The hovertrain carved through the dawn like a silver arrow, its aura rails painting ribbons of light across the waking sky. Inside, the world compressed into a capsule of grief and adrenaline, where time seemed to fold in on itself, mixing past and present into a bitter cocktail of memories.
Tenza pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching the landscape blur into streaks of light and shadow. Her mind kept replaying that moment—not just today's, but that other day, sixteen years ago, when Bairon had only one choice: sacrifice. The parallels were too cruel, too perfect: both times, a heist gone wrong; both times, someone staying behind so others could live. History didn't just rhyme—it plagued.
"They're gaining on us," Mefisto called from the conductor's booth, his fingers dancing across the aura interface, coaxing more speed from the ancient technology. The train responded with a deep harmonic hum that vibrated through their bones. "Those robots weren't in the game catalog last week—someone's been busy."
Through tears she refused to let fall, Tenza caught glimpses of their pursuers: twisted amalgamations of flesh and machine, wings beating against physics itself, their riders hidden behind masks that gleamed with the sole purpose of catching them. The monstrosities' screams echoed across the valley, a chorus of unnatural hunger.
"That masculine urge to have a final stand..." Woomilla's voice cracked as she pressed her hand against her face, a bitter laugh mixing with what might have been a sob. "Why do they always have to prove something? Why couldn't he just—" She couldn't finish, but everyone knew. Why couldn't he just stay alive? Why did pride and duty always win over self-preservation?
Pinchitavo moved between them, his presence solid as a wall, even if he was trembling inside. He placed a gentle hand on Woomilla's shoulder, his voice calm yet firm. "Our parents didn't raise chickens, Milla. They raised brave children. And I don't know anyone fiercer than my dear sister."
Woomilla turned toward him, her tears catching the faint glow of the hovertrain's emergency lights. For a moment, she thought she caught a flicker of something in his eyes—fear, deep and unrelenting. He wasn't just afraid; he was terrified. But he was choosing to rise above it, to let it mold him into something stronger instead of letting it drown him. Her trembling slowed as she held his gaze, her own courage kindling in the reflection of his resolve.
"He made his choice," Pinchitavo continued, looking between them now. "Like Mefisto's making choices right now to keep us alive. Like we all need to make choices in the next few minutes."
The train pitched suddenly, and through the windows, they could see one of the mechanical horrors diving alongside them, close enough to count the rivets in its steel-feathered wings. Mefisto's hands flew across the controls, and the world tilted as they took a curve at speeds the game's physics engine barely seemed able to calculate.
"Tavo," Mefisto called back, never taking his eyes off the track ahead, "I need you in the middle car. We're about to join Tamalito and Marcus." He didn't add what they all knew: that they would have to deceive the invaders with the wyverns while Mefisto stayed behind.
Pinchitavo stood, legs steady despite the train's violent swaying, his resolve the solid anchor for the others. He prepared his Kraftaja as an autospell; if his DRD failed, his magic would allow him to continue. The past may be a weight, yes, but it may also be armor. Tenza had survived loss before. She had learned from it. And maybe, just maybe, that's what both Bairon and Firelez had been trying to teach her all along—that survival wasn't just about running away but about aiming to that far goal at the edge of the universe.
The universe might be indifferent to their pain, their love, their losses. But they weren't indifferent to each other. And sometimes, that had to be enough.
Behind them, the wyverns screamed their challenge into the dawn, and the hovertrain's engines sang back their defiance.
The compass spun wildly in her gauntlet, its needle catching starlight that shouldn't exist inside the train. Tenza's grief-stricken thoughts scattered like startled birds as the Streagrian AI's voice emerged from the depths of her mind—not speaking, but weaving itself through her consciousness like threads of silver through dark water.
"Your memories can offer more than just pain…"
The words barely registered before the visions began, not replacing reality but layering over it, like transparent films of time pressed against her eyes. The hovertrain's velocity became a distant sensation, the pursuit fading to background noise as ancient, cosmic history demanded witness.
First came a young warrior, his wings not the mechanical constructs she knew from game lore, but living light that seemed to fold space itself around him. His eyes held fear, but it was a fear that looked beyond itself, beyond the moment, beyond the war he was losing. "I sacrificed my youth for you and your people, to protect something we will never know, Tianyu Star." The truth in his voice cut deeper than any blade of memory.
The scenes cascaded, each one striking against her heart like waves against a shoreline she hadn't known existed within her. An old Streagrian stood proud in a galactic council chamber as judgment rained down upon him, declaring his people's choice to champion the "lesser races." Then another, condemned yet defiant, erased universal star maps to protect future generations he would never meet.
But it was the family that broke something loose inside her—the mother's words carrying fierce love and determination: "We all decided that it will be our kind, not yours." In that moment, Tenza understood what the AI was showing her: sacrifice wasn't an end, but a beginning. Every death that haunted her—Bairon in that failed heist, Firelez just moments ago—they weren't just endings written in blood and regret. They were choices, links in a chain that stretched across galaxies and millennia, each one a declaration that some things were worth dying for because they were worth living for first.
The compass spun faster, and the AI's voice carried an urgency that vibrated through her very bones:
"Choose to rebel against your destiny, Tianyu Star. Rise, daughter of the yellow sun."
The plea echoed like a song, simple yet infinite: "Don't let their sacrifice be forgotten."
The visions faded, reality reasserting itself with the screech of pursuing wyverns and the hum of aura rails, but Tenza's tears refused to fall. Her memories of Bairon, of Firelez, transformed from wounds into weapons, from anchors into wings. They had chosen. Just as the Streagrians had chosen. Just as she could choose.
She stood and ran toward the middle car, her movements no longer weighted by grief but propelled by something older than her pain, older than even the ancient race whose AI now watched through her eyes. The universe might be vast and indifferent, but it was filled with beings who had refused that indifference, who had carved meaning from the void through their choices, their sacrifices, their love.
"Tavo," she called to the front, her voice a little steadier now, "keep the lock open. Woomilla—" They opened the lock with hands that still shook, "—let's show these pursuers what it means to stand against people who have something worth fighting for."
The compass finally settled, pointing not north or south, but toward a future that countless souls across time had died to protect. And for the first time since Bairon's death, Tenza felt something beyond grief or fear or duty: she felt meaning. Purpose. Not one dictated by fate, but by those who had dared to rebel against the universe's indifference.
The screech of the wyverns grew louder, their shadows flickering across the walls of the train like harbingers of doom. Tamalito and Marcus' cars joined the hovertrain, and Tenza smiled—not the ghost of a smile from before, but something fierce and free.
The wyverns were still coming, but now they weren't just running from them. Now, they were running toward something larger than themselves, carrying forward a torch that had been passed down through galaxies and generations.
"See you on the other side, Mef," Tavo said through the quantum comms and closed the door behind them.
A global announcement invaded every player interface in the game like a digital plague, impossible to ignore or escape. The gilded hall where Chulo stood was a mockery of their struggle—crystal chandeliers casting their cold light on marble floors, while the Latin American server struggled with basic maintenance and declining player counts. The North American pros, commanded by Akkan himself, flanked him like conquering kings, their avatars adorned with cosmetics that cost more than most Latin American players earned in a year.
When Chulo smiled, it wasn't the grin they remembered from countless tournaments, the one that had given hope to every kid grinding away on pirated DRDs. This was something else—a stranger's smile, polished and perfected like everything else in that golden hall. His words fell like poison into the server's heart.
"Latin America has always been second-tier—our server, our players, our dreams. The North American server offered me something Latin America never could: a chance to fight with the best, to truly matter."
Inside the hovertrain, the announcement projected itself onto every available surface, the game's UI refusing to let them miss this moment of collective trauma. Mefisto's hands tightened on the controls until his knuckles went white, the train's speed fluctuating with his rage. "Of course he runs when we need him most," he spat, but his voice carried something beyond anger—a recognition of something terrible in this betrayal.
The chat feeds erupted like digital geysers, spewing fury and grief in every language the server hosted. But beneath the immediate reactions, something deeper and more horrifying began to take shape. It wasn't just that their current champion had abandoned them—it was the void he left behind, a darkness that seemed to peer back at them with ancient and hungry eyes.
The server merge loomed now like a cosmic horror, an incomprehensible entity waiting to devour their digital world. Without Chulo, without Firelez, the Latin American server was like a ship with no captain facing a storm of impossible proportions. Each tick of the game's clock seemed to echo with the footsteps of approaching doom.
Tenza watched the chat scroll past, catching fragments of despair:
"First Firelez, now this?"
"We're finished."
"The merge will destroy everything now."
"He was supposed to step up for us, not leave us hanging..."
The betrayal took on a life of its own, a shapeless thing that crawled through the server's code like a virus, infecting every interaction, every conversation, every fight. It whispered of inadequacy, of inevitable defeat, of futures foreclosed. In its shadow, the server's population numbers began to drop—first a trickle, then a stream, as players logged out, unable to face this new reality.
But in that moment of collective darkness, something else stirred. The hovertrain's engines hummed a defiant note against the despair. Woomilla straightened up raiding her wyvern, her eyes reflecting not just the pain of betrayal but something harder, something forged in the furnace of abandonment.
"Let him go," she said, her voice cutting through the digital chaos. "Let him run to his golden cage. We're still here. We're still fighting."
Mefisto nodded, his bitter mutter transforming into a laugh that carried more threat than humor. "They think we need champions to matter? They think we need their approval to exist?" His hands steadied on the controls, and the train's speed stabilized, cutting through the night with renewed purpose. "Let's show them what second-tier players can do."
The announcement continued to play, Chulo's smug face hovering in their peripheral vision like a ghost, but now it felt less like an ending and more like a challenge. The cosmic horror of the server merge still approached, but now it would face players who had nothing left to lose, who had been forged in the fires of abandonment and betrayal.
In the distance, the wyverns' screams took on a new meaning—no longer just the sound of pursuit, but the herald of a coming storm. The Latin American server might have lost its last champion, but in that loss, something else was being born: a fury that could reshape worlds, a defiance that could rewrite destinies.
The game's UI finally allowed the announcement to fade, but its effects lingered like radiation, changing everything it touched. The team exchanged glances, each understanding without words that their heist had just transformed into something larger than themselves. They weren't just stealing, running anymore—they were carrying the hopes of an entire server that refused to die quietly.
Marcus checked his ride with methodical precision. "Think those North American pros have ever fought someone with nothing left to lose?"
The question hung in the air like a promise, or perhaps a prophecy. Behind them, the wyverns drew closer, their mechanical wings cutting through the dawn. But now, somehow, they seemed less threatening than the future that awaited—a future they would have to forge without champions, without heroes, with nothing but their own desperate determination to prove that they mattered, that they had always mattered, regardless of what server they called home.
The global announcement finally faded, but its weight lingered in the air, pressing down like an invisible hand. Inside the hovertrain, Tenza felt every muscle in her body tense as she watched Chulo's gilded betrayal play out across the team's shared interface. The crystal chandeliers and polished marble floors of the North American server felt like a slap in the face to everything their own had endured.
Woomilla grabbed Tavo harder. "Let him go," she said finally, her voice low but firm. "Let him rot in his golden cage."
The wyverns screamed their defiance into the dawn as they soared into formation. Nezahualcoyotl and Tupac took command of their wyverns effortlessly, their massive wings carving through the air like ancestral warriors leading the charge. Without words, the riders and their mounts moved as one, each shift and dive reflecting an unspoken connection forged over respect to these ancient figures.
But Tenza and Pinchitavo struggled to match their pace. Tenza's hands trembled as she gripped the reins, her wyvern bucking under her in a rebellion that mirrored her own doubts. The compass in her gauntlet spun again, its needle dancing erratically, as if mocking her hesitation.
"Tenza!" Pinchitavo's voice broke through her panic. His own wyvern moved awkwardly, its flight path jagged and unsteady, but he pushed it forward with sheer will. "They're watching us. Don't let them see fear."
Tenza gritted her teeth, steadying her hands. "I'm not afraid."
"You're lying," Pinchitavo said, his voice sharp but kind. "So am I. But fear doesn't matter. What we do next does."
Ahead, Tamalito glanced back, his face set in grim determination. "Focus! Keep your formations tight. They'll be on us any second now."
The wyverns broke through the morning mist, their silhouettes casting long shadows over the fractured earth below. In the distance, the screech of pursuing invaders grew louder, mechanical wings slicing through the air like scythes.
Woomilla's voice cracked through the comms. "We've got this. They think we're carrying the techcrystals. They'll come for us, we just need to reach the city…" She pulled her wyvern into a sharp dive, its wings folding like a predator preparing to strike. "…The players are waiting for us."
Mefisto's voice followed, steady and sure. "Good luck, team. I'll keep the hovertrain running. See you on the other side."
As the invaders closed in, the wyverns screamed again, their mechanical voices merging with the roar of the hovertrain disappearing into the distance.
Above them, the sky began to brighten, the first rays of sunlight piercing the darkness. The Latin American server had no champions now, no heroes left to lead them. But they had each other. And for now, that was more than enough.
The ravine opened before them like a wound in the earth, its jagged edges reflecting the skeletal remains of mining equipment long forgotten. Tupac banked his wyvern hard into the chasm, the beast's wings groaning under the strain of his maneuvers, closely followed by the others. Unlike their pursuers' sleek, modified mounts, these wyverns were a patchwork creation—their mods were already screaming for mercy.
"Milla, the rifle!" Pinchitavo shouted, his voice cutting through the wind's howl. "We need to buy them time!"
Woomilla's hands shook as she gave the reins to Tavo and raised the unfamiliar energy rifle, its weight and interface foreign in her grasp. The targeting system's endless calculations—wind speed, power draw, elevation—flashed across her HUD in a dizzying array. She squeezed the trigger, and a bolt of blue-white energy sliced through the air, narrowly missing its mark.
Behind them, the pursuing wyverns surged closer, their mechanical screams blending with the rhythmic beating of synthetic wings. They were sleek predators, honed for efficiency and brutality, with smart-metal wings that adjusted mid-flight. Every movement reflected their superiority—these weren't just mounts; they were machines of war.
"I can't hit them!" Woomilla cried, her frustration teetering on panic. "The scope's off, and they're too fast!"
"Just keep firing!" Pinchitavo urged, his knuckles white on the reins. Their wyvern's left wing clipped the ravine wall, sending shudders through its frame. "We don't need to hit them; we just need to keep them guessing!"
The ravine narrowed, forcing everyone to thread through impossibly tight gaps. Marcus and Tupac's wyvern darted ahead first, its wings barely brushing the rocky walls, while their pursuers adjusted with ease. Woomilla fired again, her shot illuminating the canyon in stark flashes, but the invaders dodged effortlessly, their confidence unshaken.
"They're playing with us," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the chaos.
The ravine walls pressed closer, the path constricting as if the earth itself sought to trap them. One of the pursuers fired, a searing blast grazing their wyvern's right wing. The beast screamed—a sound that was neither fully organic nor mechanical—as molten slag dripped from its wounded frame.
"Tavo!" Marcus's voice cracked over the comms. "Get ready. The city's close."
In the distance, the city lights flickered like fallen stars—so tantalizingly near, yet still painfully out of reach. The wyvern's mods faltered, warning lights cascading across their HUD, each one a countdown to failure.
"Remember what Grandma used to say, Milla?" Pinchitavo called, his voice steady despite the chaos. "'Better to burn bright than fade away.'"
She understood instantly. "Wait, Tavo, I'm not—"
The pursuers closed in, their mounts extending razor-sharp talons. Time seemed to freeze as Pinchitavo yanked the controls, forcing their wyvern into an impossible maneuver. The beast's spine arched violently, its head snapping back in a motion that defied its design—a Pugachev's Cobra executed with desperate precision.
Their pursuers shot past, caught in their own momentum. For an instant, Woomilla saw their panicked reflections on the chrome wings, their confidence shattered. In that fleeting moment, Pinchitavo raised his free hand.
"Blixtraja!"
Lightning erupted, splitting the air with branches of purple-white fury. It wasn't just electricity—it was a storm born of defiance, each crackling arc a declaration of rebellion. The modified wyverns became unwilling lightning rods, their advanced systems faltering under the surge. Sparks danced along their frames as chaos rippled through their formation.
"Not bad for a move that is not in the manual, huh?" Pinchitavo muttered, his breath ragged as he wrestled their wounded mount forward. Woomilla's half-chuckle was laced with hysteria, but it carried a glimmer of hope.
The city loomed closer now, its lights a promise of sanctuary. But behind them, the invaders regrouped, their mounts recovering with alarming speed. The siblings had bought precious seconds, but the question remained: would their wyvern hold together long enough to reach safety?
The storm lingered in the air, tiny sparks tracing the edges of the ravine like echoes of Pinchitavo's defiance. As their mount surged forward, each beat of its failing wings carried them closer to the city—and to whatever awaited them beyond.