Shattered Sovereign

Thirty-seven days vanished like mist under the Hellzone's scorching heat. We plunged deeper into the wasteland than any sane being would venture, seeking increasingly powerful adversaries. The landscape transformed around us: obsidian formations giving way to crystalline fields, then to vast pits of churning obsidian quicksand harboring creatures beyond description.

I slavishly tracked our battles: over 200 confirmed kills, all from monsters ranging from level 75 to 85. Each encounter pushed my companions to their limits and sometimes beyond.

Arctur's scales bore a tapestry of fresh scars layered over healing wounds. His spear arm now moved with a slight tremor after a Razor King Crab severed three tendons. Yet his lizardman physiology proved remarkable; injuries that would have crippled humans healed within days, leaving only faint markings to commemorate his survival.

"Just a scratch," he'd insist after each battle, blood streaming from gashes across his torso. By the next morning, the wounds would be sealed, though I observed his movements growing incrementally stiffer with each passing week.

Casper's age revealed itself in subtle ways. His reflexes remained extraordinary, his berserker state as devastating as ever, but recovery took longer. Where once he'd shake off injuries between battles, now he required careful tending each night. I detected microscopic fractures forming in his major bones, stress injuries accumulating despite his phenomenal constitution.

"Getting soft in my old age," he'd mutter while binding cracked ribs or applying poultices to deepening bruises.

Only Barkatus seemed to thrive in this crucible. His reckless combat style bordered on suicidal as he deliberately took hits to create openings, using pain as fuel rather than hindrance. Once, a Hellspine Crawler impaled him through the shoulder, and he simply laughed, sliding himself further down the barb to get close enough to decapitate it.

My war frame suffered its own tribulations. Hydraulic systems ruptured under extreme pressure. Pneumatic conduits cracked in the sulfuric atmosphere. Twice I had to completely rebuild my right arm after encounters with corrosive-blooded Acid Shrimps. Yet with Assembly and the materials stored in my Depository, repairs took mere hours rather than days.

I stared at the status screen floating in my vision, the numbers a stark condemnation of our efforts. Level 83. After thirty-seven days of relentless combat, of risking our lives against increasingly deadly adversaries, I had gained merely five levels.

The mathematics were undeniable. At this rate, reaching level 100 would take months more, time I didn't have with Vardin's mantle already claimed by another. The godseed within me remained dormant, waiting for that crucial threshold.

I needed to venture deeper into the Hellzone's heart, where creatures of nightmare prowled. Where monsters above level 90 hunted each other in an endless dance of predation. Only there could I harvest enough experience to accelerate my growth.

My gaze drifted to my companions, sprawled around our meager camp. They had grown stronger alongside me: Arctur reaching level 57, Barkatus climbing to 65, Casper now at 74. Their progress was admirable, perhaps even remarkable by human standards.

And therein lay the problem.

An uncomfortable calculation formed in my mind. Their presence, while valuable in many ways, was hampering my advancement. Each monster they helped defeat meant experience divided, portions that could have been mine alone. More critically, their biological limitations constrained our hunting. Eight hours lost to sleep each night. Time spent preparing food, tending wounds, catching breath.

I required none of these things. My war frame could operate continuously, pausing only for essential repairs. Without them, I could hunt constantly, efficiently, maximizing every moment toward my goal.

The logical conclusion was clear: I needed to send them back to the enclave.

Yet I hesitated. Their voices around the campfire, their strategic insights during battles, even their arguments and rivalries; all had become unexpectedly precious. Their presence anchored me to something beyond the endless cycle of violence. Without them, would I become something less than what I aspired to be? A mindless killing machine, no better than the monsters I hunted?

I watched Barkatus sharpen his blade, Arctur medicating his wounds, Casper staring contemplatively into the fire. These fragile, remarkable beings had followed me into hell without hesitation.

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Perhaps efficiency wasn't everything. Perhaps there was value in this companionship that transcended cold calculation.

I closed the status screen. The decision could wait another day.

The Obsidian Lobster erupted from beneath the black sand with unnatural speed. I'd never witnessed anything so massive move so quickly: a twenty-foot behemoth with claws large enough to snip a man in half, skittering across the surface like water over hot metal.

Formation theta! I called, but the creature was already changing direction, its ten legs propelling it in erratic patterns that defied prediction.

I frantically calculated its trajectory as the monster's shell caught the dim light. Each plate overlapped with mathematical precision, creating an armor that seemed impenetrable. Barkatus struck first, his auric steel blade glancing off with a sound like breaking glass. Arctur followed, his Prophet-gifted spear connecting solidly, yet even that miraculous weapon merely scratched the surface, leaving faint white lines across the creature's carapace.

"We need to find a weak point!" Casper shouted, narrowly avoiding a sweeping claw that would have removed his head.

The creature pivoted, targeting me with singular focus. Perhaps I had angered it, or maybe it calculated that I posed the greatest threat. Whatever the reason, it accelerated directly toward me, sand spraying in its wake.

Time slowed as my processing capabilities peaked. Trajectory, mass, velocity: all variables crystallized into a single opportunity.

Five tendrils shot forth simultaneously, dragon heads opening wide. Their teeth clamped onto strategic points along the creature's shell, not attempting to penetrate but to secure purchase. I anchored the remaining four tendrils into the ground behind me, creating tension in the system.

I didn't try to stop the Lobster, that would have been impossible. Instead, I became the fulcrum, the pivot point around which its tremendous momentum would flow. As it reached me, I twisted my core, tendrils straining against their limits.

The monster sailed overhead in a perfect arc, its legs thrashing uselessly against air. Its trajectory carried it directly into a towering obsidian formation fifty feet tall.

The impact resonated through the ground beneath us. The pillar shuddered, cracked, then collapsed entirely upon the stunned creature. Massive shards of obsidian rained down, several striking the Lobster's shell with enough force to finally breach its defenses, cracking that impossibly thick shell open.

Now! I commanded.

My companions converged with practiced precision. Barkatus drove his blade into an exposed joint, his strikes no longer glancing but penetrating deep. Arctur's spear found purchase in the softer underbelly revealed by the creature's awkward position. Casper methodically disabled its legs, his greatsword severing the complex joints with surgical precision.

I channeled mana through my tendrils, forming a Mana Shell around each dragon head. The ability transformed them from gripping appendages to piercing weapons that bypassed what remained of the creature's defenses. Each tendril plunged deep into the monster's body, seeking vital organs.

The Lobster thrashed wildly, its claws snapping at anything within reach. One caught Arctur's thigh, drawing blood, but the lizardman merely snarled and drove his spear deeper in response.

After ninety-seven seconds of sustained assault, the monster's movements slowed, then ceased entirely. A system notification appeared in my vision:

I withdrew my tendrils, hydraulic systems hissing as pressure normalized. One step closer to the threshold I needed. Sixteen more levels to go.

A sudden alert from Chonsey stopped me in my tracks. The pink-painted scout spider had frozen, its sensory arrays pulsing rapidly. Within seconds, my other scout spiders converged their focus, confirming Chonsey's detection.

Something's coming, I announced, my voice calm despite the urgency. From beneath us.

Barkatus wiped Lobster ichor from his auric steel blade. "More monsters? Good. I was just getting warmed up."

"Formation delta," Casper commanded, his weathered face showing no fear, only tactical assessment. "Vardiel, center position. Your sensory capabilities give us the advantage."

We formed a tight defensive circle around the Lobster's corpse. Five minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by the soft whirring of my hydraulics as I adjusted my tendrils' positions. The black sand forty feet ahead began to shift, then bulge upward.

A crimson form emerged, not with the violent eruption of a monster, but with deliberate, controlled movement. Its shell-like carapace gleamed under the dim Hellzone light.

"A Voiceless?" Arctur lowered his spear, confusion evident in his reptilian features. "What's one doing this far from the enclave?"

Then I heard it, not with my ears, but directly within my consciousness: the Prophet's voice, resonating with impossible clarity despite the distance.

Machinery's Remnant, your path diverges from your companions now.

What's happening? I relayed the communication to the others.

Three days past, our sentinels detected a large human contingent entering the Hellzone. Not explorers or adventurers, but soldiers. Over one thousand strong, moving with purpose directly toward our humble sanctuary.

Damn it, I cursed. So the freed slaves did reported our location.

"A thousand troops?" Barkatus whistled. "That's not a scouting party or punitive expedition. That's an extermination force."

The thousand pawns are not my concern. The Voiceless can handle such numbers. It is their leaders that trouble me. Two individuals of exceptional power walk among them. Both have reached the System's limit.

"Level 100s?" Casper's face drained of color. "Gods above..."

"This isn't about slavery," Arctur realized, scales bristling. "Is it?"

Casper shook his head grimly. "No kingdom would send level 100s to deal with monster slavers. This is divine intervention."

I addressed the Voiceless. Can the Prophet identify these warriors?

The creature remained motionless as the Prophet's voice filled my mind again.

My Analyze reveals them as Sedna the Dervish and Coln the Hand of Death.

Casper swore violently. "Coln is bad enough; he's a necromancer of extraordinary skill. But Sedna..." He trailed off, his expression grim. "She's the most powerful graduate in the War Academy's history. Her spearwork makes master duelists look like children with sticks. And her devotion to Kanis Rael makes former Headmaster Reins look positively lukewarm in his faith."

"We need to return to the enclave," Arctur said, his normally steady voice trembling slightly. "My people-"

Prophet, I interjected, do you want us to abandon our training and return?

The Voiceless shook its head, the movement uncharacteristically human-like.

You must continue toward your destiny, Reflection of Vardin. The godseed within you must be allowed to mature. Your companions, however, are needed.

I looked at my three companions. Each face told a different story: Casper's resignation, Barkatus's barely contained excitement, Arctur's torn loyalty between his home and his commitment to me.

I didn't need to speak. A simple nod conveyed my understanding. This was always their fight too, not just mine.

Casper returned my nod, the gesture between us carrying the weight of our shared history.

Barkatus laughed, breaking the tension. "I always wanted to kill a level 100. Two is even better."

Arctur looked at me one final time, his yellow eyes clouded with concern for his people, before turning away.

"We'll see you again, Vardiel," Casper said, his voice steady. "When you're level 100… when you're a god."

"Don't die before we return," Barkatus added with a crooked smile.

Arctur simply clasped my mechanical arm, the gesture speaking volumes.

Then they were gone, following the Voiceless across the obsidian plain, leaving me alone with my scout spiders amid the desolation of the Central Hellzone.

Sixteen more levels to go. And now, a race against time.