"Somar really is reassuring!"
Muria sat atop an armored vehicle, watching his teammates cheer as they admired the red-haired young man waging war against a horde of wild beasts. Somar wielded his God Machine with reckless abandon, his figure a blur of destructive power among the monstrous ranks.
Muria shook his head slightly. Though the group admired Somar's combat prowess, he found the technique uninspired, even sloppy. The only reason Somar was dominating the battlefield so thoroughly was due to his repeatedly evolved God Machine—strengthened through multiple uses of its forbidden "Devour" form—and his enhanced, superhuman physique.
Moreover, they were still within ten kilometers of the base city, benefiting from the suppressive effects of the world's protective energies against the beasts.
Yes, this world, as battered and weakened as it was, still held on to some semblance of defensive power. Close to the base cities, the world's lingering vitality suppressed the strength of the invading monsters. The further from the base one traveled, however, the weaker this suppressive effect became. In uninhabited wastelands, where the world's influence waned entirely, the beasts were far more formidable.
This suppression effect was directly tied to the population size of a given base city. The more humans gathered in a single location, the stronger the suppression field they generated. It was this phenomenon that allowed the base cities to remain standing in an otherwise hostile and crumbling world.
"The world's desperate struggle… so feeble," Muria muttered to himself as he watched the battlefield unfold.
With his golden eyes glowing faintly, he saw something no one else could. Thin streams of energy—barely perceptible—flowed invisibly from the air into Somar's body as he fought.
"Secondary energy derived from source power," Muria observed, easily identifying the mysterious phenomenon. His tone carried a tinge of pity.
The dying world was so desperate to resist its impending demise that it had begun consuming its own foundational source power, splitting it into derivative energies to aid its defenders. It was, in effect, draining its life essence to delay the inevitable.
But this strategy was no more than a fleeting reprieve. Once the world's source power fell below a critical threshold, it too would collapse, just like the monsters it struggled to fight against.
Yet, for the world, there was no other choice. It was a gamble—a desperate bid to stave off destruction by empowering the few humans still capable of resistance.
"Such a waste," Muria sighed under his breath, watching the stream of energy infuse Somar and bolster his strength. Even the reckless overuse of his God Machine hadn't resulted in the usual backlash or transformation into a monster. Somar's extraordinary resilience, his enhanced physicality—none of it was natural. It was a gift from the world itself.
For the world, these extraordinary individuals were investments, crafted from its dwindling life force. The closer the world came to its end, the more such phenomena would occur—an inevitable outcome of its refusal to surrender.
"If only it were mine… What a waste," Muria murmured again. Despite the allure of this secondary energy, Muria refrained from seizing it. He had no interest in stealing from a dying world—not when his goals required its trust and cooperation.
"What are you mumbling about?" a young God Machine user, seated next to him, tilted her head curiously.
"Nothing important," Muria replied, brushing her off.
"Fenrir, you're pretty amazing too," the girl said, smiling brightly.
"Not really," Muria replied, his tone indifferent.
"Don't be so modest. One day, you might become as strong as Captain Somar."
"Maybe."
This was Muria's first patrol mission, and so far, he had only intervened twice in battle. As a newcomer, he had been ordered to remain inside the armored vehicle during skirmishes—a restriction that grated on his nerves.
"Fenrir, next time we encounter less than ten beasts, you'll join us in the fight," Somar called out as the patrol resumed.
"Alright," Muria responded absentmindedly, his gaze drifting toward the dim sky above.
"Fenrir," Somar continued, his tone stern, "I know your combat performance during the base tests was outstanding, but don't let it go to your head. Fighting in the wild is a whole different beast. Stay sharp."
"I understand," Muria replied, his tone dry and dismissive. His mind was already elsewhere, contemplating how to summon his legion to this world.
There was no longer any need for pretense. He had gathered enough information. Now was the time to act decisively.
Howls and roars erupted.
From both sides of the ruined streets, monstrous beasts of all shapes and sizes emerged from the shadows, their eyes glowing with malevolence as they surged toward the patrol convoy.
Gunfire erupted in response, filling the air with the deafening cacophony of bullets and explosions. The armored vehicles unleashed their full arsenal, holding the beasts at bay—for now.
But this was only a temporary reprieve.
If conventional firearms were truly effective, the God Machines would never have been created. Small arms fire was useless against stronger beasts, and even heavy weaponry like rocket launchers could only wound the weakest among them. Against true heretic god minions, human-made weapons were little more than toys.
"Something's wrong. We cleared this area just two weeks ago. There shouldn't be this many beasts here," the driver of Muria's vehicle muttered, his voice trembling.
"Nothing unusual about it," another soldier replied grimly. "It just means the damn monsters are gathering for another assault on the base."
"It's a beast tide. We're doomed," someone whispered, despair thick in their voice.
Muria glanced around, noting the rising panic among the soldiers. In stark contrast, he smiled.
The base cities regularly sent out patrols to cull the beasts, preventing them from amassing in numbers large enough to overwhelm the world's suppression field. This was merely a temporary solution, a desperate holding action.
Humanity was clinging to survival, eking out a fragile existence in the shadow of annihilation. The true masters of this world were the heretic god minions and their monstrous spawn.
"God Machine users, all units, engage!" Somar's command rang out, cutting through the chaos.
At that moment, there were no distinctions between veterans and rookies. Every God Machine user present was expected to fight, regardless of their experience.
Boom!
Without waiting for further orders, Muria launched himself from the armored vehicle, a powerful leap propelling him directly into the heart of the beast horde. Blood sprayed into the air as his God Machine cleaved through the monsters like a hot knife through butter.
His recklessness drew startled glances from his comrades, but no one stopped him. In the face of such overwhelming odds, survival was uncertain for everyone.
"Kill them all!"
"Die, you damn beasts!"
The God Machine users roared as they joined the fray. Meanwhile, the convoy's firepower dwindled to avoid hitting their allies, reducing its effectiveness against the encroaching horde.
But Muria wasn't here to show off. He had a goal—to harvest the invisible streams of energy now permeating the air.
The secondary energy, derived from the world's dwindling source power, was his true prize. Its appearance signified the world's acknowledgment of him as an ally, a protector.
"That's enough," Muria murmured after a while.
He planted his God Machine into the corpse of a fallen beast, then raised a hand skyward. The streams of energy that had been flowing into his body suddenly reversed course, converging above him.
Crack!
The sound of shattering glass echoed as the space above Muria fractured. The cracks spread, forming a portal that radiated an intense, scorching heat.
From the other side of the portal, a deafening roar resounded.
ROAR!
The air trembled as a massive, crimson-scaled dragon emerged, its eyes glowing with primal fury.
The Dragon Legion had arrived.
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