Birth of the Ruler: The Emergence of the Primordial Race

Somewhere along the border between the Nihilith Clan and the Structurith Clan, the encampment of the Aqua Astro and Gravity Astro stood firm under the command of Hildred, the Astro Lord. The arranged tents of both stations swayed gently under the whisper of the cold night wind, their insignias casting eerie shadows under the evening dim light. Astro team patrolled in calculated silence, their movements synchronized like the steady ticking of an unseen cosmic clock.

From the far Northeast, a streak of motion blurred through the darkness, Dunstan, moving at supersonic speed, his form barely more than a phantom against the shifting terrain. As he neared the encampment, his pace gradually decelerated until his boots struck the ground in measured strides, the dust rising in fleeting swirls behind him. Without hesitation, he stepped inside a distinctive tent, larger and more fortified than the others, the fabric embroidered with the mark of command.

Inside, Hildred sat in his usual chair, an air of authority wrapped around him like an invisible mantle. A large table sprawled before him, its surface occupied by an intricately detailed map, marked with patterns of war and conquest. His fingers were interlaced, elbows braced against the table, as his chin rested upon the bridge of his thumbs. His piercing gaze bore into the parchment, lost in the labyrinth of tactical contemplation, until a voice punctured the stillness like a well-aimed dagger.

"Greetings, Astro Lord." Dunstan's voice was measured, neither too loud nor too soft, but its presence alone was enough to snap Hildred back from the depths of his thoughts.

"Hmm. You've returned." Hildred's tone carried neither warmth nor disdain, only the weight of unwavering expectation. "Report."

Dunstan inhaled sharply before delivering his findings with precision. "As per your orders, I conducted a thorough reconnaissance several kilometers into the far Northeast. No signs of unusual movement. If anything, they remain unaware of our knowledge regarding their delayed scheme with the stolen Primordial children. From their current lack of response, I infer that they believe we've shifted our focus westward, entangled in the ongoing war between the central headquarters of both races."

Hildred remained silent for a moment, his storm-gray eyes scanning Dunstan as if weighing the substance behind his words. Then, a single nod. "I see."

A shadow of contemplation flickered across his face, deepening the already etched lines of concern. His fingers unconsciously tightened, his knuckles whitening against the pressure. The silence between them stretched thin, like the final moments before the strings of a bow snap under excessive tension.

"I hope they remain blind to our movements, and that our forces to the South succeed before their realization dawns."

His words were spoken more to himself than to Dunstan, a whisper carried away by the tension hanging in the tent. A single bead of sweat trickled down his temple, lost amidst the many that had already fallen, silent witnesses to the gravity of their predicament. His gaze, however, remained locked on the map, as if it alone held the key to the shifting tides of fate.

Three days had passed since Nyxander's team, along with the non-officials, separated from the main southern force, navigating the alternative route as planned. As evening descended, under Hung's instruction, both teams, the Mountain Astro and the Flame Astro, came to a halt. They were now merely a day's journey away from the looming tide of beasts, an ominous force stirring the air with the scent of inevitable battle.

The land beneath their feet was carpeted with short, resilient grass, bending under the weight of the shifting climate, caught in a tug-of-war between searing heat and creeping cold. The two teams had instinctively distanced their campsites, like warriors maintaining a delicate balance between camaraderie and caution, Flame Astro settled on the left wing, Mountain Astro on the far right, while Hung's camp stood solemnly at the center, a quiet sentinel watching over both.

Metallic clangs and murmured discussions filled the air as team members toiled, assembling intricate mechanisms from scattered machine parts, each click and turn of a bolt echoing the urgency of their preparation. The restless wind carried the scent of iron and sweat, swirling dust into the air, teasing their tired bodies still bearing the lingering weight of the arduous journey. Yet, despite the exhaustion clinging to their limbs, no hands faltered; each movement, each effort was a silent vow, to stand ready for the storm of fangs and claws racing toward them.

Meanwhile, at the secret route beneath a mountain's protective embrace, Nyxander's team and those under their protection had also ceased their journey for the night. Their tents stood like silent sentinels over the thick grassland, a fragile oasis of rest in a world about to be set ablaze. His subordinates, divided into four disciplined squads, took their positions, keeping watch in rotating shifts, their gazes sharp against the creeping darkness.

Above, the stars shimmered, piercing through the vast black expanse like a celestial audience bearing witness to the fate soon to unfold. The night wind howled in a hushed warning, whispering cautionary tales of wars long past, as if urging them to reconsider their path. In their separate corners of the war-bound world, the Astro leaders, Nyxander, Hung, and even Hildred, the Astro Lord himself, sat in quiet contemplation. The weight of impending battle pressed upon their minds, their thoughts tangled between fate, strategy, and the unpredictable chaos of war. The night held no answers, wether fortune favor their blade, or would they be swallowed by the tide? only silence and the restless rustling of the wind.

As the first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and indigo, an unsettling commotion rippled through the southern force's camp. A sudden wave of panic coursed through the ranks as team members darted frantically in all directions, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of alarm.

Inside the Centric tent, where the air still carried the weight of lingering exhaustion from a late night, Kal burst through the fabric entrance, his breathing ragged with urgency.

"Boss! Boss!" he called out, his voice jagged and pressing. "It's an emergency!"

Centric, momentarily groggy, stretched against his seat, his brows knitting in displeasure. "What's got you barging in like this? And what's all that noise outside?" His tone was laced with irritation, but a shadow of concern flickered beneath it.

Kal's chest heaved as he steadied his breath before delivering the words that turned the room ice-cold. "The Flashstamp," he said, his voice breaking under the weight of what he was about to reveal.

Centric's eyes widened, his pupils contracting as if unwilling to believe the thought forming in his mind. But Kal shattered any doubt with the final blow.

"They are here." The words echoed through the tent, cutting through the lingering traces of sleep like a blade through silk. A brief silence, like the calm before a storm, held the air captive before Centric erupted.

"WHAT?!" He bolted upright, shoving Kal aside as he stormed past, the urgency in his movements mirroring the dread spreading through his veins.

Outside, the chaos unfolded before his eyes. Warriors and strategists scrambled into their designated positions, their hurried footsteps forming an anxious rhythm against the hardened earth. As Centric pushed forward, he saw it, a colossal dust cloud rising from the distant horizon, an ominous harbinger of the ferocious and terrifying bestiary charging toward them. His throat tightened. The ground beneath him felt unsteady, as if trembling in anticipation of the carnage to come.

With a sharp pivot, Centric turned on his heels and sprinted back. "Prepare the Miasmothrower!" he commanded, his voice slicing through the mounting tension like a war horn.

He climbed onto the levitating Aether Glide, the sleek metallic frame humming with contained energy. Atop it stood an ominous contraption, machines bearing the resemblance of conventional firearms but built for something far deadlier. The Miasmothrower, its wide circular muzzle gleamed menacingly under the fading twilight, accompanied by a heavy gun mantlet. Two subordinates flanked it, gripping its sides in anticipation.

Centric's gaze swept over his forces, his chest rising and falling in controlled urgency. "Who's bringing the Thanacrite?!" he barked.

From amidst the rushing crowd, a group of eight members hauled forward a large reinforced crate, its thick metal clasps barely containing six volatile cylindrical containers within. Their strained expressions spoke volumes, the reality of their unpreparedness settling like a lead weight upon their shoulders.

Tension coiled around them, thick and suffocating. None of them had expected the storm to come this soon.

Meanwhile, miles away, Nyxander and Karl rode atop their own levitating Aether Glide, gliding silently through the open air. The wind howled past them, whispering secrets of an impending battle.

Nyxander, standing tall, lifted his gaze towards the primordial expanse, where the stars flickered like silent spectators to fate's unfolding drama. His expression, carved from stone, remained unreadable.

"It has begun," he murmured, his words a quiet prophecy swallowed by the vastness of the heavens.