The morning sun barely pierced the horizon, casting the remnants of darkness in hues of crimson and gold. The plains stretched endlessly, dotted with the shattered remains of fortresses and ancient ruins. Smoke spiraled from the distant mountains, twisted metal glinting with the first rays of light. Aeron stood atop a jagged cliff, the Dragon-Mecha coiled behind him like a guardian serpent, its scales catching the sun in blazing prisms.
The battlefield was quiet… for now. But the faint hum of energy from the approaching forces sent tremors through the ground. On the horizon, silhouettes of enemies began to emerge, ranging from Knight-class scouts to Legend-class commanders, their aura visible even at great distances. The Mecha's tactical interface displayed the hierarchy: each opponent's rank, power output, elemental affinity, and possible strategies. Yet, Aeron did not rely solely on the readouts. His Bloodline awakened instincts fed him data at a level beyond technology, allowing him to anticipate movements before they happened.
From the east, a squadron of Elite Knights rode forward, Mecha units and monstrous steeds moving with disciplined synchronicity. Their weapons sparked against the rising sun, blades and energy cannons aimed with lethal precision. Aeron's scythe glimmered faintly, absorbing ambient energy, wings of the Dragon-Mecha flexing as it prepared to strike.
The first wave of combat erupted like a tempest. Aeron dove into the fray, spinning his scythe in arcs that cleaved through enemy formations. Each strike was calculated: limbs severed, armor shattered, energy shields overloaded. The Elite units fell quickly, their formation disrupted before the OverLord-class lieutenants could respond.
But then, the real threat arrived. A Legend-class Mecha, its armor blackened with cursed energy, strode forward. Its aura was suffocating, each movement radiating centuries of battle experience. The Dragon-Mecha growled, sensing the immense power converging before them. Aeron adjusted his stance, his mind racing through tactical probabilities.
"This one… carries a Bloodline comparable to my own," he thought, scanning the enemy's energy signature. Its attacks were precise, unpredictable, and violent—an apex predator on the battlefield.
The clash was cataclysmic. Metal screamed against metal, energy collided with energy, and shockwaves shattered mountains and rivers alike. Every movement Aeron made was amplified by the Mecha; each strike was a symphony of destruction, while tactical projections calculated the enemy's next move in real time. Yet, instinct, skill, and Bloodline resonance guided him beyond mere numbers.
Time seemed to fracture as battle raged. Aeron leapt from peak to peak, Dragon-Mecha following in perfect synchrony. The enemy Legend-class swung a colossal energy blade, arcs of light slicing the air and tearing swaths through the plains. Aeron's scythe met it mid-air, sparks raining, energy rippling across the terrain like a shockwave.
Lower-ranked units fell like wheat before the scythe, their ranks crumbling under precision strikes and elemental manipulation. OverLord-class lieutenants attempted to regroup, but Aeron's strategic awareness outpaced them. He read their every move, predicting counterattacks before they could be executed.
The battle's intensity escalated as Mythic-class forces entered the field, their aura warping reality around them. Mountains trembled under their feet, air twisted into storms, and elemental energy crackled like static. Aeron's Bloodline flared, responding to the colossal threat. The Dragon-Mecha's wings unfurled fully, energy surging along every scale and joint. With a roar that resonated through the plains, Aeron surged forward, scythe spinning, wings cutting through clouds of ash and dust, eyes locked on the greatest threat.
Enemy units were no longer faceless soldiers—they were living indicators of hierarchy. Aeron could instantly assess: Knight, Elite, Expert, Lord, High-Lord, OverLord, Supreme Lord, Epic, Legend, Mythic… and beyond, where the Demi-God and God-class forces began to stir, sensing the clash and moving closer. The battlefield had become a living chessboard, and Aeron was simultaneously the player, the king, and the piece that could topple them all.
He did not pause. The clash of scythe against energy blade became a storm of light and sound. Each move produced shockwaves, each step fractured stone, each jump displaced air. Around him, lesser enemies scattered, some fleeing, some charging blindly, their ranks collapsing in waves. Aeron's Bloodline pulsed, feeding him strength, foresight, and instinct—a connection so profound that Mecha, pilot, and battlefield became one singular entity.
As the day progressed, the plains were transformed into a canvas of devastation. Rivers boiled, forests ignited, mountains fractured, and the sky above danced with elemental fury. Yet Aeron pressed forward, each strike precise, each movement calculated, each enemy's aura analyzed and countered. Even the Mythic-class forces, terrifying in their might, could not halt the onslaught.
By twilight, the battlefield was silent. The remnants of the enemy forces lay scattered, their ranks decimated, their command structure obliterated. Only shadows remained on the distant horizon, hinting at the greater war to come. Aeron stood amidst the ruin, Dragon-Mecha coiled protectively around him, wings folding like a storm-tamed leviathan.
The first step in his journey was complete, yet it was only a prelude. Kingdoms, empires, monstrous hordes, and legions of otherworldly beings would rise, testing his power, his mastery, and his very will. But now, the world had witnessed the might of the awakened Bloodline Knight.
Aeron's eyes scanned the horizon. The sun had set, but far beyond the shattered plains, armies still moved, shadows of conflict yet to be fulfilled. He flexed his grip on the scythe, the Dragon-Mecha responding with a low rumble, wings stretching against the night wind.
The war had begun.
And he would be the storm.
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