DATE: 01/05/501 PC (Post-Cataclysm)

  LOCATION: Sector 7 "The Shattered Thicket" – Outside Bastion Gamma

  The massive hydraulic gates of Bastion Gamma’s Southern Airlock hissed, releasing a pressurized burst of filtered air into the humid, neon-green atmosphere of the outside world.

  "Masks on! Check your seals, or you’re growing crystals in your windpipes before lunch!"

  Sergeant Macky "Mac" Fireseeker’s voice was muffled through the speaker of his Mid-Grade Manatech Gas Mask (MGM). A veteran scavenger with a face like a dried topographical map, Mac had survived twenty years in the Wastes without a suit. He adjusted the straps of his worn tactical vest, checking the pressure gauge on his hip. Green—he was good for twelve hours.

  Behind him stood the rest of Squad 4. Sara, the team’s lead scout, was busy recalibrating her handheld mana-radar. Beside her, "Little Jim" stood six-foot-eight, a mountain of a man hauling a hydraulic "Heavy Lifter" frame on his back. The frame was designed to carry back the massive scrap piles or crystalline shards they hoped to find.

  "Where’s the 'Shiny,' Sarge?" Little Jim grunted, his voice vibrating through his respirator. "The brass said we get an Elite today."

  "Right behind you, big guy."

  A silhouette stepped through the fading steam of the airlock. Azazel "Zel" Nightgaze didn't look like a soldier; he looked like a predator. His MBS suit was a masterpiece of body-tight, high-compression synthetic latex, matte black and shimmering with the subtle, deep-red glow of the mana-veins running beneath the surface. The additional black plate armor over his chest and shoulders gave him a broader, more menacing profile, protecting the thrumming Red Core in his chest.

  Zel didn't wear a mask. The suit did the breathing for him. He took a casual, deep breath of the toxic air, his obsidian eyes scanning the dense, mutated jungle ahead.

  "Squad 4, I assume?" Zel asked, his tone flippant and annoyingly relaxed. He leaned against the airlock frame, spinning a long, blackened alloy sword before clicking it into the magnetic lock on his back. "I’m Zel. Try to keep up, yeah? I’d hate to have to carry you all back."

  Mac narrowed his eyes behind his goggles. "Listen, 'Elite.' We’ve been out here since before you were in diapers. You’re here to keep the Goblins off our backs while we secure the tech-salvage. You play hero, we die. Got it?"

  Zel gave a mock salute, his smirk visible even in the dim light. "Clear as crystal, Sarge."

  The "Shattered Thicket" was a nightmare of fused worlds. Half-melted steel girders from a pre-cataclysm skyscraper were entwined with glowing, purple vines that pulsed with ambient mana. The air was thick, almost soup-like, shimmering with the deadly dust of crystallized mana.

  "Contact! Three o'clock!" Sara hissed, dropping to one knee and raising her manatech carbine.

  From the canopy above, three figures dropped. Goblins. But these weren't the fairy tales of old. They were lean, wiry creatures with skin the color of bruised fruit, their eyes glowing with a feral, yellow mana-light. They carried jagged bone-knives capable of slicing through standard military fatigues like paper.

  "Jim, get behind the scrap pile! Sara, suppressive fire!" Mac shouted, raising his own rifle.

  The humans in MGMs opened fire. Blue bolts of neutral mana flashed from their muzzles, but the Goblins moved with unnatural, mana-fueled agility, leaping between the rusted beams.

  "My turn," Zel whispered.

  The Red Core in his chest flared. The deep crimson light in his suit's veins turned into a blinding, electric white-red. In a heartbeat, the "laid-back" recruit vanished.

  Zel moved like a lightning strike. He didn't run; he blurred.

  He was in the air before the Goblins could react. His sword cleared its sheath with a hum of static. With a single, fluid horizontal slash, the blade projected a crescent wave of red electricity. The first Goblin didn't even scream; it was vaporized into a cloud of ash and sparks mid-air.

  Landing in a low crouch, Zel didn't stop. He unholstered his manatech sidearm with his left hand, firing three rapid shots. Each bullet, infused with red-affinity energy, tracked the remaining Goblins with heat-seeking precision.

  CRACK-BOOM.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The Goblins exploded in a shower of gore and sparks.

  Zel stood up, spinning his gun back into its holster and casually flicking a speck of monster blood off his body-tight sleeve. The red glow of his suit dimmed back to a low, rhythmic pulse. The whole encounter had lasted four seconds.

  Little Jim lowered his heavy-lifter, his jaw visible behind his mask's glass. "Holy... Sarge, did you see that?"

  Mac didn't answer immediately. He stared at the charred earth where the Goblins had been. He looked at Zel, who was currently checking his reflection in a piece of polished scrap metal, adjusting his swept-back black hair.

  "That was high-output tuning," Mac muttered, his voice grim. "You’re burning that core hot, kid. You keep that up, and you’ll attract something a lot bigger than Goblins."

  Zel turned, his obsidian eyes sparkling with a dangerous, carefree light. "Let them come, Sarge. I’ve got a lot of empty slots in my trophy case, and I hear Orc hearts make for great batteries."

  "Save the ego for the Bastion bars, Nightgaze," Mac growled, though his grip on his rifle loosened slightly. "Sara, find us that scrap signature. We’re not here for the scenery."

  As the squad pushed deeper into the Thicket, none of them noticed the shimmering, translucent eyes watching them from the high canopy—an Elven scout, her hand resting on a bow made of living crystal, her gaze locked onto the Red Core in Zel's chest.

  The hunt had truly begun.

  DATE: 01/05/501 PC: 5:40 PM

  LOCATION: Sector 7 "The Shattered Thicket"

  The deep interior of the Shattered Thicket was a graveyard of the old world. A rusted transit rail, suspended fifty feet in the air by gargantuan, glowing vines, groaned under the weight of the dense mana-wind.

  "Found it," Sara whispered, her voice crackling through the squad comms. She was hunched over a half-buried bulkhead—the remains of an old-world data center. "Sarge, the signature is clean. It’s an intact pre-cataclysm server array. The platinum and circuitry alone are worth six months of high-grade air filters."

  "Jim, get the claws on it. Quick and quiet," Mac ordered, his eyes never leaving the perimeter. He kept his manatech rifle tucked into his shoulder, his MGM filters wheezing with a rhythmic, mechanical hiss.

  Little Jim stepped forward, his hydraulic frame whirring. The massive metal pincers on his back extended, groaning as they bit into the reinforced steel bulkhead. "Almost... got it... it's a heavy one, Sarge!" With a violent lurch of pistons, Jim ripped the server rack free, the ancient metal screaming in protest.

  Zel stood ten yards away, perched atop a jagged piece of concrete. He looked bored, lazily tossing a small, spent neutral mana shell into the air and catching it. His suit's red veins pulsed with a low, idle thrum, the body-tight material shimmering as it adapted to the fluctuating ambient pressure.

  "Wrap it up, kids," Zel said, his obsidian eyes drifting toward the canopy. "The air's getting sticky. Something’s dampening the ambient mana around us."

  Mac froze. "Sara, check the radar. Now."

  "I... I’m not seeing anything," Sara stammered, tapping the side of her wrist-mounted display. "Wait. The background noise just went silent. There's a localized mana-void at twelve o'clock high—"

  TWANG.

  It wasn't the sound of a mechanical weapon. It was the sound of a soul snapping.

  A bolt of pure, translucent White mana, carved into the shape of a jagged arrow, whistled through the green fog. It moved with a predatory intelligence, curving around a rusted pylon.

  "Sara, down!" Mac screamed.

  He lunged for her, his veteran instincts overriding his fear. He shoved the scout into the dirt just as the arrow struck. It didn't pierce her chest, but it grazed her shoulder, the mana-impact shredding her MGM’s intake hose and the tactical vest beneath.

  "AH!" Sara tumbled into the mud, clutching her shoulder as the toxic ambient mana began to hiss into her broken mask.

  "SARA!" Jim roared, trying to turn with the heavy server rack still locked in his frame.

  TWANG. TWANG.

  Two more arrows followed. One struck Mac’s rifle, shattering the manatech housing and sending a feedback shock through his arms that sent him spiraling backward. The second arrow headed straight for Mac’s throat.

  CLANG.

  A blur of matte black and burning red intercepted the bolt. Zel was suddenly there, his alloy sword held in a reverse grip, the blade glowing with white-hot lightning. The elven arrow shattered against his steel, dissipating into harmless sparks.

  "Move! Now!" Zel’s voice had lost its flippant edge. It was cold, vibrating with the power of the Red Core. "Jim, take Mac and Sara and run for the extraction zone! Don't stop for anything!"

  "But Zel—" Jim started, seeing the green blood seeping from Mac’s arms.

  "GO!" Zel roared. He turned his head slightly, his eyes glowing a predatory crimson. "I’ve got a guest to entertain."

  From the high canopy, the Elven scout finally revealed himself. He didn't look like the graceful forest dwellers of ancient myths; he was a wraith of war. Wearing light, crystalline armor and a cowl made of shifting leaves, he held a bow that seemed to be grown from a human spine. His eyes were cold, ancient, and fixed entirely on the Red Core in Zel’s chest.

  "A heart of the Crimson Flame," the Elf spoke, his voice echoing in the mana-mist. "You wear the soul of my kin like a trophy, human. I will take it back."

  "Come and get it, Pointy-ears," Zel retorted, though his hand gripped his sword tighter. He felt the heat of the suit increasing—the sign of a high-tuning combat state.

  Behind him, Jim had hoisted the injured Mac over one shoulder and grabbed the sobbing Sara by her webbing. They were retreating, the heavy server rack clanking as they vanished into the fog toward the Bastion’s perimeter.

  The Elf didn't chase them. To him, the "monkeys in masks" were irrelevant. His prize was the glowing reactor in the center of the black-latex suit.

  Zel shifted into a combat stance, his body-tight suit tightening further as the mana-veins surged, preparing his muscles for extreme speed. The air around them began to crackle with static.

  "You’re fast," Zel noted, a dark smirk returning to his face. "But let’s see if you’re faster than lightning."

  The Elf drew three arrows at once. Zel unholstered his gun.

  The forest went silent as the two hunters locked eyes, the "Crusade" narrowing down to a single, deadly point of contact.