Landon was an orange Lizardfolk who had no aspirations or dreams. He was content with scrounging throughout life as a beggar since he felt happiness no longer applied to him. And he would’ve died—drunk and forgotten on some backstreet—as the overbearing poison of alcohol dissolved his stomach lining.   

And that would’ve been fine.   

Just what did he have to live for?  

His wife had passed.  

His daughters had left the nest to mitigate elsewhere after he had turned his hand upon their cheeks in a fit of drunken rage upon losing his job as a baker.   

And what friends did he have?  

No one really cared if he lived or died.   

Yet it was a soldier who called out to him—to the filthy, undesirable who had lost his home, wife, and children, with an offer he couldn’t refuse.   

“The winds of war will eventually blow towards us,” said the golden-tongue recruiter. “The glory of Atrix will forever be known in the hearts of men and women throughout Parthina. We will stand, fight, and take what’s rightfully ours—our birthright that has been for told since the days of olde. Join us, Landon, and fight. Fight for honor and your home, and you shall again find the spark that had long since abandoned you.”  

Landon was perplexed at why someone would take the time to speak so elegantly to him, but the man didn’t realize he had imagined the soldier. He didn’t exist—no one important would ever know Landon by name. Perhaps his mind had one last defensive mechanism to give Landon a final chance at life.   

Atrix was a city-state founded on war and aggression, so Landon must’ve overheard a soldier speaking about some conflict. Either way, Lord Atrix was sure to implement a draft when he raised his armies. Sooner or later, Landon would’ve been picked up, taken to the registration office, brought to the barracks, where he would’ve been laughed at for being a measly Lv. 8 at his age, given a sword, a shield, and told to be on standby until his life was needed.    

But Landon didn’t want that. That golden-tongue recruiter said the words a drunken man at rock bottom needed to hear.    

He picked himself up out of the garbage and threw away the bottle he clutched with bruised knuckles, then drunkenly stumbled out of the alley and onto the main street. People looked at him like a pariah—primarily because he was one. Landon wasn’t that popular or well-known, but the ones who knew him despised him.   

As life did, the recruiting officer laughed at Landon’s pitiful qualifications and internally regarded him as someone they could throw to the meat grinder.    

The officer was a noble—someone who knew how much more his life mattered than those meant to till the land and grow food to make him fat in his retirement.   

Landon couldn’t read or write, so he didn’t know what kind of contract he had to sign—only what the officer had told him. He wanted to learn. His wife was his teacher, and he held the passion, but that vanished upon her death.   

It seemed like everything that once made Landon...Landon...had died with her.   

She wouldn’t be proud to see the man he turned out to be—how the spark of life had vanished from within his orange eyes that bordered on twilight madness.  

Landon grabbed the ticket and left, barely managing to avoid stumbling over his feet as he walked down the cobblestone pathway to the barracks about 50 minutes away. The alluring scent of freshly poured alcohol nearly stopped him, but that fictitious golden-tongued soldier appeared in the corner of his eye.   

“Don’t fall victim to it, my friend,” said the guard, extending a hand that wasn’t real. But it felt physical to Landon. He turned his gaze away and continued, finally managing to refuse liquor’s seductive gaze for the first time in three years.   

Maybe this was a start for him?  

Landon still didn’t think so. He had nothing, but that changed after he arrived at the barracks. He shared a room with thirty other 'maggots' and had to endure basic training for a month. There was a dungeon not too far from the city. It provided the perfect place to become used to attacking, casting, and killing.   

And...  

Landon was good at it. He surprised himself at how well he took to it, considering he hadn’t ever lifted a sword before. But his strengths were in tactics that surprised his instructors. Hit-and-run strategy wasn’t some new-wave kind of thinking, but no one could pull it off better than a coward who survived by stealing for the past three years.    

Landon was with six others when they had fallen victim to a teleport trap. It took them to a maze on the dungeon’s deepest floor. The enemies’ levels ranged from 20-40, and Landon was the fourth highest at Lv. 9. The only one who knew magic was the young elf with a deformed arm, but her spells were limited.   

Yet he endured on. He didn’t want to disappoint that golden-tongue officer and rallied the others. Together, they used dishonestly and trickery—the greatest weapons— sending the scissor eagles to fight against the knife hawks that circled overhead. And in their weakness, he struck, dealing the finishing blow when the fatally injured were moments from death. Or he commanded his soldiers to organize pitfall traps while using the elf’s magic to chip away at deadly spikes above.   

It was a rough week. The brass had long since written the group off. They didn’t send a rescue squad since those weaklings were everywhere. One just had to look at the slums to find the ones desperate enough to slit a throat for a handful of copper coins.   

But these seven days changed Landon more than the past three years. He hadn’t gotten to know the others during his first month, but now he did. Some were almost like him—depraved beggars with nothing else left. A few were younger, yet they looked twice his age. That young elf bore wrinkles, with scabbed wounds and dark bruises, and felt close enough to share her scarred past.   

She had said elves were symbols of grace and beauty, but she was born like this. A plague amongst her family with deformities, and they had tossed her away upon her fifteenth birthday after a healer had said he couldn’t reverse what was etched into her body. Her mother believed it to be a curse, and no one objected to ‘trying’ again for a better daughter. The girl was still just a child, yet she was thrown to the wayside and had nothing else, so she went for the only option available to all recluses without anything to their name.  

Mercenary work.   

She was the only one without a spec of orange to her body—Valima wasn’t a native of Parthina— but her journey eventually brought her to Atrix for an unrelated mission. After completing it, she joined the military to see where it would take her. She had to prove her loyalty, though. On her back laid a dark orange scar brought upon by a tainted knife—the cost outsiders had to pay. And it should’ve marked Valima for life as a foreign mercenary of Atrix, but her body was in so much pain at almost all hours of the day that it wouldn’t be a problem to just...  

...rip off that section of skin and add another fleshy wound to her collection.  

In her own words, she had said no one would ever love a freak like her. So why not deform her body even more as punishment for being born?  

But Valima secretly yearned for a place to belong. She would’ve given anything for it. Loneliness was frightening, and she had enough of it for one or two lifetimes.  

Upon successfully returning to Atrix, Landon was promoted to squad leader and officially given control over the unit he had led to survival.  No one expected a bunch of misfits to make it back.   

Throughout the next two years, Landon and his squadron grew and thrived, eventually acquiring three more members after accomplishing a rescue mission deep in Tiran’s Crest.   

By that time, he had reached Lv. 35. Valima was Lv. 44—the highest, and his unit averaged Lv. 38. They weren’t the strongest, but they weren’t the weak misfits they used to be. A few days later, the forthcoming conflict with Plymoise was officially announced.    

Plymoise was going to be attacked. Atrix had a history of being warthirsty. And some people didn’t want conflict, but what could they do? Lord Atrix ruled with an iron fist, and those who spoke against his barbaric tendencies were thrown in jail, branded, and tossed to the meat grinder to die for the glory of their ruler. The tyrant framed it as a war of reunification since he believed all Plymoise should belong to Atrix.  

The operation was set to begin within the week. Landon’s unit received orders to board one of the seven ships that would bombard Plymoise’s military ports and shipyards with magic and cannonballs.   

There was much to do and many supplies to prepare, and after six days of prepping, Landon finally relaxed in his bunk. Exhaustion covered his face. The recent sleepless nights had drained him, but not once had the alluring taste of alcohol’s sweet nectar tempted him. Landon felt a churning in his stomach whenever he thought of booze. And he had even quit smoking.   

He scrolled through his Skill Menu, a melancholy smile plastered on his face since he wanted to share this accomplishment with his children. But they didn’t want a drunk abuser like him for a father, and they had made their choice a long time ago. Second chances didn’t exist for them after he had scorned them so much.   

Even if he knew what city-state they immigrated to... Landon knew they wouldn’t accept his letters. Nor would they ever forgive him. Only Valima knew the truth behind his past. He didn’t know what she saw in him, and she was perplexed any man would want her to warm their bed or teach them literacy.  

Landon wondered what would’ve happened if he encouraged himself to get out of that slump years prior. Or if he would’ve tried to reach for those who extended helping hands instead of preferring the sweet nectar that slowly turned him into an alcoholic drunk.   

He turned to the right, then tossed to the left. That tightness in his chest never left him until morning came, and he greeted the day and the soldiers under his command while readying for deployment.   

They each had rucksacks to carry and bags to haul, and even though they were developing a rather unique reputation for achieving cowards, the central command didn’t give them horses or wagons.   

But the hard life was what he and his unit specialized in. Fate always kicked them down a few dozen pegs, so he found the labor almost refreshing--something akin to a palette cleanser before the main event left a sour note lingering on his taste buds.    

---

Landon fixated on the boundless sea, casting a contemplative gaze towards Atrix after night had descended. The distant land, now obscured from view, left a lingering sense of longing within him. His orange eyes shifted leftward, revealing the presence of two ships. On his right, four more vessels sailed in a disciplined formation, steadfastly navigating toward their destination. 

Each vessel carried 24 fully stocked cannons on each side, and Atrix’s training had told the sailors that each one needed two people to fire as efficiently as possible. And then there were the 24 mages on each ship that wove protective barriers to stop arrows and incoming projectiles.  

The ships were large enough to need three giant masts, and twenty were responsible for steering and controlling the vessels. Only the truly trained and adaptable could handle this task. 

Others were responsible for preparing the food and other miscellaneous tasks, but everyone was trained and primed for combat.  

In total, nearly 750 would take part in the naval blitzkrieg, and everyone was over Lv.15, with the average across all vessels being Lv. 36. Each was commanded by a Lv. 55 captain.    

Landon wasn’t worried about anything. He knew 10,000 were marching to Plymoise at the same time. Even if word leaked about their plans, Plymoise's lacking resources couldn't fend off seven fully armed and stocked battleships. The top brass had said the war would be over quicker than it began. The estimated 5-6,000 soldiers Plymoise could raise had to be focused on the frontal assault by Atrix’s main force.   

Once Atrix’s ships landed at the ports and the soldiers disembarked, the plan was to capture the capital building. The mimics, if they had obeyed their orders to the letter, should've already killed Gretchen. Landon didn’t know much about that, but he had heard musings of work being done in the shadows behind the scenes to make the conquest as painless as possible.  He wasn’t technically a ‘rank and file’ soldier, but Landon wasn’t privy to the juiciest details.   

And so...  

Days passed out at sea. Unseaworthy soldiers felt queasy and vomited their supper overboard due to the endless clanking waves battering against the ships’ hulls.    

Time soon became an aspect of life that everyone had too much of. Patience was always a lacking virtue, especially before an operation like this. But Landon knew that overbearing stress due to excessive thinking would only be detrimental. Oh, such a thing had nearly cost him his soldiers' lives on a past mission. And the same sorrow he felt when he looked at the bloody costs of his severe mistakes.    

The man spent much of that time recalling his family. He wondered—no, he knew he wasn’t good enough to make amends with his children. But what if he were to become a famous strategist? One who always accomplished his missions with minimal risk and losses? The sword and shield he carried were more decorative than anything else. His real value was the exceptionally unique leadership skills Landon had groomed over the past years. His squadron all received substantial buffs to their physical, dexterous, and magical abilities just by being close to him. And [Mental Coordination] enabled a minor form of thought communication that allowed his squad to read each other's movements in the flow of combat to better fight as one cohesive unit.    

---

Finally, it was the night before they would be within range to launch the initial volley.   

Landon was sitting in a room on the third deck, watching his soldiers perform their final preparations. Empty bowls of oatmeal and hard bread littered the room. Eating more than a serving or two was fine since they’d be restocked in less than 24 hours.    

By this time tomorrow... The city will be ours...  

“My son and I used to talk about battle. He wanted to die a hero—protecting the innocent and weak from dragons and vile demons,” said a man with loose lips. Landon could see that lazy eye amid darkness. The tender, shy moonlight did little to gleam some much-needed brightness through the little porthole that couldn’t be called a window. “But the sickness took him. What else could I do but fulfill his wishes? I want to be the hero he dreamed of being...”  

“Aye, dragons, huh?” asked a dwarf. He had long orange nails and carefully sharpened his axe’s edge. “Funny ye should say that. I heard it before we left, but rumors circulating say we have a drake and hippogriff on our side.”  

“Is that really necessary?” asked Valima. “We already have the overwhelming advantage. Why reveal cards that are better left hidden?”  

“Lord Atrix wants to showcase his overwhelming might,” said Landon. He'd heard the same whisperings, but he didn’t pay it much mind.”  

“If that’s the case, then why didn’t he send the Citrine Reapers?” asked another—a gnome.   

“You mean the group that doesn’t exist?” answered the dwarf with another question. Nothing but hazy rumors surrounded that elusive unit.  

Supposedly, they consisted of highly specialized squads so utterly devoted to their lord that nothing else mattered. The nationalism they displayed couldn’t be earned or bought—apparently, it had to be ‘instilled’ from an early age through brutal training designed to reinforce ultimate loyalty.  

The whispers continued—you could find them anywhere. One source said their eyes only saw their lord, Gregory Atrix, as the only man whose words they wanted to grace their ears. Everyone else was filthy trash that deserved to be incinerated.   

Landon had heard a rumor that the final step to becoming a member of Atrix’s most elusive and feared group of warriors was to kill their family. But he didn’t know if it was hogwash or not. It probably was. Then again, it probably wasn’t. No one would admit to them being real. The details behind the group—if they were tangible—were potentially only known to Gregory Atrix and a few chosen close allies, let alone someone like Landon, who was so far down the totem pole that he was still treated like a common foot soldier.  

According to the pervasive gossip, the mark of the Citrine Reapers was more than mere hearsay. Shadowy whispers suggested that each member bore a unique, magical glyph etched onto their flesh – an orange scythe branded with mystical precision—that only made itself visible under specific circumstances.   

Of course… 

Only those involved knew the truth. It was just as likely that the Citrine Reapers were Boogeymen the city had carved to keep the populace in line.  

“I don’t expect us to do all that much,” said Landon. He sighed and sat, raising his arms and stretching before rubbing lotion oil on his orange scales. Long ago, his late wife had chastised him for neglecting his scales, and after getting off the booze, Landon took that advice to heart to become a better man. “But don’t think we won’t see combat. If it’s not tomorrow, then it’ll be when we turn our fangs against the other city-states.”  

“You’re probably right, squad leader,” Valima said. “But what’s the plan when Orchta sends a Heptarchis summon?”  

“We aren’t paid to think that far ahead,” warned the dwarf. “Let the brass figure it out. Ye and I should obey orders and do what we’re told.”  

The other members nodded and agreed, but Valima wasn’t so convinced. However, she had thrown her lot in with this group. Cowardice was her definitive trait, but it was one she wanted to get rid of. 

Things hadn’t been awkward since she warmed Landon’s bed. A woman like her would’ve thought she’d have severe regrets and run away, even if it meant facing death due to going AWOL.   

But no.   

Being with him and the others had stirred certain feelings within her breast that she hadn’t felt years before falling into that teleportation trap. It took many weeks of internal deliberation, but she finally had an answer once she had willingly felt the pleasures of a woman.  

It wouldn’t be so bad to remain with them. In Valima's eyes, she didn’t know any other place that would accept a misfit like her the way Landon did.   

Even now, she felt a warm blush assail her cheeks whenever she looked at his tail. Or his face. Or his scales. Really, any part of him almost caused her to blush like a schoolgirl having her first crush.   

“Do you think Plymoise will surrender? This loss of life is...needless. Only fools would fight in the face of certain defeat,” inquired a Caterpillarfolk with orange antennae.    

“Plymoise isn’t known for bearing substantial military might. They barely have enough soldiers to be called an army. And they lack a proper navy,” said another—a Cowfolk with orange horns.    

“And I’ve heard they’ve been having supply issues since Holy Lord Gloria went off the deep end.”  

“Supply issues? What ominous timing.”  

“Are you suggesting Lord Atrix planned this with Lord Gloria’s fit of madness?” asked the dwarf.   

“Possibly,” answered the Cowfolk. “But I doubt it. I think the stars aligned, and Lord Atrix and General Blackthorn decided to go ahead of schedule.”  

“Interesting.” Landon jumped into the conversation. “Why do you think that? It costs time, money, and resources to amass the force Lord Atrix has gathered. It’s unthinkable to assume that he has some agreement with a Holy Lord with no reason to care.”  

“That’s true, captain, but… Doesn’t something feel off?”  

“It’s called nervousness. It happens. It always does before a big mission. You'll learn to accept it in time, but it’s good you’re feeling it.”  

“Great, here’s another lecture—”  

“You’re damn right it is,” interrupted Landon. “Don’t…ever allow confidence to overshadow what you’re capable of. Assume the worst and pray for the best.”  

“And the worst is…us losing this naval battle...because Plymoise has an answer? Maybe word of the plan has leaked?”  

Landon nodded. “But you must also use common sense. I could say that the worst case is a goddess descending from the heavens in a blaze of hellfire, but do you think one would purposely choose this specific moment to incarnate?”  

The Cowfolk went quiet.   

“Just be ready for Plymoise’s navy to put up a fight. Remember our training. Valima, I want your spells at the ready if we encounter them. Target the waterline with flames with our barriers descend. The idea is to smoke them into surrendering.”  

“Understood, squad leader.”  

“We aren’t killing?” The dwarf grumbled and returned to polishing his axe.   

“If it comes to it. Indiscriminately killing when there’s no need when we’re planning to occupy a city-state is a fast way to cause an insurrection. There’s bound to be a few, but let’s not give them fuel to add to the growing fire of rebellion. Extinguishing them is the hard part. That's our primary objective once we control the capital building.”   

“Aye, I suppose you have a point,” growled the dwarf. Landon internally sighed. His soldiers were enough. He enjoyed leading them. It gave him a purpose in life since he felt like this was what he was made for.   

Really, everything had changed for the better once that golden-tongue recruiter was given false life by his mind’s last attempt to save him from suicide via alcohol poisoning. It wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, but it made him sober.   

It made him stronger.   

The luster of his scales had returned!  

His heart had found someone who accepted his sins and wrongdoings and still understood how much he had changed from who he used to be.   

Landon stood and announced he was getting some fresh air. A gnome complained about the salty breeze and whined about how it made his skin feel, but Landon found the sensation tickling.   

He left and shut the door, but Valima slipped out behind him.   

“Care for some company?” she playfully asked.  

“It’s better than being alone,” he said, his heart thumping. There were about 110 others on the ship, but most were busy. Only the scouts and night watchers would be awake this late, so they had free run of the deck.   

Very little was said as they stared at the bright blue yonder, but Valima broke the silence by commenting on how beautiful the moon was.   

“It was much like this when I was born,” she softly whispered. Her ears slightly twitched up and down. “The ship had sailed gently throughout the evening as Mother pushed me into this world. And her gaze… Her scornful look upon my deformities.” Valima lifted the arm that had been the catalyst for so much hatred. Landon surprised her when he took it in his hands and carefully rubbed it.  

“Then I shall replace it,” he said. “You know I won’t look at you like that. I merely see a beautiful woman. One who’s been there for me. I’ll ask for a break once we're done here. They’ve been working us hard, and we haven’t failed a mission yet.”  

“If…only I’ve met you sooner.”  

Landon…wondered about that life. His heart belonged to his daughters. He loved them so much and desperately wished for a chance to reconcile. And his wife… Valima knew all about her. She was the one who had asked to visit her grave, and Landon left her alone to speak her peace after they arrived at the twilit sanctuary. The skies were halfway between dawn and dusk.  

There, she had told his wife that Landon was a man with a heavy heart. She knew a part of him died when she passed on to the afterlife and knew she couldn’t replace her. “But I wish to help mend the hole,” she had said, kneeling, touching her good hand to the grave. “He’s been tormented for so long. I cannot replace the love, nor do I expect him to forget about you. I...want to reforge the connection between father and children... He often speaks of being a grandfather. He wishes to make amends... About everything. He’s been using his pay to offset the damages from when he had to steal to survive.”  

With a quick shake of her head, Valima left the world of her memories and returned to the present, only to be whisked away to the future she wished to have. She felt the phantom sensation of a child growing in her womb, then imagined the agonizing labor all women were said to endure, and then...  

There they were...  

A child of her own...wrapped in a blanket…held in her arms…  

A child that, according to her mother, would never exist because no one could love an Elven disgrace like her who went against the Elven tenets of grace and beauty.   

And Valima believed that for years—decades, even. But Valima’s mother was wrong.   

That future... I’ll grasp it... And I’ll never let it go.  

The two shared a longing look for what still awaited them in their twilight years, refusing to think about the immediate concern that was their lifespan. Lizardfolk lived longer than humans—granted—but they couldn’t outage the long-lived elf. Even if they weren't immune to time advances like the fantastical High Elf or Dark Elf, centuries could still pass them by without growing wrinkles.   

It was a tale as old as time—one that always had a stark message behind it. But love was complex. It was difficult to understand, and anyone to claimed to have deduced its mysteries was a liar.   

The two lovebirds eventually returned to their barracks and joined the others, most of whom had fallen asleep to the rocky motions of a ship at sea.  

Night eventually turned to day, marking the beginning of a new period in Atrix’s history.    

 

---

The morning was spent doing the final prep, although once they saw a handful of approaching ships, the captains ordered their soldiers to take battle positions. Commanders and squad leaders continued to bark orders as each ship’s deck turned chaotic for an hour or two.   

 Archers found themselves at the ready, their bows in a low-ready position. A mage stood behind them and weaved a spell to enchant their projectiles in deadly flames.   

“Perhaps they’ll reconsider once they see a ship or two go up in flames?” asked the gnome. He stood near Landon with his daggers comfortably sheathed on his hips.  

“We can only hope for their sake,” replied his leader. Landon felt a queasy pressure behind his heart. It often never meant anything, and he chalked it up to that nervousness he mentioned the previous night. Landon believed that if someone didn’t feel it, they were broken and needed help, and he never wanted to get that far gone. And perhaps...  

That was a potential destination had he not found the will to continue living and try to make something of himself. If he hadn’t found Valima and the others who looked at him as their squadron leader.   

“Do you remember the plan?” Landon looked at his squad, but then his eyes perceived something strange. He clearly saw Plymoise in the far distance. Their destination was right there.  

But the smoke...  

The foggy haziness clouding the air...  

It was...far too much for a single drake to make. Even a couple dozen couldn’t hope to corrupt skies in such a way.   

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?!” Suddenly, the captain of Landon's ship shouted at an owl-like familiar.  

Landon saw them arrive hours earlier. The mages on the front lines had sent them to the ships to serve as communication beacons to relay what was happening to the main force.  

“What the hell do you mean a lion has taken out our drakes?!”  

“That’s just what I said, sir! There’s a lion! It’s covered in flames! The demon’s devouring us! No, wait?! What—NO.... NOOOOOOO!! YOU MUST SAIL AWAY! DON’T EVEN TRY TO FIGHT—AHHHHHHHHH—” The line went dead as the panicked, high-pitched voice ceased, and the familiar immediately died. It wasn’t a spirit or demon, so it couldn't sustain itself after its creator’s death.  

An uneasy silence reigned supreme over the ship. The same nervousness and fear spread to the other boats as the familiars assigned to them promptly died, although each gave a little more information before brutally perishing.   

Immediately, the seven captains called for a meeting and convened on Landon’s ship. Trying to downplay what had happened wouldn’t work. Word quickly spread. 

After exchanging information, they deduced someone had summoned a mad, terrifying demon from the Demon Realm.  

The lion exuded immense power, resembling hellfire bestowed with vitality—a living embodiment of fiery strength and an untamed source of awe. 

“It can create flaming meteorites, and common weaponry can’t brush past its flames,” said Captain Monroe. His wings nervously fluttered. The great axe resting on his back seemed like a toy. He knew spirits and demons were powerful, but to call forth one that was this strong? "Magic can't get close enough to harm it. It...seems unkillable." 

“...”  

No one could speak. The thought of Plymoise having something like this never crossed their minds. The spies they had sent into the city never mentioned this. But one of the captains—a man with a rhino horn and three eyes—saw a silver lining.   

“A demon or spirit can’t use their strongest attacks forever,” he said, crossing his thick arms. “It’ll drain its summoner’s reservoir once it runs out of mana.”  

“You don’t think there’s another summoner in waiting?”  

“No, I don’t.” the Rhinofolk turned to Captain Monroe. “Summons that powerful are rare. I’m not sure why a summoner of their caliber is here, but there cannot be more than one.” The Rhinofolk’s confidence wasn’t backed by anything except faith, hope, and silent prayers. The salty sea air clung to his armor and almost betrayed his hardened gaze.   

“You think they would unleash a show of force to get our army to back off,” said another captain with long, orange air with spikes jutting from his cheeks-- he was a Hedgehogfolk. “But there’s just the one. I believe you’re right. That lion is their trump card, and once it runs out of mana, they won’t have anything left. They wish to break us and get us to leave with our tail between our legs.”  

The meeting quickly ended, and the captains returned to their ships to command their soldiers. While they didn’t fear a mutiny, they needed to regain morale and ensure their warriors that the Goddess of Victory was on their side—that Atrix would emerge victorious—that they couldn’t let the lives of the fallen go to waste.   

They needed to break through the ships opposing them and reach their target. The fight would be over once they held the capital building. It wasn’t common knowledge, but the captains knew Lady Plymoise was dead. The mimics they sent in were perfect—the best ones Atrix could buy with money. And expensive, too, but they could function as well as any humanoid and fluently speak the common tongue. And their mannerisms were a dead ringer for whoever they replaced.  

But their words did little to console their soldiers. Some felt at ease, but Landon...  

He tried not to show it, but he feared the worst. Praying for the best felt like a foolish endeavor.  

The uneasy crew couldn’t do anything but wait for their battle to begin.    

And wait they did, with bated breaths and unsteady hands that kept a sweaty grip on their weapons. The smoke they saw in the distance continued to grow. A few hopefuls wondered if a mage would use their wind magic to swirl the smoke away, but that never happened in the time they spent waiting.   

And then...  

The opposing forces were close enough to see vividly with the naked eye, and the Atrix's mages were preparing for the initial assault. Their targets would be within range in just 600 seconds—swiftly approaching in less time than it took to prepare a modest breakfast.  

Valima, with her excellent eyesight, looked through her brass spyglass and relayed what she saw.   

“A... A High Elf?”  

“That’s right,” she said, answering Landon’s confused question. “She’s playing a flute. It looks like the captain...is giving a speech?”  

“What about their morale?”  

“They don’t seem afraid.”  

“I’m sure they believe they hold the advantage. Can you tell anything from the elf?”  

Valima shook her head. “A few clans are known for their musical prowess. It’s faint, but I can hear an angelic grace from her instrument.” The elf kept watching and relaying what she saw. “Her weapon reminds me of a firearm. But High Elves aren’t known to use them. That’s more of a Dark Elf preference, so...”  

And then panic dominated her voice when that High Elf turned to face the seven ships barreling towards them. “She’s playing...and... [Wooden Puppetry]? Does she plan to... But we’re still too far away!” Valima shouted. She watched as the High Elf and her puppets retrieved the rifles on their backs. They raised them towards the skies as the firearms manifested the living embodiment of flame and fire.   

“Get away...”  

“What? What are—”  

“WE NEED TO LEAVE!” Valima shouted. Landon was shocked. He had never seen Valima act like this. She always kept it together when things looked dire. For her to be like this...meant that...  

“WATCH OUT!!” The scout high on the crow’s screamed. In the clear, nearly cloudless skies of a noonday sun, the fiery beams blasted from the firearms ascended like ethereal serpents, catching the sunlight as they soared. The serpentine flames became a cascading, fiery rain with a thunderous explosion. The individual droplets seemed like miniature comets, leaving trails of embers that painted a surreal picture against the pristine blue canvas overhead.  

Four of the seven ships were targeted, their decks becoming consumed by a mighty conflagration that was too fast and ferocious. Valima grabbed Landon’s hand and yanked him away from the flame’s initial path. Six of his teammates were able to get out of the way, but two perished amongst the inferno, their screams raw and unfiltered as their nerves were scorched.   

Immolation was always a painful way to go, but there must be a silver lining. If the High Elf was the demon's summoner, she shouldn’t have had much mana left. To sustain something that powerful while pushing her magic to the limit...while also fueling that lion’s spells...  

Even splitting her strength into quarters to launch a four-prong attack...  

That didn’t come cheap.   

Landon was so sure that Plymoise didn’t have a way to fend off a sustained assault that they chose to try to overwhelm them with a devastating first strike.   

But it wouldn’t work.  

But the orange Lizardfolk also felt as if Atrix had awoken a beast that was better left alone. To disturb its slumber or attract its ire like a cub wishing to pester its mother.   

Even still, Landon had faith. The future he and Valima had imagined for themselves was still something they could grasp. It wasn’t out of their reach.   

And wasn’t he a master of getting out of tight spots? No one was a better survivalist than a coward who had to scrounge and steal to support his awful habits. And with his experience as squadron commander, who repeatedly returned alive with minimal injuries or losses from missions that no one else wanted to accept?  

Landon used his leadership abilities and buffed his squadron, then began to bark orders.  

“Get it together!” he shouted. “[Inspiring Aura]!” A soft azure glow radiated from Landon’s body and spread throughout the ship, instilling everyone with courage. “We need to focus! Fetch the pails! Put out the fire! Mages, I want you to set up our barriers!”  

Valima immediately conjured a sphere of water and launched it into the sky, where it broke apart and rained upon the flaming deck. It wasn’t enough, but sailors had quickly fetched their water pails and used their teamwork to extinguish the devouring flames. They had suffered losses, though. The wood was already scorched black. The people he had known were turned into ash and swept away by the breeze.   

The time for mourning and crying could come later.   

But the seven ships were still too far away to fire. Their magic wouldn’t reach. Arrows would crash into the salty sea. Turning the battleships hard to port or starboard would open them to additional attacks—even if their cannons could reach that far.   

They had to hope and pray that the High Elf was out of mana and attacks.   

Landon looked at the three other flaming ships-- the inferno was still going strong. Suddenly, Valima grabbed his arm and told him to look.  

And there...  

They were...  

The High Elf and her wooden puppets had grown wings! They were quickly flying towards Landon’s ship.   

Valima lifted her staff and changed, summoning sharp blades of electrified winds that shot out towards the incoming enemies. The archers regrouped and readied their bows with shaky hands. The mages behind stuttered but completed the chant to bless the arrows with fire.   

“FIRE!” shouted the ship’s captain, spit spewing from his mouth. He was unsteady, but he had already recovered from the surprise attack.   

The hailstorm of flaming projectiles launched towards the incoming High Elves, but they flew fast and quickly and...  

...effortlessly avoided it all...  

It was like they could spot the gaps in the barrages. Valima’s [Lightning Wind Blade] bombardment was cut down after the High Elf switched that rifle for a black spear. She turned it back into the gun and continued accelerating, keeping low to the ocean with her wooden puppets until they reached the hull. They soared skyward and hovered like angels of death, four rifles pointed at their enemies.   

Bang!  

Bang!  

Bang!  

Bang!  

All four fired at once, sending a round through four of Landon’s soldiers’ heads—they just happened to be the weakest.   

Bang!  

Bang!  

The next four gunshots sounded as two, with the gnome and Cowfolk receiving two bullets each to their forehead, killing them instantly.   

It all happened so incredibly quickly. But Landon perceived it in slow motion.   

This...  

This was it.   

His life was really flashing throughout his mind. Landon saw it all—his first kiss... His marriage... The first fight... The first time he held his children... Holding his wife’s hand on her deathbed...  

There...was no coming out of this alive. That golden-tongue officer—the figment of his mind that saved him oh so long ago... He would not make an appearance in his final moment.   

Bang!  

Four bullets sounded as one and delved into Valima’s brain, instantly killing her.   

And he knew he was to follow.   

And Landon felt...oddly calm. He wasn’t fearing it like he thought he would.   

Maybe because he wasn’t dying alone. That was his biggest fear. There was a difference between dying as a drunk under a pile of filth in the slums behind a bar that kicked him out for stealing—with no one who cared about his life—or passing into the afterlife with friends and lovers by his side so they could enter the cycle of reincarnation together.   

But could Landon be proud of his life?  

If someone had asked him years ago, he’d have said no.   

But...  

He was content.   

He had regrets, of course.   

He never reconciled with his daughters. And his death would be a boon to them. It would eventually reach them. Landon didn’t know how, but it would, and they wouldn’t have to fear him finding them. To them, he was an irredeemable monster without any good qualities. Their father had died with their mother, and the abusive monster he became was someone they didn’t know or love.  

And then there was Valima. She dreamed of being a mother, but some fantasies would never be fulfilled.  

But Landon still hoped he would meet her in the next life. He wished that his wife and Valima would get along. He wanted to make the two of them the happiest women in the world, but would fate allow it to happen?  

Bang!  

Landon’s brain stopped working long before he could think that far ahead. Skull fragments exploded from the back of his head as he slumped lifelessly to the ground. Smoke erupted from the firearms’ well-used barrels, seemingly seeing him to the afterlife.   

His life, Valima’s life, and the lives of his team were just one flame that Atrix’s cruel conquest for war had extinguished long before they were ready.   

Everyone had a story.   

And on that day...  

The day of the futile naval assault to take out Plymoise’s capital building and ports...  

Atrix would lose over 750 soldiers at sea.  

There would not be any survivors.