Marc was clinging to the missile with one arm as it tore across the skies of Garida at over seven thousand kilometers per hour. The wind struck his face so hard that his aura had to absorb the impact.
Never before had he moved at such speed. The ground pursuit alone had drained him, and only now did he realize—subconsciously—he had already pushed far beyond his limits.
He hadn't even noticed the shockwave trailing behind him, spreading chaos in its wake. He had focused on only one thing, oblivious to whether his sprint had injured—or even killed—those left in the destruction behind.
And even now, that thought was the last of his concerns.
The velocity and weight of A42 were overwhelming. Under normal circumstances, it would have taken another missile, fired at just the right angle, to detonate it midair. But at this speed—even for Marc—that was impossible.
His arm flailed like a rag caught in a storm. No, in truth, it was his entire body twisting violently in every direction, like a worm in a storm.
Marc had never been humiliated like this before. A part of him wanted to release his grip, to fall freely into the night sky. But his mind was no longer concerned with the shame of his position.
He had to divert the missile.
And yet, the moment he managed to stabilize himself—barely—he understood that even this would demand an immense effort, bordering on the impossible. It seemed just as hopeless as stopping it outright.
But Marc refused to accept that thought.
"No. I have to try."
Marc clung desperately to every edge his hands could find, forcing his way toward the missile's head. Its flawless, polished surface was anything but forgiving, and at such speed even grasping the small stabilizing fin was a Herculean task.
At last, he reached the nose. One hand locked onto the tip and..
...he gambled everything.
"COME ON!"
Releasing his grip, Marc gathered every ounce of aura into his right arm. With a sharp exhale, he unleashed it all at once through his palm, slamming against the missile's frame to force its trajectory skyward.
It was insane. Reckless. A violation of every law of physics known to man. And yet—technically—not impossible. Still, without aura, leaping over a hundred meters into the sky, latching onto a missile traveling faster than eight thousand kilometers per hour, and attempting to alter its path with nothing but brute force… was enough to define Marc's act as the impossible itself.
Even with aura, the feat was perilous.
Too much strength, and the missile would detonate against him. Too little, and it would continue its death course unhindered. His strike had to be surgical—precise enough to alter its path skyward without fracturing its core.
With no foothold left, all he could do was pray his mastery of aura would suffice to spare him from death.
Then, he saw it...
The missile's trajectory bent. It surged upward like a firework piercing the night.
He had done it.
A wide smile spread beneath Marc's mask as his body plummeted from over a hundred meters above ground. A rush of elation surged through him, drowning out fatigue and pain. He had diverted an A42. Against all odds, he had done the impossible. Pride swelled in his chest, and for a fleeting moment he simply let himself fall, savoring his victory.
It deserved to be celebrated.
And yet…
At Jerkov military base, a city not far from there, the images streaming from the missile's onboard cameras were beyond belief. Soldiers and commanders alike froze, their eyes widening as they watched a lone man in black armor, a white mask upon his face, forcing their weapon of annihilation off course with nothing but his bare hands—hundreds of meters in the air.
The room fell silent. Skin turned pale as snow.
"This… this is impossible, right?"
"How…?"
"Who is that man? Some kind of superior being?"
"Has he… transcended human limits?"
It was a spectacle no one had ever anticipated.
Technology had pushed many human beings to achieve great feats over time, and some had even been labeled as supermen without it.
It was as if a being from another world had possessed his body, turning impossible deeds into trivial gestures.
The pale mask glowed faintly, its contrast with the dark armor sharper than ever, as though fate itself demanded all eyes witness the Death of War in his moment of defiance.
The almost celestial apparition shattered the minds of all who beheld it.
And then..
The door to the command room creaked open.
A man entered, his steps slow, his tone almost dismissive of the miracle unfolding on screen.
"Well, well…"
The man had long golden hair, piercing blue eyes, and wore robes befitting a mage.
He entered the chamber with utmost composure, even as the unthinkable unfolded before their very eyes.
Adorned with countless jewels of immense worth, he bore one treasure in particular—one the Zvenne Empire had never possessed: the Garid. The same name as his own.
He walked with elegance, flanked by guards clad in mage-like attire, every step radiating authority.
A glow gracefully emanated from him: the aura of Aeros, The War.
And though Marc's terrifying display of strength drew beads of sweat from him, he advanced with calm dignity, supported by the aura that loomed unseen behind his every motion. Marc, of course, knew nothing of it.
He had no idea who Aeros truly was, nor did he realize that the aura itself had orchestrated everything. To him, it was only war—war to be won at any cost. And against Zvenne, nuclear fire was simply the most efficient solution.
When Garid finally spoke, his words were cold, stripped of any trace of humanity.
"Activate the thrusters."
And On the battlefield, Marc's triumph shattered.
With a sudden roar, the missile's auxiliary thrusters ignited, tearing it away from its altered path. In mere seconds, its nose pivoted, dragging its body back onto a deadly horizontal course—racing once more toward Zvenne at full speed.
Marc's voice, almost swallowed by the chaos of the wind and the fall, trembled with despair. If anyone had heard it, they would have heard the fragile cry of a man desperate to deny reality.
"No…"
He had not even reached the ground when the missile had already reclaimed the horizon.
"No!!"
He screamed, but it was useless. The missile was gone—vanishing into the distance as his body continued to plummet, powerless to stop it.
His descent seemed to slow, every raindrop striking his white mask like bullets against his skin. A crushing weight pressed onto his chest, despair filling every corner of his soul. His voice broke, dissolving into sorrow.
"I couldn't...even…"
In the capital, the authorities had already been warned of the incoming missile—an A42 carrying a nuclear warhead.
Citizens were forced into bunkers built for such a scenario. Yet Emperor Turcan knew it might not be enough. None of them had ever truly witnessed the destructive power of an A42.
"So… they've chosen the nuclear path outright."
In Garida, rare material had once been discovered near the empire's erupting volcanoes. He had named it the Gar due to the sovereign again. It was very special because when placed in the presence of a simple drop of water, a chain reaction would trigger, causing a colossal explosion. No one knew why this strange stone reacted so violently, but the first tragic discovery had occurred when a warehouse attempted to wash a fragment. The ensuing catastrophe came to be remembered as The Yoke of Gar.
Since then, it had not taken long for scientists to realize the stone's true purpose: a perfect bomb.
Turcan narrowed his eyes.
"So… Gar never had any other use after all."
Behind him stood Exorian, visibly shaken. The old buttler had endured too many horrors at the Emperor's side already, and this new crisis threatened to break him entirely.
The bomb alert had nearly killed the him of a sudden cardiac circus. Regaining his composure, he had ordered the soldiers and officers to hide and prepare for a violent impact; undoubtedly the most violent they had ever experienced.
The capital was armed with anti-missile defenses, but even Turcan himself doubted they would succeed. Even if the A42 were destroyed in the sky, the force of its detonation might still obliterate everything.
Theoretically, hacking into the guidance system could have worked. But with the missile racing at over eight thousand kilometers per hour, there was no time. Hoping to stop it now was nothing but a fool's dream.
Exorian let out a long, weary sigh. To him, the world seemed on the verge of collapse. And yet, his Emperor stood firm, head held high, radiating a calm coldness that defied the chaos.
"What will you do, Your Majesty?"
Turcan, ruler of half the world, remained silent for a long while before answering in a low, chilling voice.
"Do not worry, Exorian. Brudmand said she would handle it."
Moments earlier, Elie had stormed into the palace, disrupting everything in her path. The ruckus she caused had reached the Emperor's senses long before she even entered the throne room.
The young girl appeared with eyes burning with unyielding determination, her very presence thickening the air. People like her—Marc, and the others of his group—could no longer step anywhere without the world itself trembling around them.
The Emperor arched an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by the intensity radiating from her.
"How did you get in? Did you not see the guards?"
Elie tilted her head slightly, with innocent nonchalance.
"What guards?"
Turcan's eyes sharpened. He had already understood the fate of those who had dared stand in her way.
"I will make your identity known from now on. That way, you won't have to crush everyone who crosses your path."
Elie's reply came with fire, unwavering and absolute.
"I'm going to stop the missile."
For the first time in his life, the Emperor seemed genuinely surprised. Even if it wasn't very visible on his face.
What?"
Exorian was dumbfounded. To even measure the weight of the girl's words, it would need instruments far more sophisticated than anything he had.
How did she want to stop a missile? He knew that the kids had inherited strange powers from the other world, but he had never seen them do more than fight with their bare hands in a chaotic and ungraceful manner. Stopping a missile carrying a nuclear bomb at over eight thousand km/h did not seem like an accomplishment they were capable of.
"Do you even realize what you just said?"
But Elie did not flinch.
"Certainly."
The Emperor spoke with calm, measured tones, despite the impending catastrophe. Resting his chin against his right hand, he regarded the girl with eyes cold as steel, seated regally upon his throne.
Elie, however, stood upright upon the red carpet, fists clenched tight. Her eyes locked onto the Emperor's with unwavering confidence and resolve.
At last, after a long silence, Turcan exhaled softly.
"Very well. I leave the matter to you."
Exorian was struck dumb.
"But… Majesty..."
"Silence, Exorian. Do you not trust your Emperor?"
This time, Turcan's voice cut sharp, authoritative—a blade reminding the old buttler of his place.
Exorian lowered his head.
"I trust you, Majesty. "
Turcan allowed the faintest of smiles to appear as he rose and turned toward the direction of the impact.
"Then you have nothing to fear."