QuiteTheSlacker
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Chapter 54: The Gunblade's Might
🕑 Added 2024-07-08 06:20:28 +0000 UTC“Hate. Every damned second I spend awake in the presence of that despicable, vile man fills me with such unceasing hate. It is all I think about, all I feel, all I must carve deep into my wretched beating heart, for I can never forget this rage inside me—the reason why I still force myself to be his little pawn. It is why I smile and bow and pretend to follow his every order, but the day will come when this facade can finally end. The moment he lets his defense down, I will rip him apart limb from limb, and I will savor every one of his desperate screams. I will laugh and tremble and finally know peace, as his blood covers me whole—smothered in the remnants of his oh so precious dream. That is my only purpose in this world. That is why I continue to hate. Hate.”
Praetor Luxanne
———
Luxanne
The mere sight of Xeros’s disgusting face makes Luxanne want to hurl, but despite the bile creeping up her throat, she manages to push it down at the last second and maintain her stoic demeanor. It is challenging, very, very challenging, but now is not the time to reveal her hatred of him. She must persist until the day the tyrant’s neck is bared clean.
But there are times when her resolve falters—when she wants to break free from her mask of obedience and attempt to slay the Grand General right then and there. That rage is at its most powerful whenever his filthy tongue decides to speak ill of Luxanne’s mother. Red clouds her vision; her teeth grind together into a screeching wail; and it takes every bit of her willpower to avoid pulverizing the surroundings with her fist.
Whenever that temptation floods her, she reminds herself what this is all for: all the frustration, the pain, the twenty long years of pretending to be that man’s subordinate. All of it is for the sake of one purpose—revenge.
I’m sorry, mom. I almost lost myself there, but you don’t have to worry: I won’t give in just yet, not when we finally have a chance to expose his weakness. So please just wait a little while longer. I’ll send his soul up to you soon enough.
She takes a deep breathe in and then lets out a weary sigh—though the metallic filter over her mouthpiece makes it sound closer to some strange mechanical grumbling. At least it is better than the mass-produced suits given to the grunts: Theirs are forcibly loaded with all sorts of mind-numbing inhibitors Xeros has concocted, causing their speech to be just a bunch of incoherent gibberish and nonsense. Pawns have no need for a free will; what matters is their ability to follow orders.
“Praetor Luxanne?” a nearby soldier says, and it is only then that the brooding commander realizes she is still in the confines of the war machine. Frozen. Standing ever so still at the exit’s door. “Forgive my insolence, but… you haven’t moved in some time. Is everything alright?”
“Don’t mind me,” she says with a grunt. “Just gather the rest of the legion. I’ll be outside.”
Her head has calmed down a bit. She shouldn’t be so pensive right before a battle, lest some random tribesmen manage to get the better of her. That would be almost funny. Almost, if not for how pathetic the thought is.
Luxanne straightens her back, stiffens her body, and dons the posture of a rigid military leader before stepping out into the scorching drought of the Steppe. The sun beats down on her mechanical suit, plates tinted with the deepest of black, and her lungs soon fill with a dry air, but she doesn’t mind the heat. On the contrary, it makes her feel alive: It stokes the smoldering rage inside her, giving it fuel so that it may never stop its endless boil. Yes, she is in her best condition for a fight.
Only, there are no enemies to actually fight. Luxanne looks out far into the horizon, but all she spies is a great big field of swaying grass. The stalks are not nearly tall enough to hide a person in, so she can’t help but wonder what exactly is going on in the Grand General’s head. An attack? What attack? What the hells is that old man talking about? But as much as she wants to believe he’s gone senile, Xeros is unfortunately much sharper than she is—always looking out with that miserable Corvid’s Eye. An eye that is hanging right above them this very moment, just lingering there with its red iris and smoky fog.
If he’s watching, then that must mean there truly is a threat—if only that blasted crow would actually give them some kind of clue where it’ll come from. But no, this is a test for her. It’s always a test. She’ll just have to adapt like always.
“Praetor, what are your orders?” the platoon leader asks her as the rest of the soldiers begin to spill out from the construct.
“… We will take defensive formations for now,” she commands. “I don’t know where the enemy will appear, but the Grand General’s words are absolute. If he says to be alert, then alert we shall be. The legionnaires will surround the transport while I take charge at the center, understood?”
“By your word, ma’am!”
The soldiers swiftly hurry to their positions, and Luxanne readies her stance, drawing the weapon by her side. It shoots out of its sheath with a spark - long, curved steel etching out with a serrated edge - but this blade is different from its peers, for it is a combination between traditional armaments and mechanical innovation: a gunblade. At the base lies a barrel running alongside part of the blade, and a firing mechanism is built into the hilt—a trigger. And a chamber. One filled with countless bullets enhanced with Creation’s blessing.
It’s a powerful weapon, frighteningly so, but Luxanne can never stomach using it. The blade is designed by Xeros himself, and he is the one who gifted it to her on the night he struck down her mother. She remembers his appearance then—clothes drenched in blood, her mother’s heart crushed in his hand, and a face obscured in shadow. She remembers him walking up to her, her tiny little self hiding in fright, and whispering a few, curt words that haunt her to this day.
“Become strong, Luxanne. That is the only way you shall ever have your vengeance.”
Despicable, abhorrent, unredeemable monster.
“The troops are in position!” the platoon leader shouts.
Luxanne shakes her head and then replies back with a stern attitude. “Good. Now, we wait.”
And wait they do. Seconds pass, then minutes, yet the world is the same as it always is. Nothing. Not even a whisper in the wind.
… Stars, what a waste of time. How long do we have to stand here before that fool is satisfied—
But then, a sound alerts her attention. It’s barely noticeable, and one could even confuse it for a random shuffling from one of the soldiers, but that is not a sound Luxanne recognizes. No, it is closer to a snap, a crumble—a stir from something unseen. Yet when she scans the surroundings, there’s nothing.
The sound occurs again, this time behind her, but still… nothing, and eventually even the soldiers begin to take notice. They look around at their peers, confused, unsure whether they should be on guard, when the platoon leader suddenly lets out a loud gasp.
“Praetor Luxanne!” they shout. “We’re missing two soldiers. I could have sworn they were right beside me a second ago, but now… they’re gone. As if they disappeared into thin air.”
What? T-That can’t be right… “All eyes around you! Don’t let a single person out of your sight!” she instructs the group, and though Luxanne tries to remain calm, a slight panic begins to rise in her voice.
Damnit, damnit, damnit! Just where’s the attack coming from? There’s nothing out there; I didn’t feel Creation or any trace of sorcery at all. How the hells did two people just suddenly disappear?
It is then Xeros’s words invade her mind, stubbornly clinging on like a leech. “Do not panic. Do not falter. Assess the battlefield with a cold hand and a steady gaze, no matter the situation.”
As much as she despises his voice, the words are true. Luxanne cannot let herself be overwhelmed like this. She needs to stay calm, stay focused, and think: If an enemy is attacking the group, just how are they able to accurately sense where their positions are? There’s no one in sight, so that can only mean—
Creation. Maybe… yes, they can sense the Creation flowing in our bodies. I’ve only ever seen Xeros and some Astrologians with such an ability, but we’re in foreign lands now. I can’t be ignorant.
If that’s the case, then maybe I can draw them out…
Luxanne carefully gathers a tiny bit of Creation and concentrates it a small distance away. The size is just enough to resemble a regular soldier, and she puppeteers the force so that it appears as if a person is walking away from the group.
“Come on,” she mutters. “Take the bait… take the bait…”
And just like that, her prey finally reveals themself in the form of a small hand bursting out from the dirt. That’s where they’ve been this entire time; it all makes sense now.
“The enemy is below the ground!” Luxanne roars.
She fires a bullet at the hand’s location, and it detonates in a massive explosion of flame, filling the sky with a large cloud of dust and rubble. The other soldiers quickly follow in her wake, setting their eyes towards the earth as a sudden swarm of hands begin to erupt beneath them. Some are grabbed, some manage to escape, but those not so lucky are pulled under without so much as a yelp. Luxanne’s not so naive to think there’s any chance of saving them, but the least she can do is protect those still here.
Bullet after bullet she fires at the ground, scorching the earth around them until all that remains of the field is blackened ash, but not a single one of the assailants are caught in the crossfire. They move through the earth as if it’s water, attacking and disappearing as soon as they emerge, and the soldiers are too disorientated to properly defend themselves.
Against the inhabitants of this place, the Caelum forces are at a disadvantage: a foreign, unfamiliar land, no armor to protect themselves, and a strange manner of attack leaving no room to counter. If this continues, it’s only a matter of time before everyone falls. She has to do something, something to drive them out of the ground.
… Agh, no time to hesitate. Let’s just try it.
Luxanne raises her gunblade, and then she plunges it deep below until the muzzle is fully buried into the dirt. The weapon shakes, the chamber vibrates as the bullets are overcharged to their very limit, and then she fires.
At first, there’s only a boom. An ear-piercing thunder. And then a powerful shockwave surges, sending her hurdling back as the bullet pierces through the earth and releases its stored energy. Only instead of an explosion, a massive icicle rises from the opening, and the soil becomes frigid at the touch as a cool air seeps in, causing pockets of rime to form all throughout the field. Screams make their way up from the underground, and soon, a horde of bodies spring up a distance away—frost trailing behind their shivering bodies and evaporating into a thick steam under the sun’s heat. It is then Luxanne can finally have a good look at their sudden aggressors.
Their clothes are much different than the pantsuits and tunics of the western region. Instead, theirs are of long, draping cloaks, material a fine linen etched into a meticulous patchwork of vibrant colors: from blues and reds to even lighter shades of green. One would think they all clash together into an unsightly mess, but there is an odd harmony in the way they tint their garments. It is unique, and pretty, and elegant in a way Luxanne cannot fully explain.
Though what attracts her attention more are the peculiar weapons gripped tightly in their hands. Some of them resemble the sickles Luxanne has seen farmers use, only these blades are much longer, curving into an arc, and gleam with their double-edged sheen. Others look like animal claws, but instead of thin nails or hooks, a wide blade is fitted atop a hand grip that rests right at the user’s knuckles.
Regardless of their design, the weapons ooze of danger, and she cannot help but break out into a cold sweat as her foes recompose themselves and circle around the group with strange, dexterous movements—waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
Eventually, the Steppe warriors stamp their feet, raise their heads towards the Stars, and then let out a deafening war cry before charging in without a hint of fear. There aren’t many of them compared to the Caelum forces, but they must not be underestimated; Luxanne can feel a strong solidarity in their body language—a trust in each other the legionnaires can never have. And that trust culminates now, in their bloodlust, their weapons’ sway, their determined eyes, and in a solemn bow of the head as they give one final glance to the other before descending onto the army.
“Form ranks!” Luxanne yells to the still-flustered troop. They are no Polus knights, they don’t have the discipline or experience as those of the other nations, but Caelum has their own method of warfare—one only they can employ thanks to the Grand General’s ever widening conquest of the outer regions.
And that method is to overwhelm their enemies with sheer, mass-produced numbers.
The soldiers quickly line themselves up into a row, and they switch their wieldy sawblades for the rifles stationed to their side. They are a lesser version of Luxanne’s gunblade, capable only of firing unenchanted metal bullets, but it is the perfect weapon to give the inexperienced. All it needs you to do is two things: aim and shoot. And shoot they do, until the air is consumed by explosions of black powder, and an unrelenting storm of metal is unleashed upon the world: blast after blast after blast.
But, even as the rifles continue to sing their song of carnage, even as their allies collapse and become on with the soil, the Steppe warriors do not stop. They do not lose speed. The bullets do nothing to dissuade the coming advance, and soon, the soldiers are left overwhelmed as their assailants close the distance and begin to massacre all those caught in their way.
It’s no use. Against those of real martial prowess, tricks are only effective for so long, and without the drugs to dim their minds, the soldiers scream a terrified death gurgle as their bodies are eviscerated in mere seconds. Their limbs fly high into the air, blood spurts from every dripping orifice, and the ground becomes stained with a dark red as a vision of slaughter unfolds before Luxanne’s very eyes—of death, misery, and tearful pleas begging for mercy. They remain unanswered; the only mercy granted to them is a swift death, if they are lucky.
She can be passive no longer. Even if it’s more advantageous for her to wait until the warriors’ strength is exhausted, Xeros be damned if he thinks Luxanne’s just going to sit around and watch her subordinates die.
“Fall back!” she commands to the rare few still alive. “Hold the line at the war machine. I’ll deal with this myself.”
The Praetor readies her blade, crouches down into a charging stance, and then leaps into action at the very heart of the battle. She slips past the legionnaires and takes the Steppe warriors by surprise, swiftly cutting them down one by one as she weaves in-between their forces—steps light and body constantly on the move. Countless fall before her offensive, but she doesn’t stop: not even when her armor is splattered in filth. Luxanne’s only focus is to take out as many as she can while conserving her energy; this is an endurance battle.
However, the enemies don’t stay startled for long, and soon they recover and begin to encircle her position. But their methods won’t work; a single charged shot from her gunblade is all it takes to thin the crowd, and the stragglers left behind are quickly taken care of in close quarters. She evades those near, she shoots those afar, and she pushes. She pushes until her heart is thundering in her chest; she pushes until every breath cuts against her throat like glass; and she pushes even when her body screams to stop moving. But she can’t. Not here, not now, not when she still has so much left to do.
Unfortunately, her enemies are just as desperate, and as Luxanne impales another of the warriors, they grip firmly onto her blade and give her a pained, manic grin. She can’t pull her blade out, and she can’t shoot them with the muzzle so close to her own body: They’ve trapped her, and the others quickly take advantage of their ally’s sacrifice to shorten the gap once and for all.
This damnable loyalty… just what are they fighting so hard for?
Without any other option left, she plunges the blade deeper into her begrudging captor until the muzzle emerges from the other side of their body. Her arm is entirely encased in guts and entrails, but she doesn’t have the luxury to avoid such disgusting things now and fires an enchanted bullet into the ground. An aggressive tangle of vines sprout out from the impact, snapping at the surrounding warriors and forming a protective barrier long enough for Luxanne to wrench her blade free and slice the martyr in half.
She is exhausted; the gunblade’s strain is starting to wear her down, but there is no time to rest. Eventually, the roots wither, and her enemies rush in once more. But before they can take another step, Luxanne fires a bullet into the air which explodes into a dazzling flashbang of light and blinds the others for a short moment. That moment is all she needs to catch her breath and continue her extermination. Again, and again, until the number of her slain foes becomes too much to count.
When the dust settles, and Luxanne can prevent her body’s spasms no longer, only a handful of the Steppe’s warriors remain. They are just as fatigued, and it is clear they know the end is nigh, but still they continue to stand. Continue to resist. And Luxanne respects that—their determination. It is a shame they met as enemies, but perhaps they can keep their lives. Of course, they’ll have to submit to the Grand General, but you can’t seek revenge if you’re dead: better to lie in wait than having perished without achieving a thing.
“The battle is over!” she roars to the last remnants. “Your people are dead. There is no point in continuing this struggle. Surrender yourselves to us, and we will guarantee your safety as a new citizen of the Caelum empire. I implore you to choose wisely.”
The warriors freeze for a second, and it dawns on Luxanne that they might not be able to understand the western language, but her worries are calmed when one of them begins to translate for the rest of the group. They descend into a whisper, arguing with each other in a tense, suspenseful exchange, before turning around to deliver their ultimatum.
“Death before dishonor.”
They raise their blades, and then they slit their own throats, crumpling into a lifeless clump before she can object.
Luxanne gazes upon their bodies, her eyes shaking, and she struggles to close the lumps in her throat as a scream threatens to rise from her very core, but she can’t. She can’t show weakness. She can’t show empathy, not while that damnable eye is watching her every move. The only response allowed of her is indifference if she is to maintain this facade.
Eventually, Xeros emerges from the construct, and he coldly glances at the field of bodies around him—Caelum and Steppe alike blending together into an indiscriminate pile of wet sludge. The sight doesn’t faze him whatsoever; he only clicks his tongue and walks over to the silent Luxanne before placing a hand on her shoulder.
And what disgusts her, more than the corpses or the blood or even her own inability to kill him right now, is the look of pride on his face.
“That was a marvelous display, Luxanne,” he says. “It is a shame those warriors chose death… their savage martial ability would have provided a great addition to our forces, but no matter. Much has been gained from this encounter.”
“… I thank you for the kind words, Grand General,” she replies with gritted teeth. “I am simply fulfilling my duty as this empire’s servant.”
“As you should. Nonetheless, be proud of this day, and I expect you to demonstrate the same prowess when we advance upon the armies of Polus.”
“By your will, nothing gives me greater joy.”
He chuckles. “Very good, very good.”
Xeros walks over to the remains of the tribesmen and severs their heads with one swift move of his hand, gathering them all into a sack and ordering a nearby soldier to take it back towards the transport.
“Come, Luxanne,” he grunts, wiping the blood away with a handkerchief. “The Overlord awaits.”
