Sarak’s shriek echoed through the cramped cabin, only to be swallowed instantly by the grinding roar of treads over bedrock. I didn't give him a second of my attention. I had strapped myself into the exposed, makeshift gunner’s seat, letting the biting wind and coal soot lash against my goggles. Beneath me, this twenty-ton iron rhino—the Land Crawler Mk.I —was hurtling across the jagged barrens at a velocity that violated every design parameter of its suspension.
“Faster, Brad!” I roared into the throat mic, my voice shattered by the violent vibrations. “Shift into high gear!”
“The pedal is through the floorboard, Boss!” Brad’s muffled shout came from the cockpit. The massive machine smashed through obsidian brush and boulders, plowing a path where none existed through sheer Momentum.
I was shaking. Not from the cold, and not from the jarring impacts. It was fear. That damn signal had been dead for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes is enough time for a light infantry squad to die a hundred times over. My mind replayed that final thunderclap and Zayla’s desperate command to scatter on a loop.
Don't be dead. Please, don't be dead.
“We’re here! Ridge at Sector 7!” Brad’s shout snapped me back to the HUD.
Rumble—SLAM!
The Land Crawler Mk.I crested a steep embankment. For half a second, the entire vehicle was airborne before slamming back into the dirt. The impact nearly displaced my internal organs; I bit my tongue, tasting the metallic tang of blood. As we leveled out, the valley opened up before us, and I finally saw the full extent of the Storm Clan’s "divine wrath."
My blood froze, then boiled. It was dawn, but the valley floor was blinding. The earth was a scorched purgatory of smoldering craters and shattered pines. In the center of that blackened earth sat a half-collapsed cave entrance. A swarm of winged scavengers were scurrying around it like ants, trying to claw through the rubble.
And there, standing before the cave mouth, was a small, solitary figure leaning against the rock. A flickering candle in a hurricane. Zayla. She was alive, but barely. Through the high-mag zoom of my tactical goggles, I saw her hands—she was holding two MK-1 grenades to her chest, thumbs locked on the pins. Mutually assured destruction.
Above her, hovering at five hundred meters, were the executioners. Five massive Thunderbirds were banked in a dive formation, the lightning-stones in their talons flickering with lethal blue light. Higher still, a figure in silver robes held a staff, looking down at her like an insect meant to be crushed.
They were moving in for the kill.
“GO TO HELL!”
The scream bypassed my brain and erupted from my chest. I didn't wait for the vehicle to stabilize. I gripped the twin control yokes, my boots slamming the hydraulic pedals to the floor.
Zzzzt—CLACK!
The Twin-Mount 30mm Steam Autocannon, welded to the roof and still smelling of fresh primer, shrieked as the gears engaged. The barrels swung upward, tracking the sky. The System UI flared across my retinas.
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To hell with the warnings. In that moment, my rage was the only guidance system I needed.
“Get the hell... DOWN!”
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!
The world went quiet because the 600 RPM roar of the metal storm drowned out everything else. It was a heart-stopping vibration; every discharge felt like a sledgehammer hitting my sternum. The dual barrels cycled with mechanical ferocity, spitting meter-long tongues of orange muzzle flame.
The 30mm tungsten-core high-explosive slugs were the size of beer bottles. They were ripped from the belt, accelerated to a Muzzle Velocity of 960 m/s, and sent screaming through the dawn air in a straight, violent line of light.
The Thunderbirds never saw it coming. They were used to the slow flight of arrows and the visible glow of spells. They had no concept of an industrial reaper that strikes the moment the flash is seen.
Pfft—BOOM!
The lead Thunderbird didn't even have time to screech. Three rounds impacted its chest in a microsecond. The first shattered its magical barrier. The second bored into its sternum. The third detonated inside its thoracic cavity. The ten-meter wingspan beast disintegrated in mid-air, turning into a cloud of red mist, bone shards, and charred feathers.
Then the second. Its wing was sheared clean off by a lucky burst. The massive body lost all Aerodynamic Stability, spinning like a broken top before slamming into the earth and becoming a wet smear of meat.
“What?!” The silver-robed mage finally reacted, his arms waving in a frantic attempt to gain altitude.
“Too late,” I snarled, my eyes bloodshot. I fought the bucking yokes, tracking the remaining shadows. The tracer fire was a burning net thrown across the sky. The third bird was gut-shot, trailing black smoke as it spiraled into the trees. The fourth took a direct hit to the skull, exploding like a dropped melon.
Five seconds. No chanting. No magic circles. Just Kinetic Energy, Chemical Combustion, and raw Kill Efficiency.
The cannons fell silent. Not because I was finished, but because the first ammo box was empty. The firing pin clicked onto an empty chamber. Scorched brass casings fell like a waterfall onto the roof of the truck, emitting sharp, acrid white smoke. The battlefield fell into a tomb-like silence, save for the hiss of coolant dripping onto the red-hot barrels.
I gasped for air, drenched in sweat, my hands numb from the recoil. I looked down through the dissipating haze at the small figure by the rock. Zayla was still holding the grenades, her eyes fixed on the sky. Specifically, she was staring at the rain of red feathers drifting down like snow. Her jaw was tight, and her golden eyes were wide with a blank, absolute shock.
She saw it. She finally saw the world I’d been talking about. A world that didn't need gods—only steel and gunpowder to grind the "Lords of the Sky" into the dirt.
“Brad!” I shouted into the mic, my voice like sandpaper. “Don't stop! Ram them! Flatten those bastards on the ground!”
“With pleasure, Boss!!!” Brad’s roar was pure, unadulterated joy.
The Land Crawler Mk.I lurched forward, its treads churning up the bloody earth as we bore down on the stunned ground troops. The hunters had officially become the prey.
Question of the Day: The Silver-Robed Mage is still airborne and preparing a high-tier spell. How should Alex finish him off?
?? A) Reload and Burst: Classic AA fire.
It's reliable, but the barrels are overheating. High risk of a jam or a cook-off.
?? B) The Harpoon Shot: Drag him out of the sky.
Use the winch and the pneumatic harpoon. If it connects, the Land Crawler's mass will pull him down like a hooked fish.
?? C) Sniper Assist: Let Zayla take the shot.
The Engineer's Choice. Hand her a prototype high-velocity rifle and let her reclaim her pride with a bullet to the mage's head.
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