Cain stood among the smoldering ruins of the outpost, the wind thick with ash and ozone. The night was split by streaks of gunfire and the collapsing hum of dying energy barriers. He could still smell the copper tang of blood beneath the metallic smoke, could still hear the echoes of the fallen.
The war had dragged itself into a grotesque rhythm—advance, collapse, burn, repeat. Every victory tasted the same: hollow, bitter, bought with screams. The council's banners still shimmered in the distance, faint holographic illusions pretending that order still existed.
Cain sheathed his blade and walked through the wreckage. His coat dragged against the scorched concrete, sparks leaping from the embers still clinging to the corpses. One of the bodies stirred—barely alive.
The soldier's voice rasped through the static, "You… think this changes anything?"
