After that night, Eiran's routine continued. Even though he knew that he was a dead man walking, he didn't let himself get distracted, he didn't mope. Of course, he was upset, of course he wished there was another way, but he'd long accepted the outcome; he was determined to see it through.
He wished he could call his family, but they were most likely in a bunker right now, so that wouldn't be possible. In fact, that may have been a stroke of luck. Eiran didn't know whether or not he could maintain steadfast after hearing their voices.
Soon, the experiments moved to a large laboratory, with more and more people getting involved. More priests, more technicians, more shields.
Soon, they began strapping him to some machines. The priests stopped directly channelling energy into him, instead into the machines, which would then crawl toward him like skeletal limbs, humming with dread, forcing his body to bear the invasive energies. Half the tubes would move energy, the other half would go towards keeping him cool, hydrated, and satiated. The machine allowed him to receive energy from more priests, but it didn't stop him from feeling the pain.
Soon, he stopped feeling pain. He stopped feeling hungry, he stopped feeling thirsty.
Soon, he forgot what it was like to be outside of the machine.
Soon, he became a part of the machine.
…
In the large crater of Arygyre Basin, stood the grand fortress of Aethra's Reach.
This was the crown jewel of Mars. The citizens of Mars forged themselves in the image of Velgrith, the Flame Father: God of War, Fire, and Steel.
So in his image, they created a symbol of power, a fortress of war. Here, in the warmonger's den, humanity's most hot-blooded soldiers stirred, ready to lay down their lives in the name of Velgrith, laying down their boiling flesh and blood in hopes of fame, glory and honour.
In this same fortress, the six leaders stood in a spacious grey facility. Solemnly.
They were looking at a machine, no — a man.
When this man first walked into the war room, none of them truly acknowledged him. Some thought of him as a naive boy, others as a run-of-the-mill soldier.
Now, those sentiments did not ring through their minds at all. Instead, what they saw was a true embodiment of Velgrith and his ideals.
Even Lucius, who cared not for anything outside of tinkering with machines and relics, glinted admiration in his eyes.
Tullius broke the silence with gritted teeth.
"Eiran, Trailblazer of Tharsis. Are you ready?"
Within the mechanical spiderweb, within the layers of interlocking plates, coiling tubes, and pulsing conduits, a frail voice emerged, the body unseen, obscured by the cold shell of the machine. It simply said.
"I am ready."
Soon —
it was time for war.
…
In the great battlefield of Noachis Terrra, where war had waged for months on end.
The other cities on Mars had fallen much quicker, but not Tharsis.
Part of it was the technology, part of it was the terrain, and part of it was the protection of Velgrith.
For these reasons, on the seas to the North, and the plains to the East, at Arabia Terra, the army protecting Tharsis has been able to hold on until now.
But at Noachis Terra, the terrain, the technology, the soldiers, all the factors favoured the Veritirii.
So bodes the question: how have they lasted for so long?
Simple — they refused to fall.
They stood proud, they stood tall, in front of their families in bunkers, and with the bodies of their fallen comrades on their backs.
They stood proud, they stood tall, with Velgrith's flames fueling their blood.
They stood proud, they stood tall, because retreat was never an option in their hearts.
In the eye of annihilation, the flame still stood.
In this great battlefield, humanity prepared for its last stand.
On the other side of the plains, the Veritirii army amassed, a violent riptide.
Modreon's wrath, an amalgamation of beasts and machines, born of war.
The bronze glint of their army, their tanks and warplanes, their designs tailored around the simple complexities of destruction.
Their thunderous march of conquest was stirring, ready to begin at any time.
…
Priests stood in an intricate spiral pattern within multiple concentric circles. At the centre of this mass ritual, two priests in extravagant white and red robes, with motifs of flame and war embroidered on.
The priests began chanting:
"Cinis in spiritum. Flamma in carnem. Ignis in voluntatem.
O deus bellicus potentissime, cuius solium super scuta fracta et clamores virorum fundatum est,
Sanguine meo, immo carne medullisque laceratis,
Flammam horrendam atque gloriosam accendo,
Incendium quod astra comburat et firmamentum ipsum maculet.
Sic fiat — hoc igne, furore sufflato, nutritum,
Inimici mei dolorem in membris suis sentient,
Cum terror eos intus corrodens excruciet, et exitium crudelissimum
Super voluntates fractas saltet!"
A whirlwind of flames gathered around the two great magicians, just that brief moment nearly brought them to their knees, masterfully, they manipulated the current, redirecting the flow into a machine. And then, it was time.
The machine was loaded.
Hymns still echoed faintly through the stone halls of Aethra's Reach, but outside, silence reigned.
The launch ramp extended. Pistons locked into place. The final clamps unlatched.
The capsule sat atop the rail like a steel sarcophagus, its front lined with ritual markings, its heart pulsing dimly with restrained flame.
And deep inside—buried beneath layers of plating, tubing, relic glass and divine steel—lay Eiran Voss.
Unmoving.
Unbreathing.
Waiting.
A light blinked on.
Lucius gave the signal.
The capsule launched.
It tore through the Martian sky like a comet, a silver bolt of vengeance, trailing no flame, no noise— like a bolt of flame, spearheading the way.
…
On the other side of the battlefield, the Veritirii saw it.
A single, oblong object streaking through the blood-colored sky.
A few grunted. Others laughed.
"Another bomb," one of their captains sneered in that guttural, gear-grinding tongue. "Let it fall."
They had withstood worse. They had crushed orbital strikes, broken through radiant barriers. They had devoured relic engines and spat them out molten.
One of their warlocks activated a relic, intending to nullify the abilities of the perceived bomb.
And so they watched.
Waited.
Smirking.
The capsule struck the ground with a dull, unimpressive thud.
Nothing happened.
For a moment.
A brief moment.
Then—Eiran's eyes opened.
Inside the capsule, time slowed.
A memory flickered through his mind. His mother's hands, worn and warm. Sylvie's laugh, the one that always broke through his brooding. The imagined weight of a child not yet born, curled safe in her arms.
He didn't speak. He couldn't.
But the relic heard his soul. And it answered.
There was no sound. Just heat. White-hot, molten, divine.
Flame poured out in spiraling arcs, like a wrathful parasite, it surged outward in intelligent threads—each one hunting, each one seeking circuitry, engines, armor.
Each strand represented the souls of the soldiers buried within the very soil, and those that watched in anticipation.
The Veritirii did not scream, it was not in their nature. They weren't even afraid, but they were angry.
Their war machines stopped. Then spasmed. Then burned from the inside out. The parasite-fire danced through their ranks like a storm of molten needles, igniting their fuel, boiling their hydraulics, cracking their alloy-plated hides.
The soldiers themselves were not spared from the chaos, the flame kept on expanding, no longer like a worm, now a serpent of judgement.
At the heart of it, Eiran's body stood.
Bare. Radiant. Eyes glowing gold.
Then—
Oblivion.
…
Horns blared from the human's side as soon as the explosion began. The Veritirii would not remain shocked for much longer; nothing short of absolute annihilation would rattle them. That was something that both sides had in common.
Tullius knew that taking advantage of this moment was paramount. It was time for an all-or-nothing gambit.
"SOLDIERS!"
Tullius's heart was ablaze. He had known the boy for a brief moment, but the impact that he'd left on the grizzled war veteran was immeasurable. At first, he found the boy amusing; later, he found him brave, inspiring even. And now he mourned him.
But within that sadness, was another feeling, one he'd long forgotten —
hope.
And now, it was time to spread that hope, that seed, to all who follow him.
"I see your blood burning, I see the flame in your eyes!
Long have we held these walls, while the stars above wept and cities below crumbled.
Long have we stood in the shadow of monsters — and spat in their faces.
Today, we do not fight for victory.
We do not fight for survival.
We fight because it is who we are.
Let them come with their beasts, their machines, their swarms.
Let them come thinking us beaten, thinking us afraid.
But we are sons of fire! Daughters of steel!
We are the gladiators, tempered in Velgrith's arena!
And today — today they will remember what it means
To wage war against Mars.
Sound the drums! Ready your blades! Load your guns!
This day we burn our names into the stars!"
One final chant lingered.
"TO THE DEATH!" Roared Tullius
"TO THE DEATH!" Echoed Mars.
And so, the battle to determine the fate of humans on Mars began.
…
In the great cosmos, the abyss stared. Unsolicited, its intentions unknown. Its nature unknown, name, unknown.
Even among the great celestial bodies, it was simply an unknown observer.
"O children of flame, I warned you and you didn't listen.
Yet how grateful I am that you did not shy away from the flame.
Since time began, how many times have I had these moments?
Moments of learning, of understanding.
For you, the number may be incomprehensibly large.
For me, negligible.
But I have learned today why you were once so loved by your gods,
What a shame it was for "his" jealousy to manifest.
Leaving both you and your creators that held you so dear—
Corrupted, beyond all hope of redemption.
Yet today you have shown me that hope persists.
Perhaps love can, too.
Today, you have shown me a spark.
So I shall continue to watch with intent.
Will you prove "him" right, your true nature corrupted?
Or does your purity persist, awaiting redemption?
I wait, I observe, unknown, unabated."
First Story: Eiran of Mars