The ground trembled. Not from a cataclysm, nor from the jungle's roar. It trembled from the wrath of a jungle that, summoned by a young woman's will, rose against its attackers. Creatures of nightmare and ancestral beauty—felines armed with roots, colossal birds, wolves with black spines, deer whose antlers burned like constellations—marched to Makia's rhythm, the girl Amazonia had named its voice.
Before that unstoppable force, Kraven's soldiers retreated a step. Only one.
Then, two figures advanced unhurriedly, as if the earth's roar were merely a murmur beneath their boots.
First appeared Godric Fitzgerald.
Lieutenant of Kraven's squadron.
Elegant as a statue forged by the gods, his steps were light but firm, as if his mere presence sufficed to fracture the air. He wore armor of polished Titanorite that reflected the jungle's light like sacred mirrors, a white cape billowing at his back like a silent oath. His skin, pale as lunar marble; his eyes, a glacial blue that seemed to see beyond time. His light blond hair, almost golden, fell over his forehead like threads of light, and his slightly pointed ears made him appear a creature intermediate between man, angel, and predator.
His gaze was serene. Too serene. Almost sad. Like the gaze that precedes an execution.
At his side, each step was an earthquake.
Thorgar Blooddrake, the Monarch Captain of Kraven's squadron, walked as if he carried the world on his shoulders and it didn't weigh on him. He stood over two meters tall and his body was a mountain of muscle and fury. His hair was a golden burst, pointed like spears, shaved on the sides like an ancestral warrior. His eyes, of a light brown almost golden, had the gaze of a man who had seen too many wars… and never tired of them. His torso, bare, was crossed by a dark titanochrome breastplate, a piece that went from shoulder to ribs as if his body needed no more defense than his brutality.
His beard was thick, fierce, like the fire burning in his chest.
Together, they walked toward the Amazonian army without hesitation. Not a word. Not an order. They were the language of death… in motion.
And when the first creature gave a warning growl, Godric simply tilted his head, as if judging a poorly sculpted work of art. Thorgar did nothing. He only closed his fist.
The air shattered like tempered glass.
And then, between the jungle's expectant murmur and Godric and Thorgar's relentless advance, a voice rose. Not with authority, but with urgency.
"We have to do something! They're going to kill her!" exclaimed a young man in a deep blue tunic, hidden among the tall ferns, his face half-covered by a hood's shadow. His hair was an intense navy blue, like his eyes, which shone like sapphires on the edge of panic.
His name was Sylvan Arval. He was quick, astute, but still had the impatient heart of an idealist.
At his side, another aspirant, of stocky build and face hardened by wind, frowned. His blond hair, gathered in a thick braid, fell over a shoulder like a rope of gold, and his green eyes blazed with warrior determination.
"No, this is our chance to advance," he growled, with a grave and firm voice. His name was Ulf Wolfblade, born between ice and fire, raised by warriors. He feared neither gods… nor demons.
But before impulsiveness could become movement, another voice stopped them. Calmer. More conscious.
"No. We shouldn't advance. We can't."
The speaker was a young man with a serene and attractive face, perfectly combed brown hair, honey-colored eyes that analyzed like scalpels, and a mind as precise as it was dangerous. His command uniform, fitted to his body, seemed designed for efficiency, not ego. Judah Caelum, born strategist. Observer. Lethal when the moment demanded it.
"Nowhere did they mention that the imperial army's high command would come to hunt and kill us," he continued with a controlled voice, not raising it, but driving each word like a nail into those present's consciousness. "This is no longer an exam. It's a hunt. And if we don't understand that now… we'll be the prey."
His words fell like hot lead.
A female figure moved among the shadows with silent grace. Slender, of shy bearing but bright gaze, her green eyes were intelligent and alert. Isabella Rosell, hidden behind fine-framed glasses and a tactical dress oscillating between formal and seductive, nodded firmly, her chest rising with the weight of an imminent decision.
"He's right," she murmured with a soft but firm tone. "We can't wait for the fire to consume us. We have to act… now."
The jungle surrounded them. The tension was an impossible knot to untie. And at the center of everything, Makia still hung in Kraven's hand, with Amazonia trembling around her, and two titans of the Empire walking toward her as if death were not an end, but a right.
And while the Empire's colossi advanced, two figures moved like living shadows among the roots and undergrowth.
Eldar and Brenda, who moments before had jumped from the great wolf's back that launched itself at Kraven, now slipped among Amazonia's beasts. The jungle didn't stop them. Didn't growl. Didn't reject them. Because Amazonia recognized Makia's allies… as its own.
Stealthy as arrows in the mist, they advanced among impossible creatures. Eldar, with eyes lit by adrenaline, clapped his palms forcefully and shouted to the sky with a fierce smile:
"Nooooow! Do your thing, Feeeenriiiiiir!"
The echo rumbled through the thicket. And from the shadows, like a gust of savage fury, emerged a wolf of colossal proportions: fur dark as the storm, fangs like ivory spears, eyes shining like double moons. Fenrir. His companion. His strength.
Eldar didn't stop. He ran toward the beast with confidence bordering on suicidal, and with a perfect leap mounted its back, as if death itself obeyed him.
"Hey, you!" he shouted with a smile while extending his hand toward the young woman running behind him. "Get on!"
Brenda looked at him only an instant. Judgment extinguished. Decision born. She took his hand firmly, propelled herself with agility, and mounted behind him.
"Brenda," she said, barely breathless. "That's my name. We hadn't introduced ourselves."
Eldar laughed, with excitement sparking in his pupils.
"Mine is Eldar Fenrisson. And let me guess…" he glanced at her sideways, measuring her elegant bearing, her cold temper. "Are you a Fitzgerald?"
She looked at him. But this time not with pride. Nor with mystery. She looked at him with a gravity that crushed.
"Yes," she responded with a contained voice, almost like a confession. Then she averted her gaze, fixing it among the army, on Godric Fitzgerald's frozen and lethal face.
"He's my brother.
And he's just become a criminal…
and enemy of the Empire. I must stop him."
Fenrir's back roared beneath them.
And the roots began to move.
Fenrir galloped among Amazonia's creatures like a shadow made flesh, sliding between roots and fangs without being touched. Eldar and Brenda clung to the wolf's back, crossing the jungle's living army that stirred like an ocean of branches and roars.
The wind cut like blades. But the tension was even sharper.
"What's your specialty?" Eldar asked without turning, his voice roaring against the jungle's din.
Brenda didn't delay in responding.
"Primary Flow Weapons. Nanotechnology. Or combined," she said with precision, as if each word were an activating key. "And that's not counting… other abilities I prefer to reserve."
Eldar laughed with admiration, between surprise and excitement.
"Fenrir summoning, amplified strength, in short Bestial Flow," he said with pride. "I have a couple more tricks… but you know the essentials."
They looked at each other barely a second, just enough to read conviction in each other's eyes.
"Then," Eldar said, his smile vanishing into seriousness, "let's devise a plan. And save our companion."
Brenda nodded. No need to say her name.
Makia.
The silence between them was short, but charged.
"We already lost two," Eldar added, his voice lower, heavier. "I won't let there be a third."
Brenda lowered her gaze for an instant. Atahualpa's face crossed her memory like an open wound. Then the woman dragged by the jungle, the one Amazonia couldn't save in time.
She raised her sight, firm.
"Neither will I."
And at that instant, Fenrir's eyes shone.
As if the jungle's spirit approved their decision.
Fenrir's back vibrated under their feet like the thunder of a war drum. Brenda no longer clung to Eldar. She stood on the creature, firm as a lighthouse in the middle of the storm.
The jungle roared. The beasts advanced. But she was motionless, her gaze fixed on her target.
Godric Fitzgerald.
She closed one eye.
She raised both hands, one pointing forward, the other adjusting the angle with surgical precision, as if she already held something invisible.
And then, she pronounced it.
"Firearm! Primary Flow…"
The air distorted around her as if reality itself obeyed. An energy figure began to outline between her fingers: first the barrel, then the stock, the sight… blue, red, and golden particles joined with an almost celestial hum, as if a god were assembling a weapon with light.
"Nanotechnology incorporated."
The hum grew until it became a static roar. And in her hands emerged an impossible creation: a gigantic rifle, of lethal design and brutal beauty, with angular edges and brilliant core. An Energy Barrett, worthy of a god hunter.
Eldar glanced at her, astonished.
She said nothing more.
She aimed.
The laser sight fixed a perfect point in the center of Godric's chest.
And fired.