The Extra's Rise

The night sky above Pyrros erupted in flames as Ferraclysm's orbital strike platforms unleashed their first volley. Mana-enhanced projectiles streaked toward the peaceful canyon city like falling stars, each one carrying enough destructive force to level a city block.

Maxwell von Pontes watched from his command center aboard the flagship Iron Dominion, his golden eyes reflecting the deadly light show below. His fingers gripped the tactical display's edge with white-knuckled intensity as he waited for the inevitable destruction. Arthur Nightingale had made his final mistake by leaving himself vulnerable, and now he would pay the ultimate price.

"Direct hits confirmed on target location," reported his weapons officer, her voice crisp with military precision. "Calculating damage assessment."

Maxwell allowed himself a cold smile. "Excellent. Prepare for second volley. I want nothing left of that hotel but—"

The smile died on his lips.

On the tactical display, the impact zones showed something impossible. Where there should have been devastation, where Ferraclysm engineering should have carved molten craters into the earth, the buildings stood untouched. Intact. Protected.

"What?" Maxwell breathed, leaning forward. "Run the targeting analysis again. Check for system errors."

"Sir, targeting systems show green across all platforms," came the confused reply. "Direct hits confirmed, but... the damage readings don't match expected parameters."

Maxwell's mind raced through possibilities. Defensive barriers were possible, but nothing should have been able to withstand that concentrated firepower. Unless...

"Sir!" Another voice cut across the command deck. "We're detecting massive energy signatures from the target area. Unknown technology, massive mana output. It's like nothing in our databases."

Aetherite. The word burned through Maxwell's consciousness like acid. He'd underestimated not just Arthur's strategic planning, but his technological capabilities. The boy hadn't just stolen Ferraclysm's contracts—he'd made their weapons obsolete.

"Bring up the ground surveillance feeds," Maxwell commanded, his voice tight with barely controlled fury. "I want visual confirmation of the target area."

Multiple holographic displays activated around the command center, showing high-resolution feeds from reconnaissance drones circling Pyrros. The canyon city spread below them, its famous cave openings now glowing with an eerie blue light that definitely wasn't natural. The hotel where Arthur had been staying stood at the center of a shimmering energy field that rippled like water made of starlight.

Maxwell's golden eyes widened as he recognized the defensive formations. Impossible. The energy requirements alone should have been beyond any portable system, yet there it was—a barrier that made Ferraclysm's most advanced weapons look like children's toys.

"Launch the second volley," he ordered grimly. "Full power. Overcharge the mana cores if necessary."

"Sir, overcharging risks—"

"Do it."

The orbital platforms hummed with increased energy as their weapon systems drew power beyond safe parameters. Warning lights flashed across the tactical displays as the weapons charged to levels that would have been considered suicidal under normal circumstances.

The second volley launched with twice the destructive force of the first. Maxwell watched the projectiles streak toward their target, each one a miniature sun burning through the night sky. This time, surely, the barriers would fall.

They didn't.

The defensive field absorbed the enhanced bombardment without so much as a flicker. If anything, it seemed to grow brighter, as if feeding on the energy directed against it. Maxwell's weapons—the pride of Ferraclysm's engineering corps, the tools that had maintained the guild's dominance for decades—might as well have been throwing stones.

"Impossible," Maxwell whispered, his complexion paling as the implications hit him. "How could he have developed something this advanced without our intelligence networks detecting it?"

Before anyone could answer, every screen in the command center suddenly went dark.

The silence that followed was deafening. Emergency lighting cast eerie shadows across the command deck as backup systems struggled to compensate for what appeared to be a complete system failure. Maxwell's senior officers exchanged confused glances, their training inadequate for a situation this unprecedented.

Then, one by one, the screens began flickering back to life.

But instead of tactical displays and weapon readouts, they showed something else entirely.

Arthur Nightingale's face.

The young man appeared on every monitor throughout the command center, his azure eyes bright with intelligence and something that looked suspiciously like amusement. He was seated in what appeared to be a comfortable chair, completely relaxed despite the fact that orbital weapons had just been fired at his location. Behind him, Maxwell could see the warm interior of the hotel, untouched and peaceful.

"Good evening, Maxwell," Arthur said, his voice somehow reaching them through their own communication systems. "I hope you're enjoying the light show. Quite impressive, really. I can see why the Slatemark military paid such premium prices for Ferraclysm's weapons."

Maxwell's hands clenched into fists as rage boiled through his veins. "How are you—"

"Broadcasting through your own systems?" Arthur interrupted with a slight smile. "Oh, that's the beautiful thing about modern warfare, Maxwell. When everything is connected, everything becomes vulnerable. Your weapons platforms, your communication networks, your tactical computers—they're all running on systems that can be... influenced, shall we say."

As if to demonstrate his point, warning alarms began blaring throughout the command center. Weapon systems that had been charging for a third volley suddenly powered down. Navigation computers began displaying error messages. Even the environmental controls seemed to flicker uncertainly.

"You see," Arthur continued conversationally, "while you've been spending decades perfecting bigger guns and more explosive projectiles, I've been working on something far more elegant. Information warfare. Digital infiltration. The art of making your enemy's own tools work against them."

Maxwell felt ice forming in his chest as the reality of his situation became clear. "You hacked our systems."

"Hacked is such an ugly word," Arthur replied with mock offense. "I prefer to think of it as a comprehensive security audit. And I'm afraid your systems failed quite spectacularly."

Arthur leaned forward slightly, his expression becoming more serious. "Did you really think I would travel to the Southern continent without taking precautions? That I would leave myself vulnerable to attack from a guild as predictably aggressive as Ferraclysm?"

The young man's hand came up, and he pointed directly at the camera—at Maxwell—with two fingers indicating his own eyes. The gesture was simple, unmistakable, and infuriating in its casual confidence.

'I'm watching you,' it said. 'I see everything you're doing.'

Maxwell's vision tinged red with fury. The casual arrogance in that gesture, the implicit mockery of Ferraclysm's technological superiority, the sheer audacity of hijacking their own systems to deliver the insult—it was beyond intolerable.

"You think you're clever, boy?" Maxwell snarled at the screens. "You think technology is everything?"

Arthur's smile widened slightly. "I think preparation is everything, Maxwell. And I've been preparing for this conversation for quite some time."

The connection cut abruptly, leaving the command center in stunned silence. For several heartbeats, nobody moved. The weight of what had just happened—the complete technological superiority Arthur had demonstrated, the casual way he'd neutralized their most advanced weapons—settled over them like a suffocating blanket.

But Maxwell von Pontes hadn't built Ferraclysm into one of the Twelve Great Guilds by accepting defeat easily.

"Sir?" his aide ventured carefully. "Your orders?"

Maxwell straightened, his golden eyes burning with renewed determination. Arthur might have neutralized their weapons, might have infiltrated their systems, might have made their technological advantages irrelevant. But there was one thing the young guild master couldn't hack, couldn't influence through digital manipulation.

Raw, overwhelming force.

"Signal the mercenary teams," Maxwell commanded, his voice carrying the cold certainty of a man who had just shifted to an entirely different kind of warfare. "Full deployment. Every adventurer on our payroll, every contracted warrior, every hired blade. I want them on the ground in Pyrros within the hour."

"Sir, are you certain? The cost alone—"

"The cost is irrelevant," Maxwell cut him off sharply. "Arthur Nightingale has made one critical error in his calculations. He's focused so intently on technological superiority that he's forgotten the most basic principle of guild warfare."

Maxwell's lips curved into a predatory smile as he watched the tactical display begin showing the deployment of Ferraclysm's most dangerous assets—not their weapons or their technology, but their people. Ascendant-rank fighters, Integration-rank mages, specialists whose abilities couldn't be hacked or digitally compromised.

"Sometimes," Maxwell continued, "the solution to a technological problem is remarkably simple. You send people who don't care about your computers or your clever little security systems. People who solve problems with steel and magic and raw determination."

He activated the general communication channel, his voice carrying to every mercenary team preparing for deployment. "Arthur Nightingale thinks he's won because he can manipulate our machines. Show him what happens when he faces warriors who don't need machines to kill."

Meanwhile, in the peaceful comfort of the hotel's main lounge, Arthur Nightingale leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a satisfied smile. The holographic displays surrounding him showed exactly what he'd expected to see—Maxwell's forces scrambling to deploy ground troops after their technological assault had failed so spectacularly.

'Everything is proceeding exactly according to plan,' Luna observed from within his consciousness, her mental voice carrying a note of impressed approval.

'Maxwell is predictable,' Arthur replied silently, his fingers dancing across the virtual interface only he could see. 'When technology fails him, he'll default to overwhelming force. It's the response of someone who's never had to think beyond raw power.'

'The real battle is about to begin,' Luna noted.

Arthur's smile widened as he watched the tactical projections update in real-time. Maxwell's ground forces were already making the mistakes Arthur had anticipated—moving too quickly, assuming their numbers would be sufficient, underestimating the defensive advantages Arthur had spent so much time preparing.

'No,' Arthur thought with quiet satisfaction. 'The real battle is already over. Maxwell just doesn't know it yet.'