Corvis Eralith
The Dark Visor flared crimson, the targeting reticule snapping onto the blazing star descending from the azure void. Olfred Warend. White Core. Codename: Lance Balrog.
The designation pulsed like a drumbeat of doom against my retinas, superimposed over the jagged peaks of the Grand Mountains. My grip tightened on the Barbarossa's control levers, the cool metal biting into my palms even through the glovesf my uniform.
Luck? This felt like Fate itself spitting in my face.
"Romulos," I sent the thought, a desperate lifeline cast into the turbulent sea of my own mind. "Can we stand against a Lance?"
The Barbarossa thrummed around me, a symphony of latent power held in check, moving at a cautious, ground-eating pace designed to minimize its thunderous passage through the ancient pines. Berna loped alongside, a silent, powerful shadow, her green eyes flicking upwards, sensing the same celestial threat.
"With Berna?" Romulos's spectral form materialized, leaning insouciantly against the projected mana-flow display only I could see. "Possible. Marginally. Frankly, this is the perfect inaugural combat test for Barbarossa. Stop whining about Agrona's clutches and embrace the data stream."
His tone was dismissive, laced with that infuriating, eternal amusement. For him, this was win-win: Barbarossa tested, and me potentially delivered to his father—unless Epheotus intervened. A cold dread coiled in my stomach.
"Don't count on Grandfather," Romulos chimed in, reading my fear like an open book. "Windsom's promises are tissue paper. Kezess wouldn't waste resources on a flawed tool like you."
The brutal assessment landed like a physical blow. Tch. Was Windsom's vow of protection just another lie? The possibility felt chillingly real. If Epheotus wouldn't shield me… then survival hinged solely on this. On crimson steel, an ancient bear loyalty, and my power.
Defeating Olfred? It was insanity. Yet, the thought ignited a desperate, reckless spark. Proof. Proof that the path I walked—the runes, the sacrifices, the bargain with Romulos—could defy the continent's apex warriors. Olfred might be a 'weak' Lance, but a White Core was a sun compared to the candle of a Yellow one who was the strongest I have faced yet.
This crucible could forge my resolve or shatter me utterly.
"He's vectoring to intercept," Romulos observed, his voice cutting through the panic. On the Dark Visor, Olfred's magma platform adjusted, a burning comet arcing to cut off our path through a high mountain pass. Decision crystallized, cold and sharp. Fleeing was pointless against a flier. We stood our ground.
"Berna. Stop. We fight here." I projected the command, the Barbarossa grinding to a halt, crushing rock beneath its massive feet. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by the wind whistling over crimson armor and Berna's low, rumbling growl.
"We fight to kill." The words tasted like ash, but necessity stripped away mercy. Olfred wasn't like Tristan, a potential ally misled. He was Rahdeas's creature, a traitor cemented in his path. He wouldn't see the light. He couldn't be left alive.
My right hand, encased in one of the cockpit's controls, reached down. The Mana Wreath's hilt slid from its sheath with a smooth, metallic hiss. It felt alive in the Barbarossa's grasp, thrumming with the vast, contained power siphoned from Sylvia's core. Pure, volatile mana, yearning for release. No physical blade, only the promise of annihilating light when the situation demanded it.
"Stabbing him with concentrated destruction?" Romulos purred, genuine intrigue replacing his usual sarcasm. "Delicious. Let's hope the Lance provides more entertainment than last time. Watching General Aldir dismantle him was… underwhelming."
A fragmented memory surfaced—the mighty General Aldir effortlessly humbling the Lance. I shoved it aside. Irrelevant. Now.
Olfred descended like a fallen star, abandoning his magma platform. The earth groaned as he summoned a pillar of living stone beneath him, landing with the casual grace of absolute power. He stood atop it, a figure sculpted from mountain resolve, his gaze sweeping over the crimson behemoth and its ursine guardian. The air crackled with latent heat.
"Prince Eralith," his voice, calm and deep, carried effortlessly on the thin air. "Surrender would be preferable. I understand previous… overtures… were rebuffed." Diplomacy. A tool for the strong to patronize the weak.
Underestimate me. Please.
Answering with words felt like surrender. The Barbarossa's left arm snapped out. Servos whined, runes flared obsidian along the limb as immense fingers closed around the trunk of a centuries-old pine.
With a horrific crack that echoed through the pass, the tree was ripped from the earth, roots screaming. The Barbarossa pivoted, a titan being utilized as a thrower, and hurled the massive projectile straight at the stone pillar.
Olfred didn't flinch. The earth pillar simply sank, melting back into the mountainside like a sandcastle before the tide, letting the tree crash harmlessly past. He rose smoothly on a new pillar a dozen meters away.
"Prince Eralith." Calm. Patient. Condescending.
Perfect. Another tree followed the first, torn free and hurled with even greater force. Let him think me a brute, lashing out in panicked frustration.
"I see diplomacy is futile." Olfred sighed, the sound carrying genuine disappointment, perhaps even a flicker of pity. Then, his demeanor shifted. The calm solidified into glacial focus. He raised a hand, fingers splayed. The stone pillar beneath him detonated outwards, not into shrapnel, but into four searing, liquid forms that coalesced mid-air.
"Magma Knights." Olfred chanted.
They landed with heavy thuds, shaking the ground, instantly radiating blistering heat that warped the air. Molten rock sculpted into hulking warriors, each wielding weapons of solidified fire: a spear wreathed in smoke, a sword and shield glowing white-hot, a spiked mace dripping slag, a massive greatsword trailing embers. Their faceless helms turned towards the Barbarossa, radiating pure, destructive intent.
"Berna! Go on Olfred! Make him focus ONLY on you!" The command was a scream. My bear companion needed no further urging. A guttural roar ripped from her throat, primal and earth-shaking, as she launched herself across the rocky slope, a brown avalanche aimed at the White Core.
Olfred met her charge. Stone flowed up his arm, forming a massive, spiked gauntlet in the blink of an eye. Berna's claws, capable of rending steel, slammed into it.
CRACK-BOOM!
The impact wasn't just sound; it was a pressure wave that flattened nearby saplings. Rock shattered. Fire erupted where claw met enchanted stone. Berna held, muscles bunched like coiled steel cables, snarling inches from Olfred's impassive face. For the first time since I had known her, Berna met resistance she couldn't instantly overpower.
She strained, pushing with terrifying force, but Olfred stood rooted, the ground cracking beneath his boots, his white core aura blazing like a miniature sun. He was containing her, but barely. A stalemate forged in primal fury and disciplined power. Good. Keep him busy. Make him commit.
The Magma Knights advanced. Four pillars of living heat, their footfalls sizzling on the stone. I couldn't reveal the Mana Wreath yet. Not until Olfred was distracted, vulnerable and an easy prey. Barbarossa had to handle these without weapons.
The closest Knight, wielding the incandescent spear, lunged. I stomped. Not a casual step, but a channeled surge of power through the exoform's reinforced legs. Kinetic dispersion runes flared obsidian along the calf and foot. The ground didn't just shake; it heaved. A localized earthquake ripped outwards. The spear-wielder stumbled, its molten footing disrupted.
Seizing the moment, the Barbarossa's right arm shot out, not for a punch, but to snatch a nearby boulder larger than a man.
Servos screamed under the load. The arm cocked back and hurled the massive stone like a cannonball at the Knight bearing the sword and shield. The shield-bearer reacted instantly, stepping forward, its glowing buckler raised. The boulder smashed into it in an explosion of rock fragments and superheated steam. The shield held, but the Knight was driven back a step.
The momentary defense for its comrade gave the other Magma Knights time. The one with the greatsword charged the Barbarossa's flank, its burning blade raised for a cleaving blow. The mace-wielder scrambled towards the towering leg, aiming to cripple.
Too close. I couldn't afford damage. Not yet. The Barbarossa's left arm, free now, swung in a brutal, horizontal backhand. The black exoskeleton segments along the limb hummed, amplifying the force exponentially.
It connected not with a Magma Knight, but with the air itself, creating a devastating shockwave. The sheer concussive force slammed into the climbing mace-wielder and the charging greatsword Magma Knight. They were ripped off their feet, molten bodies sent tumbling backwards like discarded dolls, slag splattering across the rocks.
Good. But not enough. The spear Knight had recovered. It thrust its weapon, a lance of pure heat, towards the Barbarossa's head—towards the Dark Visor, towards me. Instinct screamed. I jerked the Barbarossa's massive frame backwards with every ounce of augmented strength the exoskeleton could provide.
The spear tip, radiating enough heat to melt steel, whistled past the crimson chest plate, missing by inches. The searing proximity sent phantom waves of heat washing over me inside the cockpit.
The violent retreat had an unintended consequence. The two Magma Knights I had swatted away were already clambering back up, undeterred. Worse, the shield-bearer, having weathered the boulder, advanced steadily with its sword-wielding partner.
They saw an opening. Like molten ants, they swarmed the Barbarossa's momentarily unbalanced right leg, clawing, hammering with their weapons. Alarms shrieked in the cockpit—localized stress fractures forming in the lower leg armor. The runic defenses flared, desperately dispersing the intense thermal and kinetic energy, but the assault was relentless.
The sheer heat radiating through the conduits made sweat pour down my face inside the sealed helmet.
I roared in frustration, channeling it through the exoform. The Barbarossa's right leg pistoned upwards in a brutal kick, dislodging one Knight in a shower of molten debris. The left arm swept down, fingers splayed, aiming to crush another. But they were agile for constructs of fire and stone. They scattered, regrouping instantly.
Focus! Olfred! I wrenched the Dark Visor's perspective. Olfred and Berna were a whirlwind of destruction. Berna was a relentless storm of claws, fangs, and earth-shaking swipes, forcing Olfred into constant, precise defense.
Stone shields bloomed and shattered under her onslaught. Geysers of magma erupted where Olfred retaliated, forcing Berna into evasive leaps that cracked the ground beneath her. He was fully engaged, his back momentarily turned to the Barbarossa, his focus consumed by the primal fury trying to tear him apart. His white core aura pulsed steadily, but Berna's assault was visibly taxing him. He hadn't summoned more Knights. He was busy.
NOW!
The Barbarossa's left arm, free from the immediate grapple, snapped towards the Magma Knight clinging stubbornly to its right thigh. Instead of crushing it, the massive fingers closed around its mace-wielding arm. Servos screamed. The Knight thrashed, molten rock spitting. With a surge of augmented strength, I wrenched the Knight free, holding the squirming, searing construct aloft like a grotesque trophy.
The Dark Visor locked onto Olfred. Coordinates fed to the Barbarossa's targeting systems. Calculations flashed—trajectory, velocity, wind shear (minimal at this altitude). Every ounce of power from the exoskeleton poured into the throw.
The Barbarossa pivoted, a colossal discus thrower once more, and hurled the Magma Knight like a meteor straight at Olfred's exposed back.
Olfred sensed it. A fraction of a second before impact, his head snapped around. His eyes, usually calm, widened a fraction. Not fear, but sharp surprise. His free hand flicked out.
The Magma Knight, mere feet from smashing into him, simply… dissolved. Not shattered, not deflected. Its form lost cohesion, the molten rock flowing apart like sand in an hourglass, scattering harmlessly as hot ash in the wind before it could touch him.
Mastery over earth and magma, absolute.
But that fraction of a second, that flicker of diverted attention, was all Berna needed. A guttural roar of triumph. Her massive paw, claws extended like obsidian daggers, slammed into Olfred's chest with the force of a landslide.
CRUNCH!
The sound was sickening. Olfred's conjured stone breastplate, reinforced with white core mana, splintered. Shards of superheated rock exploded outwards. Olfred grunted, a sound punched from his lungs, and was sent skidding backwards across the rocky slope, boots carving deep gouges, his aura flickering violently. Berna pressed the advantage, a brown blur of fury closing the distance.
Not enough. The stone armor had absorbed the worst. Olfred was staggered, not broken. He raised his hands, palms facing the charging bear. The mountain itself seemed to groan in response.
"NOW, CORVIS!" Romulos's voice was a whip-crack in my mind, devoid of mockery, filled only with predatory anticipation and sadistic anticipation.
I didn't hesitate. The moment Olfred focused on stemming Berna's renewed assault, his back once more partially turned, his power channeled into defense, was the moment. The Barbarossa's right arm snapped up. The Mana Wreath's hilt pointed straight at the struggling Lance.
No fanfare. No warning scream. Just the silent, deadly focus of Beyond the Meta feeding targeting data. A single thought triggered the release.
Ignition.
The world vanished in a blaze of silent, annihilating light.
From the intricate guard of the Mana Wreath, pure, condensed mana erupted. Not a beam, but a lance. A searing column of incandescent white energy, three meters thick and crackling with barely contained power, screamed across the distance between the Barbarossa and Olfred Warend.
It tore through the thin mountain air, leaving a trail of ionized ozone and warped reality. It wasn't fire; it was pure, focused destruction given form, the distilled fury of an Asura's core unleashed through advanced artifice.
Time seemed to slow, the only sound the high-pitched whine of the energy discharge vibrating through the Barbarossa's frame and the sudden, startled widening of Olfred's eyes as the killing light filled his world.
The scream tore through the mountain air, raw and agonized, cutting through the fading whine of the Mana Wreath's discharge. It wasn't just pain; it was the sound of a White Core Lance's invincibility shattering.
Olfred Warend writhed within a crater of superheated rock, the epicenter of the annihilating light that had consumed him. Through the Dark Visor, the image was seared into my retinas: his once-imposing white uniform charred and fused to blistered, crimson flesh. His face… barely recognizable beneath weeping burns and melted skin. The stench of ozone was abruptly overwhelmed by the nauseating, acrid reek of cooked meat and vaporized rock.
"What an aesthetically pleasing tableau," Romulos murmured, his spectral form leaning forward with rapt, unsettling fascination. "The symmetry of death… exquisite." His delight was a cold knife twisting in my gut.
But Olfred wasn't finished. Despite the horrific damage, the ragged, wet rasp of his breath confirmed life. White Core resilience. A guttural, pain-wracked roar ripped from his ruined throat. He slammed both hands, palms down, into the fractured earth beneath him. Not in surrender. In fury.
The mountain answered its master. The ground exploded around him. Not in a localized burst, but in a 360-degree cataclysm. Dozens—no, hundreds—of fist-sized rock projectiles erupted from the earth like shrapnel from a subterranean bomb.
They screamed through the air, a lethal, indiscriminate storm designed to shred anything within fifty meters. Cover. Annihilation. A dying Lance's final, desperate gambit.
Alarms shrieked inside the cockpit—proximity warnings painting the Dark Visor crimson. "BRACE!" The command ripped from my throat, as much for myself as for the machine. Instinct took over. Barbarossa's massive legs pistoned, servos shrieking as I forced the exoform into a deep, protective crouch.
The reinforced crimson carapace angled downwards, presenting the thickest armor plating to the incoming barrage. Obsidian runes flared along every joint and plane, humming with desperate power as they braced for impact. My left hand shot out, the exoskeleton-enhanced arm snatching a nearby boulder the size of a wagon wheel, hauling it up as a makeshift shield just as the first wave hit.
The sound was deafening. A hailstorm from hell. Projectiles hammered the Barbarossa's back and shoulders like frantic drumbeats of doom. Sparks flew where rock met enchanted metal. The cockpit shuddered violently, throwing me against the restraints.
The boulder in the exoform's grip vibrated with each impact, chunks flying off, disintegrating under the relentless assault. Cracks spiderwebbed across the Dark Visor. Beyond the Meta painted the chaos in stark greyscale—the sheer density of the rock swarm was overwhelming the runic dispersion, localized stress fractures blooming like dark flowers across the tactical display.
Beside me, Berna reacted with primal instinct. A massive paw slammed down, earth magic surging. The ground beneath her opened, swallowing her immense form whole in a heartbeat, sealing over just as the deadly rain reached her position. Safe. For now.
Inside the sealed cockpit, another sound pierced the cacophony of impacts: a rising, piercing whine. High-pitched, insistent. The Mana Wreath's sheath. Sylvia's core, vast and deep, had already replenished the devastating energy spent. Fully charged. Ready.
"Why does that infernal device sound like a scalded banshee?" Romulos yelled over the mental din, his voice laced with annoyance rather than fear.
"Psychological warfare!" I shouted back, the words raw. The whine vibrated through the controls, setting my teeth on edge. "Loud, repetitive, unnatural sounds—they bypass reason. Instill primal fear. Disrupt focus!" It was cold, calculated cruelty. A weapon of the mind as much as of mana.
"Oh! Delightfully vicious!" Romulos actually clapped, a soundless gesture filled with perverse glee. "I must remember that. Efficiency layered with artistry!"
Sick bastard. The thought was a venomous hiss. Your admiration is vomit. I didn't want his twisted praise. Every compliment felt like another stain on my soul.
The boulder shield was nearly gone, whittled down to a fractured remnant. Through the cracks and the swirling dust, I saw Olfred. Still kneeling, hands buried deep, pouring his agony and dwindling core into the relentless barrage.
His scream was continuous now, a horrifying counterpoint to the shriek of the Mana Wreath and the hammering rocks—the sound of a man burning alive from the inside while fighting to the last.
End it.
The Mana Wreath's hilt snapped up. Beyond the Meta fed coordinates to my mind, compensating for the Barbarossa's crouch, for the trajectory of the rocks. Not a wide beam this time. Precision. A focused lance of pure annihilation, concentrated into a searing white-hot rod barely wider than my arm. I triggered the ignition.
The high-pitched whine peaked into a scream that drowned even the rock impacts. The concentrated beam lanced out, silent death amidst the chaos. Where it touched the screaming projectiles, they didn't just shatter; they vaporized in puffs of superheated dust and molten slag.
It was like wielding a white-hot poker through a swarm of angry hornets. The beam carved a searing path of negation through the storm, melting a corridor directly towards the source.
I pushed the Barbarossa forward. Step by heavy, shuddering step, the massive frame inching out of its defensive crouch, advancing behind the spear of pure mana. Each step brought me closer to the epicenter of Olfred's pain.
His screams grew louder, more desperate, echoing the Mana Wreath's own mechanical shriek. He wasn't just defending anymore; he was howling his defiance, his agony, his refusal to die easily, pouring the dregs of his White Core into a spell that was consuming him as surely as my beam consumed his rocks.
The smell of ozone was gone, replaced entirely by the stench of scorched earth, molten stone, and the horrifying, sweet-metallic tang of cooked human flesh. The crucible wasn't just testing the Barbarossa anymore.
It was testing the very limits of what horror I could endure to survive.