Lord Caelum of House Vane hated the Western Reach. He hated the rain, he hated the smell of unwashed infantry, and he especially hated the way the mud splattered against the pristine white hull of his Solar Chariot.
As a Warrior of the Empire, Caelum was a weapon of mass destruction draped in silk and gold. He hovered fifty feet above the battlefield, his chariot drawn by two spectral gryphons manifested from pure mana. Below him, the 4th Auxiliary Infantry was supposed to be dying—a necessary sacrifice to slow down the Iron Torrent's advance until he could arrive and scour the earth with Fire.
"Driver," Caelum drawled, checking his reflection in his polished shield. "Take us down to the front line. I shall descend like the morning sun and break their morale."
"My Lord," the driver hesitated, peering over the edge. "I... I don't think there is a front line anymore."
Caelum scoffed. "Cowards. They broke already? Typical conscript trash."
He waved a hand, and the chariot descended, glowing with a soft, divine light that was meant to inspire awe. Caelum rehearsed his opening line: Fear not, citizens, for the Light has arrived.
But as the chariot broke through the smoke layer, Caelum's mouth hung open. The words died in his throat.
There was no battle line. There was no screaming.
The narrow valley, which should have been swarming with the Iron Torrent's steam-walkers and pneumatic pikes, looked like a child had thrown a tantrum in a toy shop.
Massive brass walkers lay toppled on their sides, their legs bent at impossible angles. Iron plates were scattered like confetti. A siege tank was upside down, its treads spinning lazily in the air.
And in the center of the devastation sat one man.
He was massive—a slab of muscle coated in muck and oil. He was sitting on the chest of a deactivated, sparking enemy Centurion-class Mech, eating a green apple he must have looted from a dead officer's satchel.
"What in the nine..." Caelum whispered.
The chariot touched down ten yards away, hovering just above the gore. Caelum stepped off, his golden boots staying impeccably clean thanks to a repulsion charm. He marched toward the lone survivor.
"You there!" Caelum projected his voice with a minor cantrip, making it boom. "Soldier! Report!"
The man didn't jump. He didn't scramble to his feet and salute. He took a loud, wet crunch of the apple. He chewed slowly, then looked at Caelum with eyes that were terrifyingly calm.
"Hey," the soldier said. His voice was deep, like stones grinding together underwater. "You're late. The party's over."
Caelum's face went red. "I am Lord Caelum, a Warrior of the Third Rank! You will stand when addressed, grunt! Where is your commanding officer? Where is the enemy?"
The soldier pointed with the apple core toward the pile of scrap metal beneath his butt. "Sitting on him. I think. It's hard to tell the captains from the corporals when they get folded."
Caelum stared at the wreckage. He walked closer, his eyes widening. The metal of the mech's chest plate wasn't cut by a blade or melted by magic. It was dented. Great, erratic impressions that looked like fists and fingers.
"You..." Caelum looked at the soldier, then back at the wreckage. "You expect me to believe you did this? With what? A siege ballista?"
The soldier stood up.
Caelum instinctively took a step back. The man was huge, yes, but it was his presence that was unsettling. He felt... heavy. As he stood, the mud around his boots seemed to squeeze outward, as if the earth itself was struggling to support his density.
"Nah," the soldier said, tossing the apple core away. "Just sort of... pushed them." He stretched his arms, a sound like a ship's mast snapping. "Felt good. finally got to stretch."
"Stretch?" Caelum sputtered. "This is military hardware! This is the Iron Torrent! You are a conscript! You are—"
CLANK-HISSS.
The sound of venting steam cut him off.
From the fog bank at the far end of the valley, a shadow emerged. It was a Colossus-Class siege walker. Standing thirty feet tall, bristling with rotary cannons and a main mortar on its back, it was the pride of the rebel army. It had evidently been lagging behind the main force.
Its sensory lights turned red as it locked onto the golden glow of Caelum's armor.
"Reinforcements," Caelum sneered, composing himself. He raised his staff. "Finally. Watch closely, peasant. This is how true power is wielded. I shall summon the Lance of the Sun and—"
Caelum began the chant. It was a complex spell, requiring eighteen seconds of incantation to gather the ambient mana. Golden runes began to circle his head.
The Colossus raised its rotary cannons. The barrels began to spin.
"Hey, Goldilocks," the soldier interrupted. "You talk too much."
Caelum faltered in his chanting. "Silence! I am concentrating!"
"Whatever."
The soldier didn't look at Caelum. He looked at the wreckage next to him. Specifically, the torn-off turret of the upside-down tank. It was a solid block of cast iron and barrel, easily weighing two tons.
The soldier bent his knees. He grabbed the barrel of the turret with both hands.
"Hrrrah!"
With a grunt that shook the puddles on the ground, the soldier ripped the turret free from the remaining chassis. Veins the size of garden hoses bulged on his neck.
Caelum stopped chanting. His jaw dropped. "That... that is not possible."
The soldier spun. Once. Twice. Like a hammer thrower in the Olympics, but with a tank turret instead of a metal ball. The momentum built with terrifying speed.
"FORE!" the soldier roared.
He released.
The two-ton chunk of iron flew through the air. It didn't arc gracefully; it flew flat and hard, screaming as it tore through the sound barrier.
The Colossus pilot had just enough time to flash his headlights in confusion.
CRUNCH.
The turret slammed into the cockpit of the Colossus with the force of a meteorite. The impact didn't just break the glass; it took the entire head of the walker off. The massive machine stumbled backward, headless, sparking wildly, before crashing into the mud with an earth-shaking thud.
Silence returned to the valley.
The soldier exhaled, steam rising from his shoulders. He turned to look at Caelum, a wide, boyish grin on his face.
"Strike," he said.
Caelum stood frozen, his half-finished spell dissipating into harmless sparks. He looked at the headless giant, then at the soldier who was now casually wiping grease off his hands onto his ruined trousers.
"Who..." Caelum's voice trembled. He forgot his rank. He forgot his nobility. "Who are you?"
The soldier shrugged, the movement rippling with terrifying power.
"Philischus," he said. "Do you have any food on that floating wagon?"