On that Rainy Night…
The heavens wept in torrents, drumming upon rusted rooftops and cobbled streets like war drums echoing into a silent tragedy. Thunder groaned in the distance and lightning flashed fleeting scars across the night sky.
Amidst the storm, a figure emerged—a trembling woman cloaked in soaked linen, her dark skin glistening with rain and tears alike, as she cradled a crying infant to her chest. Her sobs nearly drowned in the rain, but the sorrow in her eyes was louder than any thunderclap. Beside her, a young man—her husband, perhaps—stood tall but visibly shaken, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into trembling fists.
Before them loomed the remains of an old story-building orphanage, its structure breathing with decay as moss clung to its walls.
The old rust-covered gate screeched in protest as it swung open, revealing a gaunt, elderly man stepping into the storm. He was clothed in faded robes that had once been regal, now stained with age and duty. His frame was lean but straight-backed, his movements deliberate despite age. His eyes, gray and shadowed by sleepless years, scanned the couple before settling on the child with disbelief.
"Impossible," he muttered, the rain cascading down his face like tears of his own. "A Guardian Vessel… born of common blood? This is a violation of the divine cycle. Such souls are forged in royal wombs, not… this." His voice trembled with reverence and dread.
He paused, eyes narrowing. "If word of this child's existence escapes—"
"—That's why you must help us, chief." The child's father voice cut through the storm like steel. "The world must never know. Not now. Not even him."
He paused, tightening his grip on the woman's hand. "He must live free of this pressure… not until he's old enough to carry the weight."
The chief's lips tightened into a line as he peered into the child's eyes—eyes glowing faintly beneath the stormlight, the mark of a vessel barely visible beneath the eyelids. With a weary sigh, he gently extended his arms, and after a moment's wrenching hesitation, the mother handed the baby over. Her hands trembled, her fingers brushing the child's cheek as if memorizing the texture of his warmth.
"You ask me to hide a spark destined to become a wildfire," the elderly man said solemnly. "Even royal-born vessels—guarded by wealth and warlocks, are not immune to the Gog Empire's greed. What hope does a child of humble birth have in a world ruled by blades, betrayal, and conquest?"
The woman collapsed to her knees, her wail muffled against the muddy ground. "Why our boy?" she cried, voice raw, breaking like glass in the storm. "Why him…?"
The father knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as she trembled violently against him. "He'll be safe here," he whispered shaky reassurances. "They'll never think to search for a god among the forgotten."
Then he rose, water dripping from his chin, and turned to the chief with solemn finality. "Thank you… for taking him in. I entrust his life to you, Chief."
The old man nodded and turned, slowly stepping back into the orphanage as the rain soaked his robe and the child's faint cries softened under the roof. But before the door could close, he hesitated.
"Does the boy have a name?" he asked without turning.
The couple who were just about to leave, suddenly paused. The father's steps faltered while the woman clutched her chest as if to keep her heart from falling out.
Then, the father looked back over his shoulder, rain casting shadows across his eyes.
"Nebula," he said.
And in that moment, a low rumble of thunder rolled once more—as though the world itself had taken note of the name.
Within the safety of the orphanage walls, the infant cried once more.
The storm outside raged on…
But the true storm—the one that would shake empires—had just been born.
******
And—Snap.
The present came crashing back like a tidal wave.
Nebula's eyes shot open, his body clawing out of the fog left by an explosion's aftermath—a sharp detonation that had hurled him clean off the cliffside moments earlier.
Above him, the ridge retreated quickly and battle sounds became distant echoes, swallowed by relentless wind and falling stone.
The world spun wildly in a downward blur of fractured light and movement, the horizon flipping sideways as gravity pulled him closer to death.
But even in freefall, Nebula stirred.
He blinked through the sting of blood and dust, his focus narrowing onto the twin revolvers in his gloved hands. Both gleamed red-hot, whispering smoke like dragons' breath. He smelled gunpowder. Felt dried blood on his coat. But none of it was his.
Then he heard it.
The shrieking descent.
From above, three classic-level airborne creatures tore down through the clouds like arrows of death—soulless vulture guardians, their bodies crafted from obsidian feathers and hollow bone, their eyes glowing with cursed hunger.
Their screeches pierced the air like banshee cries, closing in fast, wings slicing the sky as they honed in on their falling prey.
But Nebula wasn't prey. He was a storm in human skin.
"Not today." His words were swallowed by the wind.
Mid-fall, he twisted his body sideways and extended both arms. His revolvers sang, a fierce storm of hot lead erupting from the barrels. Silver bullets sliced the air, trailing arcs of heat and light through the bright daylight sky.
Two vultures exploded mid-flight, detonating into charred ash, their remains scattering like dark snowflakes into the wind. The third beast swerved, screeching in pain as a bullet tore through its right wing, sending it spiraling wildly.
Nebula reacted instantly.
With a grimace and a growl, he holstered his revolvers and lunged through the air, grabbing the injured vulture by its neck. They spiraled together like a comet, the wind deafening. And then—he roared, driving his knee into the beast's back and ripping its spine apart in a single, brutal motion.
The creature let out one final cry before it too shattered into nothingness—ashes in the daylight.
But then…
There was nothing.
Just Nebula, his arms wide, heart pounding, hurtling toward the unforgiving ground below. The wind roared. The battlefield above became a memory. The sun glared down, merciless.
Then—
Whoosh!
A sudden, massive torrent of water erupted from the left, crashing like a summoned twirling wave. Out of the vortex emerged a legend-level beast—a colossal hippocampus—half-stallion, half-fish—its hybrid scaled appearance carved from crystalline liquid, eyes like polished sapphires.
With unnatural speed and grace, the creature spiraled the water skyward, swirling it into a cyclone mid-air. Nebula got caught up in the torrent, getting yanked out of freefall in a sudden, violent pull.
The impact of it spun him like a ragdoll before flushing him gently toward the ground.
He landed—not with a crash, but with a soaking thud, on soft grass beside a shattered boulder, rainwater dripping down his face, his chest heaving.
The daylight above broke through the scattered clouds, shafts of gold slashing across the battlefield.
Yet the gunslinger did not rise.
Not yet.
His hands loosened slowly around his revolvers, smoke still curling from their barrels. His eyes, half-lidded, tracked the legend-level beast's form retreating into mist.
"That was a reckless move you pulled back there, gunslinger," came a sharp voice, regal and edged with restrained frustration.
Nebula coughed violently as he rose from his knees, hacking out the brackish water lodged in his lungs. His soaked frame trembled slightly as cold wind swept over the battered hillside.
Before him stood a man cloaked in nobility and storm-wrought sorrow—the king of Memawi, his curly brown hair plastered to his forehead beneath a gleaming silver crown. His ornate blue robe, embroidered with emblems of the sun and sea, rippled in the wind like the last stand of a fallen age.
"You could have died had my guardian not intervened," the king scolded, standing with a rigid poise.
Nebula spat one last mouthful of water into the dirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, voice raspy but defiant.
"It was..." cough "...a necessary move, King Roger. But… I won't pretend I'm not grateful for the save."
Steam curled off his soaked coat as heat from the distant fires warmed the battlefield.
The air was thick with the stench of blood, charred flesh, and wet soil.
The king's eyes narrowed, but there was a glint of reluctant respect in them.
"You and your companion may have stumbled into what remains of Memawi unprepared, but your presence is no longer accidental," Roger stated firmly, voice low but resolute. "You're needed here now—more than ever."
But Nebula wasn't listening fully. His gaze was already darting across the ravaged battlefield, scanning through smoke trails, bursts of gunfire, and the shadows of crumbling towers.
Where's Daryl?
As if reading his thoughts, Roger placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"Worry not. The boy's fine. He's with my scouts, helping to secure a path for our retreat."
Nebula gave a slight nod, jaw tightening as his gaze returned to the horizon.
The fields ahead were a ravaged expanse of mud, mangled earth, and shattered bodies. Smoke rose in black columns, blurring the outlines of distant mountains.
Across the battlefield, the fallen bodies of the Meras—once the pride of Memawi's defense—now lay scattered like forgotten statues. Their once-vibrant armors glinted dully under the fading sun, soaked with mud and blood.
Roger's shoulders slumped as he stared out over the devastation, his eyes glassy, voice hollow.
"My people… My kingdom…" he murmured, barely above a whisper.
"All razed to dust. We were a proud nation once… and now we run like hunted dogs because of my defiance against Aragus's rule. How did it come to this?"
His voice cracked. Not with weakness, but with heartbreak.
Nebula didn't answer immediately. He stood beside the grieving monarch, face hardened by understanding.
He'd felt that same ache. The sting of helplessness. The weight of lives lost. The cruel silence of unanswered vengeance.
But grief would have to wait.
"You can mourn the dead later," Nebula said quietly, discarding his emptied revolvers and yanking a stolen Gog laser rifle from across his back, the weapon pulsing faintly with residual energy.
At his side, Oni, his large, muscular smilodon guardian, materialized from the shadows with a deep, guttural growl, its glowing fangs bared, and its tail lashing the dirt.
"... Right now, the living still have a fight to survive." the gunslinger affirmed.
But the sound that followed shifted the air entirely.
From the smoke and wreckage ahead, a full squadron of Gog soldiers emerged—their silhouettes marching in tight formation. They were flanked by enslaved guardian beasts, whose soulless eyes glowed with corruption, their intent driven by force rather than will.
Overhead, Guardian Bane drones hovered in formation, clicking and whirring with precision, their sensors scanning for any unmarked targets.
The sky turned iron-gray. The wind began to rise.
Nebula shifted his stance, calculating every movement, every angle, every breath.
They had to buy time—just long enough for Daryl and the remaining Meras to regroup.
But those drones... a single misstep, a moment of exposure, and they'd be snared, incapacitated, or worse—destroyed.
He turned to speak—
But Roger had already stepped forward.
"Damn you, Gog scum!" the king roared, lifting his royal staff high above his head. As it struck the ground, the earth quaked.
A pulse of blue light erupted outward, crackling through the cracked battlefield. His eyes blazed white, a storm brewing behind their glow. Water surged beneath his feet, and from the rising pool, a towering form broke the surface.
The figure of the hippocampus re-emerged in a swirl of crashing waves. Its scales shimmered like liquid sapphire, and its roar sounded like a flood crashing through a canyon. It coiled protectively behind its master, snarling at the incoming horde.
Nebula stepped beside Roger, flanked by a growling Oni, whose emerald eyes locked on the distant drones above. The laser rifle in Nebula's hand glowed alive, humming with beam energy.
Whereas, Roger raised his staff, his voice quaking like a god's decree.
"Time to flush you all into oblivion."