The world had barely begun to catch its breath since the revelations. Only months had passed since humanity first saw monsters for what they were — Orcs, Elves, dragons, beings of scale and myth walking beside them. The memory of that revelation still burned in headlines, still rattled the nerves of soldiers who once thought themselves protectors of the earth.

Now, construction dominates the skylines. Dwarven engineers hammered alloy into foundations, driving veins of strength through concrete and stone.

The cities no longer looked like the ones humanity had built alone. The clean hum of Firmathan alloy threaded through towers that still bore the faces of old brick and glass. Where scaffolds rose, dwarves set their hammers not only to reinforce but to preserve — knowing efficiency without comfort would hollow the heart of a city.

Streets that once sagged beneath decades of asphalt now gleamed with new weight, yet beneath the steel, the human marks remained: window shutters painted in fading blues, balconies with crooked railings, murals that dwarves carefully cut around rather than plaster over. The mastery of their craft lay not in replacement but in understanding. They left spaces for gardens where ivy still clung, carved channels so trees could grow against alloy spines.

From a distance, the new towers shimmered with rune-light, but up close the stone still held warmth, the echo of human hands. Efficiency was there, cold and unyielding, where it needed to be — but shaped around lives that still wanted porches, still wanted corners where sunlight pooled.

It was a strange world, a hybrid one, where myth hummed inside brick, and nature pressed green against steel. A world that looked stronger, but not untouched.

Their craft did more than reinforce walls; it laced stability into the very earth itself, the way Firmatha had been built to withstand calamity.

And standing with them, directing, adjusting, testing, were the Persequions. The Tiny Tots — Amaterasu, Conductor, Shango, all of them positioned all over the world — lent their power and oversight to the dwarves' designs. Their presence turned scaffolds into symbols, making it plain this was more than infrastructure. This was preparation for the day when another battle on the scale of Mythara and Cefketa's clash might come. If it did, the cities would not crumble so easily.

Yet beneath the ringing of hammers and the glow of reforged steel, unease lingered. Humanity walked taller now, prouder, daring to talk of independence even as they borrowed strength not their own. They had mistaken the Persequions' strength as their own. Praising them as saviors, uplifting them as the real gods of this world. However, some saw this not as an evolution of society, but as gold-plated chains.

The Ceremony of the Unified Grid drew crowds that spilled into the avenues, their breath frosting in the late air as banners rippled above them. This was no weapon's debut, no army on parade — it was stone and steel being given voice.

On the dais stood the Persequions. The Trinity — Amaterasu cloaked in red and gold, Shango in storm-dark folds, Conductor with his lined mantle. Selistar stood with them, his cloak marked by the silver of old bloodlines. Beside them, Roratha bore the black cloak of the Theronites, carrying Mythara's absent weight as leader in all but name.

At their flanks stood dwarven master craftsmen, hammers at their belts, datapads in their hands. These were the architects of the Unified Grid — a system not meant to fight, but to endure. Within the walls of every tower, veins of alloy had been laid, alive with runes that could sense when stone cracked or metal bent. At the first sign of collapse, a signal would rush to the nearest dwarf, summoning them to repair the damage before anyone inside felt the shock. Entire buildings could absorb the force of a god's strike, and those within might never know the peril had even brushed them.

The announcers called it progress. The engineers called it prudence. But murmurs rippled through the crowd all the same.

A grid that stretched across every city, every foundation, all maintained and overseen by dwarves and monsters — to some, it looked like security. To others, it looked like a chain, quietly fitted while the people applauded.

The first flicker came when the Grid's great display screens flared white for half a breath, runes scrambling before settling back into order. A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the plaza. Engineers reassured each other that it was nothing — just a hiccup in the energy.

The second came with the murmurs of the crowd. Too many eyes looked not at the unveiling, but at the cloaks on the platform, their applause stiff, their cheers thin. Doubt moved like a draft through the assembly.

Then The Conductor leaned forward, voice low. "If someone wanted to make a point… they'd do it here."

Shango shook his head, arms folded across his chest. "Impossible. Every worker on this project was vetted three times over. Backgrounds, finances, even their damned social media posts. If there was something off, we'd have cut it out long before today."

Selistar's eyes stayed fixed on the plaza. His tone was quiet, measured. "That would matter… if we were worried about an organic threat. If it's manufactured, none of that will mean a thing."

Amaterasu's gaze narrowed. Beside her, Roratha spoke with grim finality. "Cefketa had those cities destroyed for a reason. This is what he wanted built. This stage wasn't chosen by chance."

A sigh escaped Amaterasu, her breath curling in the cold. "Then all we can do is hope for the best… and be ready for whatever happens next."

The wind shifted. For a moment, silence hung heavier than the banners above.

The sound struck first — not thunder, not fire, but a tearing shriek that split the plaza in half. Every display screen burst white, runes fracturing into jagged light.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Then the beams came.

Lances of plasma, narrow as spears and bright as a newborn sun, carved across the air.

The first slammed into a tower's side, the reinforced alloy shrieking as if alive. Runes flared, desperate to answer, but the light ripped faster than stone or script could heal. Whole sheets of façade sloughed away, molten edges dripping like wax.

Another beam tore through a plaza arch, shearing it mid-span. Dust exploded outward in a choking wave. A child screamed, her father's arms yanking her away just as the keystone shattered at their heels.

The Grid fought back. Etched lines along the buildings blazed with silver fire, repair protocols surging, dwarves already sprinting toward the wounded structures. Sparks danced across rune-hammers as they struck, trying to knit fractures closed, trying to keep towers from toppling into the streets. But the beams were too quick, too precise. For every crack sealed, another wall buckled.

The air filled with a storm of dust, every breath sharp with burning copper. Ears rang with the shriek of vaporized alloy, the boom of collapsing masonry. Heat rolled across the plaza.

Screams rose above it all — human and dwarven both — as the first volley ended, leaving the plaza screaming and half-collapsed, the city wounded, and the square drowned in smoke.

Those rays of plasma didn't stop. They ripped through alloy pylons and reinforced stone as though the Grid were parchment, slicing walls that had been built to withstand the fury of dragons. The repairs engraved into the buildings sparked alive, but the beams moved too quickly — entire sections of structure sheared away before the runes could knit them back.

Screams followed. One of the dwarven crafters was caught mid-step, his chest split open in a blinding arc; another fell trying to shield his apprentices.

The attackers moved through the chaos. Their weapons were wrong — not of any nation, not wholly of dwarven craft. They looked like human imagination stretched too far, grafted with Firmathan principles: alloy cores humming with unstable runes, barrels lined with scavenged crystal. Beams pulsed from them in rhythm, each one calibrated for destruction, not war.

And the wielders themselves were faster than men should be. Muscles strained against their coats as they vaulted barricades, firing in motion, weaving through the fleeing crowd with inhuman precision. Their strength was not natural. Each step cracked stone. Each blow left the air trembling.

This wasn't a protest. This wasn't a rebellion. It was a demonstration — a message written in fire and blood.

The first volley ended, leaving the plaza screaming and half-collapsed. Smoke and plasma stench clung to the air. For a heartbeat, even the Persequions froze — not at the devastation, but at the impossibility of it.

"We should have sensed them," Amaterasu whispered, disbelief cutting through her calm.

Shango's fists tightened. "That speed… that force — it isn't human."

Conductor's gaze snapped toward the moving shadows. His voice was low, grim. "I can feel it now… nanomachines. Inside them."

The word struck harder than the beams.

Selistar's jaw clenched. "Then are they Persequions?"

Amaterasu's head shook, sharp as a blade. "No. Nothing is tying them to us. No bond. No connection."

But the words didn't ease the tension. A dwarf near the dais had dropped to his knees, hammer clattering from his grip. "We dismissed the reports," Roratha rasped. "Said it was junk— cheap knockoffs to scam the desperate." Her eyes were wide with shame.

Selistar's hand tightened against his cloak. "Those were decoys," he said bitterly. "The real weapons slipped past us while we laughed at the scraps."

The truth was heavier than the smoke. They hadn't just been blindsided — they'd been arrogant. They had thought the Twins' shadow couldn't reach this far, or they wouldn't bother to do something like this. Now the proof burned all around them, and it was human hands pulling the triggers.

"The Twins," Amaterasu finished. "This reeks of Firmatha Sangaur."

And in the smoke, the attackers moved again, weapons blazing like suns made to kill.

The plaza shook with another blast — but this time the noise came not from plasma, but from the wave of reports flooding through the Persequions' comms.

Conductor pressed a finger to his ear, his face darkening as he listened. "…not just here," he muttered. "Every hub. Every major artery of the Grid."

A sigh escaped him, heavy but not surprised. "Of course. It was never going to be just one strike." His hand curled slowly into a fist. "What is surprising is that they thought they could get away with something like this. That we wouldn't be ready."

His gaze cut to Amaterasu. She held his stare for a heartbeat and gave a single, sharp nod.

Conductor's expression hardened, and then his voice roared out over his communicator. "All units — this is not an isolated event. Tiny Tots at every hub, move now. Lock down, neutralize, and contain. No mercy for the ones wielding this tech!"

The reply came in fractured bursts across the channel — voices strained but unbroken.

"Already on it." Bloody Mary's voice, low and edged with steel. In the background came the sound of glass shattering, followed by her hiss of breath. "They're targeting the waterlines here —."

Hoarder's chuckle bled through next, even in chaos. "These toys don't even tickle. I'll be done here quick enough."

Then Siren, her words sharp, cutting through the screams in her sector. "Too many civilians — if I unleash my voice, they'll fall with the rest." Her voice echoed like a song woven with grief.

Conductor's grip on the communicator tightened. "Hold your ground. I'll send word to Heka, and send you back up."

The global picture sharpened in his mind: every hub burning, every ally engaged. And still, he felt the storm of nanites thrumming, daring him to strike harder.

Shango spun toward the panicking civilians, his voice booming. "Everyone listen! Selistar and Roratha will get you out — follow their lead if you want to live!"

Amaterasu raised her arm, pointing to the skyline where beams had carved through the city's bones. Already, dwarves were swarming the wounds, rune-hammers flaring as they patched stone and steel, some working through tears as their comrades' bodies still lay cooling. "Look!" Amaterasu shouted. "Your homes still stand. The Grid still holds. Trust them — trust us!"

Selistar and Roratha spread their hands, twin arcs of light cutting through the air. Portals bloomed, gateways of safety opening into calmer streets beyond. With a sweep of their arms, they began to pull the crowd through, their spatial mastery bending space itself to shepherd hundreds toward safety.

Conductor's eyes snapped back to the battle. One of the terrorists vaulted into the air, plasma rifle blazing, but froze mid-leap. His limbs locked. His weapon trembled. The glow in his eyes flickered.

Conductor extended his hand, and the very marrow of the man's body betrayed him. "You carry my machines," Conductor said coldly. "And they answer to me."

The terrorist's armor buckled. The rifle detonated. Sparks tore across his body as the nanites in his blood became a storm. Conductor's fist closed, and electricity screamed through flesh and steel alike until there was nothing left but atoms and smoke.

He lowered his hand, eyes burning. "Kill them all."

Amaterasu and Shango vanished from sight in twin blurs of speed, the battlefield cracking open as the Persequions' counterstrike began.

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