trash.
"Garza's life belongs to the Storm Clan. He failed the Queen's mission. I am taking him back."
"As for you..."
The man looked at me.
"Interesting toy. But just a toy."
The Thunderbird let out a cry that felt like a drill piercing through eardrums.
Wings beat once.
A massive wall of air pressure descended from the sky. It wasn't wind; it was a physical hammer of air. It slammed into the ground, knocking the air from my lungs and sending everyone stumbling like bowling pins.
When we opened our eyes again.
The silver figure had become a black dot on the horizon, disappearing above the heavy clouds.
"Count your blessings, ants."
The distant voice arrived, carried by the wind.
"The Storm is in a good mood today, no interest in stepping on you."
The ruins returned to a deathly silence.
This time, it was truly over.
There were no cheers. No celebrations. Every survivor simply stared blankly at the sky.
My legs gave out, and I collapsed into the pile of rubble.
“Is this... what the world above looks like?”
Brad was slumped nearby, his shield sliding from his grip. The quarterback who had always been fearless now wore a look of childlike bewilderment. “Man, we just... we almost got killed just because that bird decided to exhale.”
I didn't answer.
I gulped down the freezing air, trying to force my heart to stop hammering against my ribs.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The oppression was too visceral.
That wasn't a gap in numbers.
That was a gap in dimension.
“Alex...” Zayla approached. Her face was pale, the usual fire in her eyes extinguished. “Did we... actually win?”
She gazed at the empty sky, her voice bitter. “If they come back, how do we fight them? With swords? By throwing rocks?”
I remained silent for a long time.
“We didn't win.”
I finally spoke, my voice raspy with exhaustion. I adjusted my cracked glasses, my fingers still trembling slightly.
“We just got lucky. That was a well-fed eagle, too lazy to bother with the ants on the ground.”
I struggled to my feet, my posture hunched and weary.
Watching the colossal shadow of the Storm Clan vanish into the clouds, I felt a bone-piercing chill.
The smooth sailing of the past few weeks had given me a laughable delusion. I thought a little modern civil engineering was enough to deliver a “dimensional strike” on this savage world. I thought that with cement and levers, I could rule it all.
But what I just saw was a brutal wake-up call.
That Storm Clan member didn't even flap its wings. It just hovered there, defying every law of physics.
There is magic here. Transcendental beings. Entities that can grind Newton’s laws into dust.
Before creatures that don't even have to obey gravity, my proud stone walls are nothing but a toddler's building blocks.
Just then, a blinding light exploded across my retina.
The progress bar that had been stuck at 99% for so long finally broke through the critical point under the pressure of despair.
My gaze pierced through the chaotic data streams, fixing on the core of the new interface.
It was no longer crude hammers and trowels. It was filled with the raw power of pulley systems, heavy winches, massive pistons, and—the beating heart of industry—the Steam Power Prototype.
In this moment, I felt no ecstasy from unlocking new technology. Instead, I felt a heavy, crushing weight.
Because I knew the System didn't give me these tools to conquer the world. It gave them to me because... if I didn't build these monsters, I wouldn't even qualify to survive.
“My Lord?”
A raspy voice broke in from the side. I turned to see Sarak. Her green skin was so caked in grey dust she looked like a walking statue. Her left arm was bound in a stiff, oily splint.
"Sarak? I watched that tower turn into a grave. How did you get out?"
"Goblins don't die in falling stone, Boss," she spat out a mouthful of grit, a weary but sharp glint in her eyes. "I dove into the main ventilation shaft and dug like a demon through the loose rubble before the secondary collapse could crush the air out of me."
She winced as she shifted her weight. "Took me three days to claw my way back to the surface. My nails are ruined, but I’m here."
She looked at the leveled ruins of Zone C, then up at me. “So... do we keep raising the walls?”
“No, Sarak. Height alone won't save us.”
My gaze swept over the fragile camp beneath my feet, my eyes holding a heaviness and cold resolve they never had before.
“It seems we need to take a much bigger step.”
I pointed to the newly unlocked blueprints, my voice low and grim:
“The old fortress is gone. We are going to build a new city... stronger, grander, and one that would break the teeth of a God.”
The gap between Tier 1 (Stone/Iron) and Tier 4 (High Magic) isn't just a number; it's the difference between a caveman and an airstrike. Alex has realized that staying on the ground means death.
Question of the Day: The Skywalkers have claimed dominion. What is Alex's biggest disadvantage right now?
(Click to analyze the tactical gap)
?? A) Lack of Mana (Magic).
Result: The Wizard's Crutch. Sure, throwing fireballs is nice. But Alex doesn't want to cast spells; he wants to automate them. Mana is just fuel he hasn't figured out how to burn efficiently yet.
?? B) Outdated Tech (Need Steam/Electricity).
Result: Civilization Lag. We are essentially bringing a sharp stick to a drone fight. While they are flying, we are still figuring out how to make a boiler that doesn't explode. Priority: Speedrun Industrialization.
?? C) No Anti-Air capability.
Result: The Z-Axis Problem. Critical Weakness. You can have the strongest wall in the world, but it means nothing if the enemy can just fly over it and poop magic on your head. New Blueprint Unlocked: Flak Cannons.
Follow and Rate. The Wolf War is over, but the Industrial Revolution is just beginning.