He didn't rise at first.
The pain was too much.
Not broken bones — not exactly. But impact had slammed his body so hard he felt like his soul had cracked. His limbs twitched as static pulsed through them, unfocused, wild. He couldn't tell what was burning — his nerves or the cliffside itself.
But he didn't scream.
He just breathed. One rasping inhale. Then another.
Then he moved.
Dren rolled onto his side, dragging his elbows beneath him, blinking through blood and dust. He reached up with one hand and gripped a twisted vine clinging to the cliff's edge. Pulled. Sputtered. Stood.
Below him — the world burned.
Not in flame, but in essence.
The landscape stretched for miles — black rock and shattered stone, rivers of silver ash coursing through canyons etched with impossible geometry. Craters the size of cities. Hills made of bone and scrap metal. Clouds hung low, poisoned and slow.
And walking across it… Titans.
Dozens. Hundreds. Some humanoid. Some insectile. One dragged a spine-like tail that glowed red-hot. Another moved like a spider, arms clicking with magnetic distortion. Each was a nightmare stitched into flesh and armor.
But not all were far away.
One stood directly below the ledge.
And it was looking at him.
Dren froze.
The Titan's head tilted slowly.
It stood twice the height of a gunship, lean but dense, with skin like tarnished iron and arms that glowed faintly along their seams. Its face was almost human — if a human skull had been carved from volcanic glass and left in the sun too long. Blue lights shimmered where eyes should've been. A vertical mouth slit ticked open with each breath.
It raised one arm.
A tremor rippled through the rocks.
Dren barely had time to drop before a boulder the size of a transport exploded upward and hurled toward him. He rolled, sparks flicking from his shoulders as the boulder screamed over him and shattered the cliff face behind.
He ran.
Lightning surged through his legs — not full dashes, but flickers, muscle-boosting bursts. His lungs burned with each step. The Titan raised both arms now, palms glowing, and the entire terrain lifted.
Stones. Ruins. Shattered beams. All began to float.
Dren didn't stop.
But behind him, the sky filled with debris.
And then the first wave hit.
Metal beams spun like blades. He dodged the first, rolled under the second. A third scraped his back — sparks flared, pain seared up his spine. He dove behind a jagged pillar of rock.
The moment he landed, it ripped into the air — pulled from its roots and flung into the sky.
The Titan wasn't guessing. It could see him. Track him.
And it wasn't just throwing.
It was testing.
Dren skidded down a steep slope, lightning snapping from his shoulders to his calves. His boots left streaks of static as he hit the bottom and turned—
The Titan stood waiting.
And now it walked.
Every step sent small quakes through the stone. Dust rose. Ash curled. The blue lights of its eyes locked onto him — and Dren saw not hunger, not rage…
Strategy.
This wasn't a beast.
It was a hunter.
And Dren was the first thing in a long time that had made it curious.
He clenched his fists. Lightning snapped between his knuckles.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's see what precision really means."
He dashed forward.
The ground cracked beneath him as he surged in, dodging a car-sized slab of rubble thrown sideways. His blade wasn't with him — but his hands were enough. He leapt, right fist forward, and drove a lightning punch into the Titan's left thigh.
Impact.
The blow cracked armor.
Electric arcs climbed the creature's body.
It stumbled—just slightly—but swung an arm and hurled a car-sized stone directly at Dren. He blink-dashed sideways. The rock missed by inches. He slammed another punch into the Titan's ribs — this time with a chain arc — lightning leaping from one strike to the next, carving burns across its midsection.
The Titan staggered.
But then it stopped. And raised both hands.
Every floating object — boulders, bones, black-metal spears — froze in midair.
Dren's veins sparked.
"Come on—"
The air collapsed.
Everything flew at once.
A hundred weapons. A thousand blades. Like a rain of knives from all sides. Dren dodged left. Right. Blinked forward—but too slow.
WHAM.
Two massive stones, each the size of a hover-jeep, crashed into him from opposite sides.
Pain.
Crushing, electric.
Blood.
He collapsed.
The Titan approached, one arm raised — fingers curling as the air thickened. Rocks lifted again. Dren floated slightly, held in place by an invisible grip. The Titan tilted its head once, studying him.
Then it flung him.
Miles.
⸻
He flew like a comet — spiraling, broken, burning. The sky screamed past.
He didn't know how far.
He didn't know if he was alive.
Only that the air kept getting cleaner. Lighter. Brighter.
And then—
Impact.
He didn't crash into rock.
He smashed into a wall.
Stone shattered around him. Flags tore. Market stalls exploded in splinters as he hit the ground and skidded through cobblestones like a cannonball.
Then — silence.
Groans. Gasps. Feet scattering.
He opened one eye.
Above him, towering structures. Smooth walls. Banners. Laughter turned to screams. Civilians in long robes ran from him. Children froze, staring.
One woman in a copper headdress backed away, hands over her mouth.
Then someone shouted:
"Another outsider! Get the guards!"
Dren blinked. Blood ran down his temple.
His lightning flickered like a dying fire.
He tried to stand.
The guards were already coming.
He'd been hit by Titans.
He'd been crushed between stone.
He'd fallen from the sky.
But nothing had prepared him for the silence of a crowd that didn't know whether to fear him… or kill him.
Dren Mako lay in the center of a shattered square, his body half-buried in rubble and torn market cloth. Smoke drifted from his arms in faint coils. His cloak was in tatters. His left boot had been nearly ripped off during the landing. Blood streamed from his temple, soaking the cracked stone beneath his head.
All around him, people stared.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
They stood behind broken carts, through open arches, on balconies that overlooked the plaza. Most were robed, wrapped in cloth the color of storm-washed stone, but a few wore bronze and violet armor lined with scales — guards, likely ceremonial, but their spears looked very real.
They didn't speak at first. None of them did.
They just watched.
The outsider had fallen from the sky.
And he was glowing.
Faint veins of yellow still pulsed beneath his skin — not bright, not fierce, but enough. Enough to make children hide behind parents. Enough to make grown men hesitate.
Dren tried to move.
His arm shook. He pressed it beneath him, fingers grinding against loose stone, and pushed.
Pain screamed through his side — the price of a battle fought half-dead and a flight not survived, just endured. His ribs might be cracked. His spine bruised. But he forced himself to sit.
The crowd gasped.
A few backed away.
One voice — high and reedy — cried out in panic:
"He's alive!"
Another shouted from behind a pillar:
"Another outsider! The gods aren't done with us!"
And then came the command.
Firm. Clear. Trained.
"Shields up. Restrain him!"
Six guards moved in at once, forming a circle. Their steps were precise — not soldiers, not warriors, but trained enforcers. Their armor clicked softly with each step, scales interlocked, faces hidden behind smooth masks of copper and black glass.
The first raised a weapon — something between a spear and a halberd — and barked:
"Stay down! Do not move again!"
Dren looked up at them, head still swimming.
"…Where…?" he managed.
Another stepped forward. Voice female, steady.
"You are in the capital province of Kireth'Vael — the last kingdom still standing."
The others raised their weapons.
"You fell from the sky. You carry forbidden light. You are under arrest."
Dren blinked. Blood from his brow slipped into his left eye. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and stared at the guards closing in.
He could fight.
He could try.
But he wouldn't survive another direct confrontation — not now. Not without healing. Not with his entire nervous system still recovering from the Titan's assault.
So he breathed.
Lowered his hands.
And nodded.
"…Fine," he rasped.
The woman stepped forward, snapped a cuff of strange material onto his wrist — and for the first time in hours, Dren felt his internal charge dim. Not erased, but contained.
They had tech. Not like the ship. Not like the wrecks of Khar-Tor.
But something here… had survived.
And something here, understood power.
He was lifted by two guards — not gently — and dragged across the square. The crowd parted. People whispered. One child, unafraid, stared at him with wide silver eyes.
Dren stared back.
Not with anger.
With resolve.
Because whatever this place was — kingdom, city, sanctuary — it wasn't the Titans' domain.
It was something new.
And now they knew he existed.
They would ask questions.
They would demand answers.
But in time — they'd realize:
He wasn't here to be judged.
He was here to survive.