With his tower shield raised in defense of his comrades, he blocked the bone-crushing blow that would have devastated his formation. With grim determination, he grit his teeth as he knuckled down for what would come next. Two whips of water lashed at him, each wrapping around the shield and past his guard. A moment later, he found his legs cut out from under him as his pelvis and torso crashed onto the ground. However, with his shield held high, he showed some backbone as he refused to give up. A colossal tendril of water raised up above him, and with an eerie grin, he met its descent with his own shield. And then, darkness enveloped him.

  “You died.”

  With servos whining and pistons screaming, his pod opened as steam vented from coolant coils.

  “No way, man,” came the voice of one of his comrades. “Nelson manned all’a skeletons he was issued already. But woah, dude, look at that score.” The speaker gesticulated excitedly at the score panel for Pod 13-04-03-45. “9,874 points! That has to be a record for our cohort!”

  “That just goes to show that longevity in the pod is no substitute for actual contribution to the mission.” Nelson declared proudly as he lifted himself out of his pod. “Did you guys manage to deliver those elemental cores to our allies?”

  “Thanks to you holding the line, yes. Unfortunately, an over-eager hydra ate me when I offered it the water cores.”

  “Because you didn’t stay behind the black-and-yellow-striped lines?” Nelson asked?

  “Because I didn’t stay behind the black-and-yellow-striped lines,” his fellow legionary confirmed as he looked sheepishly at his own feet.

  The whole lot of them that had gathered around Nelson’s pod shared a laugh as they waited for their pods to cool down and recharge. Here in Bone Temple 13, the atmosphere became rather relaxed as the Bone Temple Pilots awaited their next skeletons to be linked to their respective pods. In the background, all manner of minions and underlings of their draconic hosts scurried to ensure the next sortie would depart on schedule.

  “Well done, Nelson,” came a familiar but rarely heard voice, or at least one rarely heard this close to them.

  With contained panic, all merrymaking ceased instantly as men and women moved into formation with practiced precision, if not the steely resolve that they normally employed.

  “Primus Pilus Francesca Brunelleschi, Ma’am!” Their centurion barked out with professional gusto. “Century III of Cohort IV of Legion XIII stands ready to obey!”

  48 of the 80 legionaries not currently in their pods stood at attention, with 20 logistia standing to the side in a loose formation (as non-combatants are wont to do).

  “At ease, Century III,” their Primus Pilus commanded. “Excellent work out there, as expected. I see some impressive scores up there,” she continued as her eyes flickered up to the scoreboards before focusing back at the puffed out chests and straight backs of the men and women before her. “However, one of you shall no longer be serving in this outstanding century.”

  The gathered legionaries shifted subtly with anxiety at her words. It never boded well when the brass talked to them directly.

  “45th Legionary, report!” Primus Pilus Francesca Brunelleschi commanded with practiced authority.

  The blood drained from his face as his ancestors prepared a place for him in the hereafter. His body remained stiff as his legs moved automatically to position his earthly vessel in front of the Primus Pilus, or the “First Spear” in Common. With her being the third in command for their whole legion, she was a big deal, and her attention was focused solely on him.

  “Your current score on this last sortie is impressive indeed. However, it does not appear to be a fluke. You have scored in the top 10% of the whole legion for three months straight. Your competency now places you under my command, effective immediately. Report to Century V within the hour. Dismissed.”

  Everything passed in a blur for Nelson. By virtue of him not being chewed out, he did salute and go through the other motions of decorum appropriately. Dazed by the news, he collected his equipment and personal effects as other legionaries in his century congratulated him. However, the part of his mind that could focus on anything dared to imagine his new and imminent future.

  Dinosaurs!

  Well, skeletons of dinosaurs, but they are far more coveted than humanoid skeletons. To pilot them would be a great honor, a boost in pay, and a boon to advancing his Blessing and military career. Technically his Blessing of [Legionnaire] is a Dual Blessing, and in this case, known as an Appointed Blessing, since it supersedes the Blessing he was born with, causing the former to stagnate. However, since he planned to stay in the legion until he retired, that minor setback hardly mattered, especially if he retired with full honors and was bestowed with a new Appointed Blessing appropriate for retirement.

  But that life would have to wait, for now he would be piloting for Century V of Cohort I! He almost certainly would get a triceratops, a centrosaurus, or another similar dinosaur that had a large, flat skull that could act as a shield and a ribcage that could act as a troop carrier. He only paused for a moment to consider that, for him to be promoted, someone else had to have created a vacancy due to unlikely retirement or much-more-likely death. In all probability, some jackass disabled the safety features of his own pod so that he could stay in the field longer and ended up cooking himself to death.

  Either way, he had achieved the first step of his dream of becoming a member of the Equites. Perhaps he would some day get to pilot one of the great predators in Century I, such as the T-Rex, but such ambitions would need to be tested by devotion and merit. Until then, he would continue his work in the relative safety of Bone Temple 13, home to Legion XIII of The Bone Wardens.

  “PROXICATORS, ADVANCE!”

  With the words of his voice and his Skill, [So Speaks The Thunder], Polemarch Kirov’s formation of [Proxicators] advanced. Also, the sonic boom of his voice absolutely shredded a few air elementals that were too close for their own good, which was part of the intent of his use of the Skill. Hailing from a different world with a different System, the format of his supernatural abilities was far different from all but those who had survived the exodus of his homeworld. However, it was far from lacking when it came to usefulness and a capacity for shaping the world to his image. Right now, his image was that of annihilation and his methods were those of unrestrained violence.

  Dozens of crixtali, each at least twice as tall as a man and with bodies made of gemstone and metal, advanced towards one of the largest Hills in the arena proper of the dungeon. [Fingers Of The Earth] created pillars of durable stone in a grid in front of them, each pillar being as thick as a crixtali is tall. With ethereal tendrils from their backs, they lashed onto these pillars to pull and push themselves forward in evasive patterns. Each and every one of them had mastered combat in three dimensions, and so few of them even took minor injuries in their approach.

  Before reaching the Hill, each summoned forth constructs of light that solidified in form, and through such proxies, they wreaked havoc amongst the elementals that contested the Hill and spawned from it. By all accounts, [Proxicators] filled the same role as the [Summoners] and [Conjurers] of the world of Gyldvir. All the while, the controllers of these summoned constructs offered support and suppressive fire with barrages of artillery magic. And with summoned constructs being expendable and replaceable, little concern was given to friendly fire.

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  All the while, Kirov’s articulation-matrix handled routine actions, such as throwing javelins of lightning from where he hovered in the air far above his kin and allies. Each arm had no opportunity for allowing his expertise to tarnish from lack of use, for he offered no respite to his enemies as bolt after bolt of lightning followed in the wake of his javelins.

  [So Lightning Strikes, So Devastation Follows] had become a staple of the [Lightning Warmage] Class. This world had provided no shortage of opportunities for growth, and while he had only been level 320 in that class when he arrived, he was now 389, which was impressive growth even in the best of times in his own world. In this world and environment, it was merely mediocre. As a [Great General], he was rarely afforded the opportunity to go all out, for his primary responsibility was to command, not to be a combatant.

  Still, there was something to be said about having your own race almost go extinct and fighting for the survival of your new home and allies. The added stress and the weight of everyone’s hopes and expectations upon one’s shoulders really increases the commensurate rewards. Yet, he would gladly trade all this growth for the return of his homeworld and his people. By all accounts, it never should have been he who had been made Polemarch.

  A part of his thought-matrix found itself distracted by reminiscing. In a world of vast empires and emperors that ruled over kings, being forged into a middling noble house was a moment that would not have even made it into the footnotes of history. In accordance with doctrine, he had been set on the path of war and command, and so his training had taken him to some of the finest military academies in the region, which sounds nice but ultimately pales compared to those in capital cities. His performance just barely ranked him in the top quarter of his class. Only luck and a mountain of favors that his family collected on had seen him posted to a relatively safe and promising position.

  He had been stationed at a Lesser Breach as the lowest rank of officer. Through hard work, diligence, and political maneuvering, he had quietly risen through the ranks to what this world would dub a “Colonel”, which was where his career had seemed destined to end. Most of his life had revolved around holding that Lesser Breach as the commander, and while it was a respectable posting, it certainly did not earn laurels and triumphs like those at Greater Breaches or the Prime Breach. Still, he had seen his fair share of The Devourers to know how to fight them and to see the more devious tactics that they used.

  One decade gave way to another, and after two centuries on his world, he had collected a host of allies and had built a family for himself. Life was good, and he found himself content to just ride it out until his animation-spark ran dry. Alas, such was not to happen.

  Even being present at the time of The Collapse and an officer of some rank, he still did not truly grasp the specifics of exactly how everything fell apart. Sure, he understood the broad strokes: The Devourers had lulled his world into complacency over the course of centuries and made a final and devastating push that worked spectacularly, all while undermining efforts of his own people on upkeep and maintenance of the Breach Holds.

  It had been an unglorified and undignified retreat from that point. The greatest of generals and heroes of his people fell like crystals before the pickaxe as The Devourers advanced. Those greater than he fought to buy time for an evacuation. None lived to see if their efforts had paid off. Only a pitiful handful of his world’s greatest people and cultural artifacts had survived the exodus. Only fortune beyond what he could have ever hoped for had found him in a mutually beneficial contract with a protector in this new world.

  Polemarch Kirov had fought for himself just to survive when things got grainy. He had fought for the crixtali or saurkin next to him when the enemy advance had been particularly successful and brutal. He had fought for the glory of his house and his empire. He had fought for the survival of his people when tragedy and circumstance had left him as the only individual even remotely close to being capable of being Polemarch.

  But now, now he fights for more than just any of that. Now he fights for The Emperor of the Crossroad Wayfinders, an individual who had the the crixtali and saurkin proverbially bent over the oil drum at the negotiation table, and, instead of having his way with them, he had chosen to forge a pact between them that was far more than merely fair. In all honesty, it was generous to the point of being suspicious.

  Polemarch Kirov had expected his people would live as refugees in something akin to internment camps, whether they be in name or in practice. He had not expected that his people would be granted sovereign land and gifted with infrastructure and resources to not just merely survive, but to thrive. The Emperor had seemingly moved heaven and earth to accommodate the crixtali and the saurkin, and it left a debt of gratitude that not even the rest of his projectedly long lifespan could ever repay.

  And now the imminent threat of The Devourers was all but gone, pending the success of this “raid” in this “dungeon”. Both were fascinating concepts in their own right, for his world did not have such concepts outside of fictional works based on accounts given by rare Worldwalkers that happened to pass by throughout history. Fighting just to survive had been a tax upon his people. Fighting with the prospect of valuable loot and riches was a delightful and novel concept by comparison that his people flocked to with zeal. To actually gain something rather than to merely stave off destruction was a boost to morale like no other. It would seem that the locals were of much the same opinion, for everyone was giving their all to this raid.

  There remained some debate amongst his own people and the elders as to how they should use their loot. The nature of scale and scope for what it could be remained abstract, for none knew for certain what to expect. The lesser raids had offered insights, but they had also been nothing like this raid. Most took the general stance of “wait and see” concerning distribution of loot.

  Polemarch Kirov already knew that he would offer his reward as tribute to his Emperor if the nature of it was such that it could be traded. The locals had all but slapped the hands of his crixtali when they went to claim the spoils for the lesser raids, not out of greed, but concern that whoever touches it first will be irrevocably bonded to it. Such is not without precedence, and so, certain levels of consideration and care would need to be taken to ensure that the people benefited as a whole. Individualism and collectivism were always in conflict over resources, and, given the circumstances, the crixtali were pressed by practical necessity to favor the latter.

  As such, giving his reward away as tribute could be seen as a blatant attempt to curry favor or as a waste of valuable resources. For many, it was beyond their means to not suspect a hidden motive, for the concept of gratitude for its own sake without an expectation of favor was both alien and detestable. Some would say that honor demands such tribute be made, and thus, no choice is to be had.

  But that is the thing. The Emperor rarely makes any demands of anyone. It almost seems like their Emperor’s fatal flaw is always being one step away from bankruptcy as he is too generous or lenient as if he has some strange aversion to taxation and tribute. If anything, the challenge would be in finding a way to offer tribute without bringing awkward shyness and embarrassment to the Emperor for such a lavish offering. If experience has taught him anything, Nanu is not the one to go to for advice on how to avoid such faux pas, as she certainly delights in watching their Emperor squirm.

  In truth, all the women that the Emperor surrounds himself with love to tease him at every turn. Perhaps that is a mating custom of this world. Polemarch Kirov does not know, for his kind does not have different sexes, romantic love, or biological reproduction. The small one, Bellwright Muddlespoon, had been more than happy to explain how such things work, but Polemarch Kirov had long since suspected that the little gnome’s perspective of such things was… unique, even amongst gnomes.

  Polemarch Kirov found the mortals of this world to be rather fascinating. However, considering his life so far and the duties imposed by it, the novelty of exploring other cultures has rarely been something that opportunity provided him with. When this raid ends, the immediate conflict will end. Most likely, petty squabbling and small skirmishes will ensue as old grudges resurface, but in a comparative sense, he may actually have some free time to devote to his own pursuits.

  While thinking about it, Kirov could not remember the last time he took a day to relax and indulge in his own desires. Duty had been unyielding in its demands to the point where he wondered if he even remembered how to relax. Perhaps he would have time to relearn that particular skill. Perhaps the locals would show him the ropes, even if a lot of it revolved around the same alcohol that the saurkin are fond of. Bellwright did seem rather fond of talking about this “pickled ball” as a form of sport, whatever that means, so perhaps it would be a good place to start.

  Rather suddenly and without announcement or fanfare that they were close to it, Phase 2 of the raid began, which pulled Polemarch Kirov from his musings. Four colossal elementals, one each of air, fire, earth, and water, appeared in the center of the arena, and each marched inexorably towards the exterior. He had a trommel-feeling that allowing these entities to reach the high road would be disastrous. With that in mind, he prepared to give orders to prevent such an outcome in accordance with their doctrines and the strategies devised just for such potential eventualities. These raids truly could be exciting, at least for Polemarch Kirov.