The retreat of Squad 4 had left a vacuum of silence in the misty jungle, broken only by the low, predatory hum of Zel’s chest reactor. Opposite him, perched on a branch of petrified oak, the Elven scout pulled his bowstring. The weapon wasn't made of wood; it was a living extension of his own mana-circulatory system.

  TWANG—WHIZZZ.

  Zel didn't wait for the arrow to land. He kicked off the rusted remains of a transit pillar, his body-tight suit surging with a sudden burst of kinetic energy. The arrow whistled past his ear, close enough to leave a frost-burn on the matte-black shoulder plating of his MBS.

  "Too slow!" Zel barked. He drew his manatech sidearm in mid-air, thumbing the selector switch to 'Rapid Pulse.'

  PEW-PEW-PEW!

  Red mana bolts streaked through the green fog like miniature comets. Each shot was a concentrated packet of chaotic energy. The Elf didn't flinch; he simply leaned back, letting his body dissolve into a shimmer of White mana—the 'Order' affinity allowing him to move with terrifying, jagged precision. He reappeared on a lower branch, firing two arrows in a wide arc.

  Zel landed on a moss-slicked girder, his boots gripping the metal with supernatural friction thanks to the suit's compression. He saw the arrows curving—they were seeking the heat signature of his reactor.

  "Seeking rounds, huh? Cheap trick."

  Zel raised his left arm, the runic projectors in his wrist-guard flaring. A jagged spark of red lightning leaped from his palm, striking the first arrow and detonating it in a shower of white sparks. For the second, he didn't even use a spell. He leaned his head back at a sharp angle, feeling the wind of the arrow graze the bridge of his nose before he rolled forward.

  The distance between them was fifty yards. Too far. The Elf had the advantage as long as he could keep Zel at bay with those high-velocity White-mana bolts.

  TWANG. TWANG. TWANG.

  A volley of three arrows came at him—one high, one low, and one aimed dead-center at his chest.

  "Suit output: 40%!" Zel gritted his teeth.

  The internal mana-veins of the black-latex suit turned from a dull red to a brilliant, angry scarlet. The compression of the suit intensified, forcing his blood to circulate faster, his reflexes sharpening to a razor's edge. He began to run—not away, but directly toward the base of the Elf's tree.

  He moved in a zigzag pattern, a blur of black and red light. He fired his sidearm not to hit the Elf, but to suppress him, the red explosions forcing the archer to keep moving.

  CLANG!

  Zel used his sword to bat away another arrow mid-sprint, the impact vibration traveling up his arm and being absorbed by the suit's dampeners. He was thirty yards away.

  The Elf realized the human's intent. His calm, ethereal face twisted into a snarl. He reached into a quiver made of woven thorns and pulled out a heavy, crystalline shaft. "You dare approach a Warden of the Spires? You who breathe through a machine?"

  The Elf leaped from the tree, his White mana flaring into a pair of temporary, translucent wings. He fired the heavy shaft straight down as he descended.

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  BOOM!

  The arrow struck the earth where Zel had been a split second before, creating a shockwave of "Order" energy that crystallized the surrounding mud into solid glass.

  Zel emerged from the dust cloud, sliding across the glass on his knees, his sword already drawn and humming with static. He was now ten yards away—inside the danger zone.

  "Machine or not," Zel smirked, the red glow of his eyes reflecting in his sword's blackened steel. "I'm close enough to smell your fear, Pointy-ears. Let's see how that bow handles a close shave."

  Zel kicked off the glass, his sword raised for a high-vertical strike. He wasn't just closing the gap; he was closing the trap.

  The Elf landed with the grace of a falling leaf, instantly transitioning his bow into a staff-like defensive position. He expected a standard human swordsman—predictable, heavy, and reliant on the blade’s reach.

  He was wrong.

  Zel didn't just swing his sword; he became a storm of steel and static. As he closed the final five yards, he triggered the suit’s "Burst-Overdrive." The black-latex material constricted with an audible creak, the mana-veins glowing so intensely they bled light through the seams of his black plate armor.

  The Elf swung the crystalline bow-staff in a blurring arc, aiming to shatter Zel’s ribs. Zel didn't parry. He ducked, sliding between the Elf’s legs, and fired his sidearm point-blank at the ground.

  BOOM!

  The red-mana explosion acted as a kinetic thruster, propelling Zel upward in a spinning back-kick that caught the Elf under the chin. Before the scout could recover, Zel’s blackened alloy sword came down—not in a slash, but as a conductor.

  "Current Discharge!" Zel roared.

  Red lightning surged from the suit’s chest reactor, down his arm, and into the blade. The Elf raised his arm to shield himself, but Zel’s combat style was a chaotic fusion. Mid-swing, Zel released the sword, letting it spin in the air as a distraction, and drove his fist—shimmering with raw lightning—into the Elf’s thigh.

  CRACK.

  The smell of ozone and charred flesh filled the air. The Elf screamed as the red lightning shredded his internal mana-circuits. As he fell, Zel caught his falling sword and delivered a brutal, sweeping horizontal cut. The blade bit deep through crystalline armor and bone, nearly severing the Elf’s right leg at the knee.

  The "Warden of the Spires" collapsed, his White mana wings shattering like glass. He was immobile, his bow broken, the "Order" of his existence unraveling into chaos.

  But the Elf was an elite for a reason. With a final, desperate snarl, he pulled a hidden obsidian dagger from his sleeve. As Zel leaned in to finish the fight, the Elf lunged.

  The blade found a gap in the black plate armor, sliding deep into Zel’s left shoulder.

  "Gah!" Zel gasped. He felt the cold "Order" mana of the dagger trying to bind his muscles, to stop his heart.

  The MBS hissed—a warning light flashed on his HUD: [SYSTEM DAMAGE: INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. MANA LEAK DETECTED.]

  Zel didn't flinch. He grabbed the Elf’s wrist, pinning the dagger in his own shoulder to prevent a second strike, and looked the scout in the eyes. The flippant womanizer was gone; there was only the Hunter.

  "Your ancestors say hello," Zel hissed.

  He pulled his sidearm, pressed the muzzle against the Elf’s chest—directly over the glowing white heart—and pulled the trigger.

  THUMP.

  The light in the Elf’s eyes flickered and died. Slowly, the body began to stiffen, the flesh turning translucent until only a brilliant, jagged White Crystalline Shard remained in the center of the cooling corpse.

  Zel grunted, ripping the obsidian dagger from his shoulder. Blood—human and dark—slicked the matte-black surface of his suit. The cut was wide, the synthetic latex torn and sparking where the mana-veins had been severed. Every breath was a struggle as the suit's filtration system faltered, letting in a trace amount of the toxic ambient mana.

  He reached down and plucked the White Shard from the remains. It felt cold, heavy with the weight of communal order and absolute justice.

  "High-grade... definitely worth the repair bill," Zel wheezed.

  He stumbled back, his gait no longer a confident strut but a pained limp. He triggered his emergency beacon, the red light of his suit flickering weakly against the encroaching green fog. He had the prize, but as the adrenaline faded and the pulmonary crystallization began to tickle the back of his throat, he knew he had to reach the Bastion Gamma gates soon—or he’d be the next "heart" harvested by the jungle.

  Zel turned toward the direction of the retreat, leaving the shattered Elf behind. The Crusade had claimed another soul, and for Azazel Nightgaze, the price of victory was written in his own blood.