The words caught in Mordred’s throat.
- "Not now," he whispered hoarsely, deliberately avoiding Ygdrasyle’s penetrating gaze.
He could not bear this silent inquisition, the judgnt he read in his comrade-in-arms’ eyes. The weight of past decisions, of betrayals to co, all intertwined in an inextricable knot deep in his chest. In this mont suspended between two worlds, he no longer had the strength to explain the inexplicable, nor to justify the unjustifiable.
But the ti for explanations was torn away from him. A searing vibration suddenly coursed through their slave collars, a brutal wave that penetrated flesh and bone, traveling up their nerves like liquid fire. The pain made them flinch in unison. Then a voice resonated in their minds – cold, distant, imperious. A voice that expected no response, only absolute obedience:
- "Activate the dinsional capsules imdiately. The portals must open now. No waiting. No reflection. The conquest begins."
Mordred’s heart stopped for a fraction of a second, then resud its course, now beating against his ribs like a panicked animal seeking escape. His eyes fell on the capsules at his feet, objects of seemingly insignificant appearance that nevertheless contained the end of a world. He knew all too well the implacable chanism that was about to be set in motion, the onslaught he was about to unleash wave after wave, until everything was engulfed.
Ygdrasyle approached the central capsule without showing the slightest hesitation. His hand rested on it with an assurance that made Mordred shiver. Devotion or resignation? Impossible to know what motivated his gesture.
- "Mordred, it is ti."
These simple words resonated like a sentence. Mordred stared at his own hand slowly rising toward the activation device, almost against his will. He saw it tremble, suspended above the chanism that would seal the fate of countless innocents. In this trembling could be read the inner struggle that had been tearing him apart for so long the slave against the man, duty against conscience, survival against honor.
- "I am sorry..." he breathed, words thrown like confetti in a hurricane, inaudible to the world but deafening to his own ears.
Then his finger lowered onto the activation chanism.
Space first shimred imperceptibly, like still water troubled by an invisible stone. Then reality itself seed to hold its breath a mont of perfect silence where even dust appeared frozen in suspension in the stale air of the tunnel. This mont of deceptive quietude was brutally torn: space literally split open before them, an iridescent gap with impossible contours that opened onto a terrifying elsewhere.
A blinding light, of an almost painful purity, burst from this dinsional wound, reducing the familiar shadows of the abandoned subway to trembling vestiges. Mordred turned away, blinded to the point of pain, his pupils burning under the assault of this supernatural brightness.
The first sound that followed was a howl neither human nor animal, but sothing in-between, a cry that should never have been heard in this world. Then ca the onslaught.
They erged first in groups of two or three, then by dozens, finally by hundreds a monstrous and chaotic flood that seed never to run dry. The first wave of invasion had nothing glorious about it. They were broken beings, pathetic cannon fodder sent as scouts to absorb the first blows. Orcs with muscles bulging under greenish skin marked with ritual scars; rachitic goblins whose bulging eyes betrayed a permanent terror; massive trolls with heavy gaits, their skin reminiscent of the bark of ancient trees; lizard-n with scales gleaming under the artificial light of the human world.
All bore the sa stigma as him – those enslavent collars, symbols of stolen freedom and trampled dignity. Slaves sent to sacrifice by their draconic masters who waited, lurking in the shadows of another world, for the path to be cleared for their glorious arrival.
Ygdrasyle observed this onslaught with an icy impassivity that barely concealed the tension in his clenched jaw. Mordred could not tear his gaze from this macabre parade. In each distorted face that passed before him, he saw the reflection of his own condition – sacrificial pawn in a cosmic chess ga.
A wave of nausea twisted his gut. The acrid and foreign odor of the creatures now invaded the confined space, a mixture of sweat, fear, and an indefinable scent particular to the worlds from which they ca. He brought a trembling hand to his lips, fighting the disgust that threatened to overwhelm him.
Paris would fall, and with it, the entire world. And he was the instrunt of it.
— Elsewhere, in the heart of world governnts —
The ergency room of the European Bureau of Hunters in Brussels now resembled the antechamber of a bureaucratic hell. Sirens wailed relentlessly, their strident sound piercing the eardrums of the n and won who bustled about in orchestrated chaos. On the wall screens scrolled images of devastation from the four corners of the globe: an iconic tower in Beijing collapsing in a cloud of dust; the waters of the Thas in London bubbling under the effect of an unknown energy; Red Square in Moscow disappearing under a seething tide of creatures; Tis Square in New York transforming into an apocalyptic battlefield.
Communications were saturated, panicked voices overlapping in a cacophony of different languages united by the sa terror:
- "Wǒn bèi bāowéi le! We are surrounded!" "The Royal Guard is down! The Royal Guard is down!" "Oni vezde! My ne mozhem... They’re everywhere! We cannot..."
Strategic planners in suits, faces hollowed by exhaustion and fear, ran from one station to another, desperately trying to understand the incomprehensible, to rationalize the irrational. Their trembling hands clung to tactical tablets displaying data changing too quickly to be analyzed.
- "Beijing has fallen!" shouted an analyst, communication headset askew, eyes fixed on a screen where the last Chinese defenses were giving way under the assault. "The breach has widened – they’re talking about gigantic creatures now erging!"
- "London hasn’t responded for eight minutes!" added a woman with drawn features, her British accent rendered almost unrecognizable by emotion. "The latest images show Westminster engulfed by... sothing... that seems to absorb matter itself."
At the center of this maelstrom of information and despair stood General Lefevre, veteran of three decades of service within the elite Hunters. His impeccable uniform contrasted with his bloodshot eyes after forty-eight hours without sleep. He rose abruptly, his fist slamming down on the command table with a violence that made everyone jump.
- "SILENCE!"
His voice, amplified by years of unchallenged authority, montarily covered the chaos. A relative silence settled.
- "I demand clear explanations! How could we have missed an operation of this magnitude? What were the precursor signs? Where were our dinsional sentinels?"
No one dared answer imdiately. A young analyst with features hollowed by exhaustion was the first to break the silence, his voice barely audible:
- "General, there were no warning signs detectable by our systems. The breaches seem to have been opened simultaneously, according to a pre-established pattern covering global nerve centers. Our predictive models... they never envisioned a coordinated attack on this scale."
The general passed a weary hand over his face, weathered by the years.
- "And Paris?"
The question fell like a stone into already troubled waters.
- "Paris has just been hit, sir. A major breach in the heart of the city. The first forces sent report..."
The liaison officer broke off, as if unable to continue.
- "Report what, Lieutenant?"
- "An unprecedented invasion, sir. They estimate that the entire city center could be subrged in less than an hour."
Thousands of kiloters away, in the presidential bunker beneath the White House, the leader of the world’s foremost power stared at the screen before him with an expression that oscillated between disbelief and resignation. On the main monitor, winged creatures of impossible size tore through the sky above Manhattan, while floods of smaller monstrosities poured down the once-bustling avenues of New York.
His military advisor, a stoic figure broken by events, leaned toward him:
- "Mr. President... Paris has also reported a major breach. According to our latest information, it may be one of the most significant globally. Preliminary reports suggest a dinsional tear at least one hundred ters in diater, right in the heart of the capital. French forces are overwheld on all fronts."
The President of the United States, a man once known for his charisma and unshakable confidence, suddenly appeared aged by ten years. He contemplated his clasped hands, strangely calm despite the inner trembling that shook him.
- "We weren’t ready," he murmured, almost to himself. "Despite all our technologies, our weapons, our protocols... we never really believed this day would co."
A heavy silence settled in the armored room, broken only by the hum of electronic equipnt and occasional radio communications.
- "Sir," resud the advisor after a mont, "the generals are awaiting your orders regarding the deploynt of dinsional defense assets."
The president slowly raised his head, his eyes reflecting the crushing weight of decisions with unimaginable consequences.
- "Tell them to activate the Damocles Protocol. May God help us."
The Parisian air, usually perfud by bakeries and manicured gardens, was now saturated with acrid smoke and that indefinable sll of raw magic – a mixture of ozone and sulfur that irritated the nostrils and burned the throat. The sky, spring blue just hours earlier, had darkened under the combined effect of fires and dinsional energy still escaping from the breaches.
Mordred stood atop a Haussmannian building, a solitary silhouette set against the flaming horizon. From this privileged position, he contemplated the chaos he had helped unleash, his impassive face masking the inner turmoil tearing him apart.
The first hours had been marked by total confusion. Parisians, at first incredulous then terrified, had fled in all directions, their screams mingling with the inhuman howls of creatures pouring from the portals. Ergency services, quickly overwheld, had given way to special forces and Hunters mobilized urgently.
The response had been swift, almost impressive in its efficiency. The evacuation protocols, long rehearsed during exercises many had then deed superfluous, had engaged with chanical precision. Convoys of armored vehicles crisscrossed the main arteries, evacuating civilians to secured zones on the periphery. Train stations transford into massive evacuation centers, with trains departing every ten minutes toward destinations unknown to the general public but prepared long ago for this type of catastrophe.
On all still-functioning screens in the capital, the sa ssage played in a loop, synthetic voice with deliberately soothing inflections:
- "Attention all citizens. This is a maximum alert. Proceed imdiately to evacuation at the designated assembly points. Follow the instructions of law enforcent and Hunters. Take only the bare essentials. I repeat, this is a maximum alert..."
Then ca the Hunters. Mordred observed them now, agile forms leaping among the creatures, tracing luminous arcs with their enchanted weapons. Humanity’s elite forces.
Rank B Hunters ford the bulk of the troops, disciplined and thodical fighters who cut down minor monsters with surgical efficiency. Their defensive triangle formations advanced slowly but surely, securing street after street, building after building. The defensive spells they wove around evacuated areas shone with a bluish glow, fragile but essential barriers.
Even more impressive were the Rank A Hunters, veritable forces of nature whose every gesture seed charged with barely contained power. Mordred recognized so of them, legendary figures whose exploits were known even beyond dinsions: Éléonore the Fla, whose incendiary spells transford entire groups of trolls into charred statues; Victor the Implacable, whose slender sword traced deadly furrows through enemy ranks with almost artistic grace; Zhang Wei, master of Eastern mystical arts, whose every movent seed to trigger a miniature cataclysm.
These elites moved with superhuman velocity, their bodies haloed in condensed mana that testified to their exceptional mastery. Under their coordinated assaults, the first waves of creatures disorganized and relatively weak began to yield. So even fled, returning toward the portals in a panic that would have been comical under other circumstances.
After a few hours of fierce combat, a precarious calm settled over certain districts. The Hunters, exhausted but victorious, began to exchange glances full of cautious hope.
- "First wave neutralized!" cried Victor the Implacable, his sword dripping with a blackish liquid raised toward the blazing sky. His face, despite the blood splatters and evident fatigue, radiated fierce determination. "Maintain your positions! Prepare the secondary barriers!"
Mordred felt his heart tighten. He knew what would follow. This victory was but a cruel illusion, a calculated respite to sow the seed of hope that would soon be crushed.
As if to confirm his thoughts, his slave collar activated again, the searing pain doubling him over, tearing a muffled groan from him. The voice resonated in his skull, more glacial and imperious than ever:
- "Second wave imdiately. Activate the secondary portals now. No delay will be tolerated."
Ygdrasyle, who had silently joined him on the terrace, showed no surprise. His eyes, of a strange amber that betrayed his non-human origin, t Mordred’s with an unbearable intensity.
- "They are ready now," he said simply. "The defenders have exhausted their first mana reserves and revealed their tactics. The mont is ideal."
Mordred nodded imperceptibly. A part of him admired the cold strategic logic that had presided over the elaboration of this invasion plan. Another part – the one he desperately tried to stifle silently scread at the imminence of the carnage to co.
Together, they activated the secondary devices concealed at strategic points around the capital. This ti, the portals opened differently not a brutal tear, but a progressive tamorphosis of the air itself, which first tinted with a bloody red before solidifying into arches sculpted in what seed to be a material halfway between stone and living flesh.
The ground shook. The air quivered under the effect of an invisible pressure that shattered windows within a radius of several hundred ters. Then the roar sounded a primordial sound that seed to rise from the depths of ti, a vibration capable of shaking not only bodies but souls themselves.
The creatures that erged then had nothing in common with the cannon fodder of the first waves. Imnse, majestic in their terror, these entities were not slaves but conquerors. Wyverns, degenerate cousins of true dragons, unfurled mbranous wings twenty ters across, their serpentine bodies gleaming under the setting sun. Vouivres, smaller but infinitely more agile, shot like living arrows, their scales reflecting light in hypnotic iridescence. And finally, rarer but infinitely more terrifying, the Lesser Dragons intelligent monstrosities with calculating gazes, whose every movent betrayed a tactical awareness honed by centuries of warfare experience.
The sky over Paris darkened under this winged army. Below, Mordred distinctly saw the precise mont when hope left the faces of the Hunters. He saw understanding paint their features the realization that the true battle was only beginning.
Yet they did not retreat. Victor the Implacable was the first to react, his body illuminating with a golden aura so intense it seed to defy the descending darkness.
- "For humanity!" he shouted, his voice carried by an amplification spell that resonated throughout the combat zone. "Not one of these monsters passes our lines!"
The elite Hunters launched themselves toward the sky, propelled by levitation spells or leaping from building to building with superhuman agility. They t the winged creatures at mid-height, in a titanic shock that released almost tangible waves of energy.
Spells flew jets of blue flas against the icy breath of Wyverns, iridescent shields against claws capable of tearing steel, enchanted blades seeking weak points in millennial scales. A spectacle both magnificent and terrible, a deadly ballet unfolding above a besieged city.
But the nurical disparity was too great. For every creature slain, three others took its place. For every devastating spell cast by a Hunter, a dozen ripostes rained down upon them. Soon, the first bodies began to fall – broken silhouettes crashing onto concrete or disappearing into the murky waters of the Seine.
Éléonore the Fla was the first of the legends to fall. Surrounded by five Vouivres, she fought with a ferocity that forced even Mordred’s admiration. Her carmine flas drew deadly arabesques, carbonizing flesh and bone in their path. But finally, her mana reserve was exhausted. Her last spell a concentrated explosion of unprecedented power took her assailants with her in a scarlet apotheosis that briefly illuminated the entire Parisian sky.
Zhang Wei resisted longer, his mastery of the ancient arts conferring an economy of movent that made each of his gestures deadly effective. But even he eventually succumbed to numbers, his body pierced through by the venomous sting of a particularly massive Lesser Dragon.
One by one, the pillars of human defense collapsed.
Mordred finally turned his eyes from this spectacle, unable to bear any more. His hand clenched on the stone ledge of the terrace, his nails scraping the surface until they bled.
- "We must leave now," said Ygdrasyle, his usual calm slightly altered by the tension that stiffened his shoulders. "Our presence here becos dangerous. The city will fall within a few hours."
Mordred nodded chanically, his mind still captive to the scenes of desolation he had just witnessed. A part of him – perhaps the most cowardly, but also the most human would have wanted to intervene, to reverse the course of events he himself had precipitated. But the collar on his neck pulsed gently, a constant reminder of his condition as a slave and the deadly consequences any attempt at rebellion would entail.
He finally turned away from the dying city, his clenched fists trembling with impotent rage against himself as much as against his invisible masters.
- "Yes, let’s go," he murmured, the words scraping his throat like ground glass.
They launched together into the Parisian night, their silhouettes lding into the shadows, two infinitesimal pieces on a cosmic chessboard whose vertiginous extent humanity did not yet suspect. Behind them, Paris agonized, its emblematic monunts illuminated by the flas of its fall rather than by the usual lights that had earned it the reputation of City of Light.
The sky itself seed to weep this defeat, heavy black clouds amassed above the capital pouring a fine rain that mingled with the ashes and blood.
The first battle of the dinsional war had just ended. And this was only the beginning.
Reviews
All reviews (0)