A scream tore through the air—raw, agonized, and abruptly cut short as a young man was hurled across the rocky ground. His right arm had been ripped clean from its socket, blood spraying in an arc that painted the dust-choked earth crimson.
The remaining recruits froze in horror. The strongest among them had been mutilated in less than a heartbeat, and the despair that gripped their chests only deepened when they saw the creature responsible still holding the severed limb like some grotesque trophy.
The being standing before them was nearly twice their height. It resembled an ancient, metal-bodied mechanoid whose armor looked as though it had endured millennia of decay.
Its plating was cracked and corroded, portions worn down to jagged fragments. Sickly green light pulsed from the fractures, casting eerie glimmers across its battered frame.
Bundles of exposed cables and mechanical tendrils twisted through gaps in its armor like protruding nerves. Despite its broken, weathered state, the machine radiated a terrifying sense of dormant power—something that had no right to still be functioning, let alone standing with such unshakable authority.
The recruits cursed their misfortune. Moments earlier, everything had been going smoothly as they navigated the underground passage. They had cleared several nests of xeno beasts and believed the path ahead was manageable.
Then one of them unleashed a burst of lightning to wipe out an incoming horde—and that single act became their downfall. The lightning arced deeper into the stone, striking something sealed beneath the rock. Something ancient. Something powerful. And the moment the current touched it, the catastrophe began.
The metallic abomination awakened.
Its resurgence shattered the cavern. It blasted a hole straight through the mountain and collapsed the entire tunnel system. The recruits barely escaped onto the surface, coughing, bleeding, and disoriented. But even freedom offered no safety. The awakened mechanoid clawed its way out after them, its green eyes locking onto the group with cold, predatory focus. It tossed the severed arm aside, letting it fall with a wet thud.
"What year is this?" the Living Machine demanded, his voice resonating with surprising clarity. There was no mechanical distortion, no hollow echo—only the unmistakable cadence of emotion and intent. "How long have I been offline?"
"Bastard!" the maimed recruit roared. He staggered to his feet, fueled by rage and desperation, and raised his Dawnfire Hybrid Sidearm. He pulled the trigger without hesitation.
"SKRRAANG!"
One bullet struck true, blowing off a chunk of the mechanoid's corroded plating. A spark of hope ignited in the remaining recruits—if the machine could be damaged, then perhaps they could survive.
But hope faded as quickly as it formed.
The mechanoid blurred, vanishing from their sight. In the next instant, he stood beside the injured recruit. The machine's eyes darkened, and he aimed his right palm toward the young man's chest. A pulse of burning plasma erupted forth.
The recruit's upper body vaporized instantly, leaving only two legs collapsing onto the ground.
Silence consumed the battlefield.
Terror froze the remaining recruits where they stood. They were facing not a simple relic, but an entity beyond their understanding—something ancient, intelligent, and overwhelmingly lethal.
"Date," the Living Machine said, his voice carrying a flash of rage.
"We… we are in the Tenth Millennium of the Solar Age," one recruit stammered, his instinct for survival overriding his horror.
"Solar Age. The updated calendar system of humankind…" The Living Machine nodded slowly, processing the information. Then his posture stiffened as realization set in.
"I have been offline for over two thousand years." Emotion flickered in his glowing eyes. It was clear that the news affected him, but soon his focus returned.
"Thank you," he said. "Now die, in the name of the natural order."
The recruits' eyes widened in dread as the core embedded in the Living Machine's chest began to glow, his inner mechanisms whirring as energy gathered in a rising crescendo.
But death did not claim them.
A gunshot cracked through the air. The Living Machine twisted aside, avoiding the shot aimed at the back of his head. The bullet instead struck his shoulder, blasting away a portion of his armor.
The Living Machine traced the trajectory instantly.
A young man stood among the shattered rocks, rugged-faced and unkempt, holding his Dawnfire Hybrid Sidearm firmly with both hands. He was no other than Arthur, and as the machine's gaze fixed upon him, his heart did not waver.
He pulled the trigger again.
And again.
And again.
The Living Machine moved in bursts of near-impossible speed, but Arthur's aim was flawless. Each bullet flew with surgical precision, as though he had anticipated every dodge and counter-movement.
Every impact sent fragments of metal spraying across the ground, widening the Living Machine's wounds. By the time his magazine finally emptied, the machine's body was riddled with damage.
A cold flash passed through the creature's eyes. He saw Arthur eject the magazine and reach for another. He kicked off the ground, his massive frame generating multiple sonic booms as he launched forward, arms extended to crush the young man before he could reload.
But the Living Machine did not reach him.
Two recruits leapt into its path, one slamming his entire body into the Living Machine's right arm, the other intercepting the left arm with a combat knife that sparked violently on metal.
Vorg and Michael ground their teeth, their bones trembling under the pressure, but they held the machine back for a moment—just long enough.
Because from above, a figure descended like a meteor.
Zendo crashed down with a roar, his heel smashing into the mechanoid's face with devastating force. Pain lanced up his leg, but he didn't stop. He poured every ounce of strength into pushing the machine back.
Together, the trio halted the Living Machine's advance, buying Arthur the precious seconds needed to reload his weapon.
"Get out of my way!" The defiant roar tore from the Living Machine as his core flared with blinding green fury.
A pulse of plasma erupted outward, sending Zendo, Vorg, and Michael hurtling through the air like ragdolls. Before the shockwave had even faded, the Living Machine launched forward again, his heavy metal frame carving trenches through the earth.
Arthur could already feel the tremors of the advancing monstrosity, but he did not hesitate. He raised his weapon, exhaled once, and pulled the trigger. Three bullets streaked through the air in a single, perfect line—each following the same path with uncanny accuracy.
The Living Machine reacted instantly, throwing up his left arm as a shield. It should have been enough. Against any ordinary shooter, it would have been. But these bullets were not scattered; they were deliberate, layered, and merciless.
The first punched halfway through the arm.
The second widened the wound.
And the third pierced fully through, continuing its path until it struck the Living Machine's head, blowing apart a chunk of his cheek and obliterating one of his eyes.
For the first time, surprise flashed across the ancient entity's face.
But even that wasn't enough to stop him.
With his remaining arm, the Living Machine lunged forward, ready to crush Arthur into paste. The world seemed to slow around the young sharpshooter: the flashing green light of the Living Machine's core, the grinding scream of ancient metal, the shadow of that metallic hand falling over him.
Then—
Two beams of blazing golden heat carved through the battlefield.
They struck the Living Machine square in the chest, blasting him backward as if struck by a meteor. The mechanoid skidded across the earth for over five hundred meters (546 yd) before finally crashing into the shredded remains of the mountain.
Zendo, Vorg, Michael, and Arthur turned toward the source of the attack, and relief bloomed in their eyes.
Sylar had arrived.
He landed lightly on the ruined ground, eyes glowing faintly, posture steady and controlled despite the devastation around him. He gave the others a brief nod before his expression sharpened.
"Form up," he ordered, his voice cold and decisive. "Hand me your grenades. Give all extra magazines to Arthur. I'll take the front. Vorg, right flank. Zendo, Michael, left."
Each of them was a prodigy in his own right—gifted, powerful, proud. But pride meant nothing on a battlefield. Sylar was the strongest among them, and he was placing himself in the most dangerous position. That alone earned him the right to command.
Without hesitation, they handed over their gear. Arthur loaded the new magazines with practiced efficiency while Sylar secured the grenades in his pack.
A thunderous boom shook the valley as debris erupted in the distance—the Living Machine was returning.
"Forty points to Strength," Sylar thought, feeling his power surge as he focused. His muscles tightened, bones reinforced, and bio-energy crackled through his veins.
He stepped forward, then kicked off the ground with such force that the earth shattered beneath him.
He met the charging Living Machine from the Luminarchs, their fists colliding head-on.
Flesh and metal collided with a sound like a world breaking apart. Shockwaves tore through the battlefield, splitting the earth and whipping up violent winds. Sylar felt his arm scream in protest, joints threatening to tear apart under the force, but he did not yield.
Across from him, the Living Machine's remaining eye glowed with disbelief. A young boy was matching his strength. That should be impossible, but there was no denying reality.
And things were about to get far worse for it.
Three more figures burst from the sidelines, attacking without hesitation. One struck low, another high, the third aiming to destabilize the Living Machine's stance. Their hearts thundered, their bodies trembled, but their wills did not break.
From behind them, Arthur resumed firing—each bullet a streak of perfect, calculated death. They tore across the battlefield, weaving past their allies and striking the Living Machine with hyper-sonic precision.
They were young, none of them more than fifteen years old.
But in that moment, none of them showed fear.
None hesitated.
None faltered.
Together, they fought with the ferocity of veterans and the determination of those who refused to die.