The Multiverse Hunter

High above the thick blanket of white clouds, Ali calmly pulled on a tight black athletic shirt, the fabric hugging his muscular frame like a second skin. He rolled his shoulders once, then slipped his smooth gold mask over his face, hiding every hint of the calm grin underneath. He looked utterly at ease — inhumanly so — while far below him, men and boys clutched swords and prayed to their gods.

Everyone else felt that tightness in their chests — that iron knot in the gut that comes before slaughter. But Ali? Ali felt lighter than ever. This was where he thrived — in the air, above a battlefield on the cusp of breaking open like a rotten fruit. Death was where his kind rose.

He reached into his inventory and pulled out a small, polished block of wood, faintly glowing with an ethereal green pulse. The hit list, his supervisor's special gift. Names burned on its surface — but one name glowed brighter than the rest. A green circle appeared on his map directly on his position.

'So there's a target among the five players…' Ali thought, slipping the block back into his inventory. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small glass phone — sleek, black, too advanced for this world.

The sun overhead blinded him to the screen's glare. He snapped his fingers once and crooked his index finger up — a silent command. In response, the massive shadow of Abeloth crossed the sun, blocking its light and casting Ali in a cool eclipse.

The screen flickered to life — feeds from three drones circling above the two camps and the empty killing field between them. Ali's black eyes roamed the live footage. 'I still have my connection to the Force severed…' he reminded himself, a faint annoyance behind his eyes.

One tent in the Cinder camp caught his attention — a steady flow of armoured knights slipping in and out like moths around a flame. Ali's smirk curled under the mask. 'Now that's a unique ability… Getting stronger by being a whore.' He clicked his tongue, shut the feed, and slipped the phone away.

Then he stretched out along Eldora's back, folding his arms behind his head, the wind tugging at his black sleeves. He even closed his eyes, letting the high-altitude wind rush over him as Eldora drifted in lazy circles above the storm about to break.

Below, an hour crawled past in a slow coil of tension. And then — finally — iron clashed, steel snapped shut.

On one hill, House Nolan's knights stood shoulder to shoulder, plate gleaming in the early sun. At their head, Lord Kale Nolan raised his pristine longsword high, voice rolling over the grass like thunder.

"Today we fight! Today we draw blood! Today we punish evil, protect our families, save our loved ones! Today we show the might of our steel — today we WIN! For GLORY!" Kale's deep roar carried across the lines as his aura exploded in a blaze of deep orange, swirling around him like a wildfire.

AH AH AH AH AH AH! The Nolan knights slammed swords and shields together, shouting his words back at him — their fear melting under the fire in their chests.

At the head of the line, Thomas Nolan stepped forward — the young heir's plate armour burned with raw, orange light. His sword dragged behind him, leaving a fresh trench in the dirt as he climbed the hill's crest, every step shaking under the weight of his rage.

Across the valley, House Cinder's men waited on their own ridge, banners snapping in the cold breeze. A massive black knight stood ahead of them — taller than any man there, his scar visible through the split in his armours collar. The burn mark — the brand of a slave — burned like a memory on his flesh. In his hand, a brutal black great-sword gleamed with fresh oil.

At his side, Edwin Cinder stood gleaming in immaculate white armour, the red insignia of his house painted over his heart like a fresh wound. His helmet dangled from his fingers, blue eyes fixed on the bright figure of his oldest friend across the field.

Thomas's helmet hid his face, but the veins bulging in his neck, the flicker of orange burning under the slit — they spoke enough.

And then came the scream. Raw, hoarse, a promise that drowned out every prayer on that field.

"EDWIIIIIIIN! WHERE IS SHE?!"

Thomas hurled himself off the crest — steel boots smashing through dirt and grass. He hit the valley floor hard enough to crack it, then shot forward like a cannon shell, his aura trailing behind him in a streak of burning orange.

The hill trembled — the war had begun.

Edwin saw Thomas tearing down the slope like an orange comet — and a savage grin split across his face. He slammed his helmet down over his head and lowered his stance, crimson aura crackling up his armoured back like a wildfire.

"I'VE WAITED LONG FOR THIS!" Edwin bellowed, voice ringing inside the iron cage of his helm as he launched forward, red aura trailing behind him in a bright, flickering wake. In his left hand, his short sword gleamed cold and cruel; in his right, a small magic circle spun in the air just above his gauntlet — its runes alive, floating words orbiting its edges like captive sparks. Mana hummed inside the circle, waiting to be unleashed.

All around them, the knights needed no orders — no shouted signals. Instinct took over. Steel clashed against steel as both sides stormed down the hills and slammed into each other on the open, raw earth between. The black knight of House Cinder strode forward like an armoured bull, blue aura roaring off his scarred body. Lord Kale met him halfway, orange aura coiling off him in precise, controlled arcs — like a blade held steady by an old master's hand.

The rest of the valley came alive with thunder — a hundred brutal duels carved into the dirt and grass with each clash of swords and armoured boots. Aura sparks lit the battlefield in violent flashes.

Up on House Cinder's hill, three Korean players lay prone behind the high ridge — their sleek sniper rifles aimed downrange, scopes glinting with deadly promise. Beside them, the torrent's huge barrels pivoted slowly, its stacked ammo crates gleaming in the pale dawn light.

The leader gave a short grunt. Almost… One breath, then two — their fingers curled around the triggers —

BOOOOOOOOM

An ear-splitting explosion and a wave of black smoke swallowed the entire crest. Choking fumes coiled around the snipers, blinding their scopes instantly.

The three players abandoned their rifles without a word — slamming armoured fists onto the chest triggers of their suits.

CHING CHING CHING — CLACK!

Metal unfolded in a flash — sleek combat plates sliding into place over flesh and cloth. The thin exo-swords clicked out from hip holsters; shotgun barrels snapped into place under their forearms. Their helmets hissed and locked down, heat visors flickering to life as a low-level AI flicked targeting runes across their displays.

One of them twitched — caught a flicker of heat cutting through the haze overhead — and snapped his SMG upward, peppering the air with wild fire.

BRRRRRRRR

His shells tore through smoke and sky but found nothing.

"Stay tight! I'm tossing a grenade—" the squad leader snapped into his comms, voice ragged with tension. He ripped a frag from his belt, unpinned it, and flung it into the swirling smoke —

CLINK!

A whisper of metal sliced the haze — a single thin needle struck the grenade mid-flight.

BOOOOOOM!

The blast ripped the air apart just above the leader's outstretched hand. A shriek split the battlefield as the shockwave tore his arm apart — shredded armor, flesh, and bone into a ruin of charred meat dangling from his shoulder joint.

"AAAAAAAAAARGH!" The leader's scream pitched through the helmet comms, raw and pitiful. The other two froze at the sight — hardened mercs or not, seeing their veteran commander screaming like a cornered animal cracked something inside them.

Panic took over. The two players bolted — spraying their SMGs and forearm shotguns into the smoke, bullets hammering trees, rocks, open sky — hitting nothing but ghosts.

Below, the chaos on the hills was just a distant echo. In the valley, there was no room for distant screams — only the brutal crunch of steel, the roar of colliding auras, the wet crack of bones breaking under iron.

In the middle of it all, Thomas Nolan was a wild beast unchained. His blade slashed at Edwin with raw, reckless power — each swing a blur of orange fire that tore at the air. But power without control is just noise. Edwin's sword danced around each blow, parrying with a precision that mocked Thomas's rage. Every missed strike fed Edwin's grin under his helm.

Behind the cold edge of his visor, Edwin's free hand burned with promise — the runes spinning around his wrist flared brighter, the spell swelling for release.

One misstep from Thomas — one gap in that wild swing — and Edwin would carve the heart from the Nolan line in a single red blaze.

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