CHAPTER 64: AN UNLIKELY CEASEFIRE

The arrival of Commander Kael was like a sudden, brutal drop in temperature.

The hot chaos of the battlefield seemed to recede, replaced by a single, cold point of absolute, overwhelming pressure.

Sterling, the arrogant Vanguard prince, took an involuntary step back, his own considerable power feeling like a flickering candle in the face of a supernova.

"Commander," he said, his voice tight, the condescending purr completely gone. "This is a Guild--sanctioned operation. You have no jurisdiction here."

Kael didn’t even look at him.

His eyes, which glowed with a faint, controlled energy that was a dozen times more potent than Sterling’s, were fixed on Michael.

It was a look of pure, clinical assessment. A scientist observing a particularly interesting, and slightly disgusting, insect.

"Jurisdiction," Kael mused, the word a soft, dangerous sound. "Is a concept for those who still believe in rules."

"I, however, believe in results."

He took a slow step forward, the very air around him seeming to warp and shimmer.

"Look at you, little ghost," he sneered, his gaze finally flicking to the terrified, silent Vanguard team. "Surrounded by your corporate--sponsored playthings."

"Tell me, Sterling," he asked, his voice dripping with a mock--curiosity. "How does it feel to be so thoroughly outclassed by a relic?"

He was toying with them. All of them.

He was a predator that had wandered into a dog park, and he was deeply, profoundly, amused.

This is bad, Michael’s inner monologue stated, his mind racing. This is very, very bad.

We just beat the mini-boss, and now the raid-boss has shown up to wipe the party before we can even loot the corpse.

Kael raised a hand, and a blade of pure, solidified energy, humming with a terrifying power, extended from his wrist.

"Now," he said, his smile turning feral. "If you’ll excuse me, I have a stray to collect."

He prepared to attack, to end this pathetic little sideshow in a single, efficient, and probably very messy motion.

Before he could move, a new sound cut through the tense silence.

It was the heavy, rhythmic thud of armored boots.

A lot of them.

From the west, a new squad of Hunters arrived, not with the polished grace of The Vanguard, but with the heavy, determined tread of a moving wall.

Their armor was a patchwork of battered, utilitarian steel, scarred and dented from a hundred different battles.

Their banner, a simple, stark image of a crossed hammer and anvil, was a symbol of pure, blue--collar grit.

The Ironhearts.

And leading them was a mountain of a man, his face a roadmap of old scars, his beard a magnificent, braided disaster.

He carried a massive, two--handed warhammer that looked like it had been carved from the engine block of a tank.

"Kael," the man grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to shake the very ground.

"You DGC black--ops spooks don’t get to run your own private wars on our turf."

He and his squad formed a solid, unmoving line between Thanatos and Kael.

This was Forge. The Guild Master of The Ironhearts.

Kael’s perfect, handsome face twisted into a mask of pure, undiluted annoyance.

"Forge," he sighed, his tone that of a man dealing with a particularly slow and stubborn child. "Always a pleasure."

"This doesn’t concern you," Kael said. "This is an internal DGC matter."

"It became my concern the moment you pointed that fancy letter opener at a group of kids who just took apart a full Vanguard squad," Forge rumbled, his grip tightening on his hammer.

He wasn’t helping Thanatos because he liked them.

He was helping them because he hated Kael, the DGC, and everything they represented.

The city had rules. Unspoken rules.

And Kael was breaking them.

Kael looked from Forge’s unyielding, granite--like face to the battered, determined squad behind him.

He was powerful.

He was not stupid.

Starting a war with one of the city’s oldest and most respected Guilds, in the middle of a Red Gate crisis, was not on his agenda.

Not today, at least.

He let out a long, theatrical sigh of disappointment.

"Fine," he said, retracting his blade. "Have it your way."

"But know this, old man," he added, his eyes, burning with a cold, promising fire, locking onto Michael one last time.

"The past is dead."

"And I am a very, very patient hunter."

With that, he turned, and in a single, silent, and utterly infuriatingly graceful leap, he was gone, a phantom melting back into the chaos of the battlefield.

The tension broke.

The air felt breathable again.

Forge grunted, turning his attention to the small, battered group of misfits he had just saved.

He looked at Jax, who was still on the ground, his face pale.

He looked at Jinx, who was helping him up, her expression a mask of cynical defiance.

He looked at Michael, who just stood there, his mind still trying to process the last five minutes of pure, high--stakes political maneuvering.

Forge’s gaze was not one of pity. It was a veteran’s assessment.

"You kids fight dirty," he grunted, a flicker of something that might have been grudging respect in his tired eyes.

"I like it."

He tossed a small, military--grade comms unit at Michael.

"Here," he said. "A shared channel. The enemy of my enemy, and all that."

"Now get out of here. Lick your wounds."

He pointed with his hammer towards a dense, forested section of the park to the north, a place of tangled trees and rocky outcrops.

"The Ramble," he said. "The terrain’s too rough for the big monsters. It’s the closest thing to a safe zone you’re gonna find in this hellhole."

Just as he finished speaking, Jax, who had been leaning heavily on Jinx, let out a pained groan and collapsed, his injured leg finally giving out completely.

Jinx swore, struggling to hold him up.

They were in no condition to continue the fight.

They were exposed.

Vulnerable.

And their only ally was a grizzled old warrior who looked at them like they were a particularly interesting, and probably very stupid, new type of grenade.