Westonglappa did not wake up to peace.
It woke up to broadcasts that sounded calm on purpose.
Across the continent, screens in cafes, train stations, and shelter corridors looped the same clipped report: Auttumotto in crisis. Auttumotto under occupation pressure. Auttumotto's border unstable. The anchors spoke like they were reading weather—because if they spoke like they were watching a death, the death might look back.
And in Auttumotto's capital district, behind reinforced windows and stolen signal towers, Darkwing Shadowsypher stood with his hands behind his back as if the entire state were a worksheet he had already graded.
He did not shout to be loud.
He spoke in FULL CAPS because it made the world feel smaller.
"THE CONTINENT IS WATCHING," he said, voice flat as stamped metal. "GOOD."
Around him, the Darkened Supreme Commanders held their positions like pillars supporting a ceiling nobody else could see.
Darkenedye watched the air like it was a network diagram—eyes flicking from tower to tower, from emergency siren to satellite uplink, tracing routes the way a surgeon traces veins.
Darkenedale stood closer to the captured depot yards, already re-routing supply crates with a calmness that made the looting feel worse. Not frenzy. Not hunger. Procedure.
Darkenedstream listened to the coastline as if the sea were a witness he could cross-examine.
Darkenedstride kept vanishing and reappearing along the perimeter—too fast to be reassuring, too precise to be accidental.
Darkenedstorm smiled like a coming bruise across the sky.
And Darkenedpuff, deceptively gentle, waited at the edge of a newly marked Compliance Zone, where frightened civilians were being directed in neat lines by soldiers who didn't look like soldiers anymore—just attendants to the inevitable.
Darkwing's gaze turned toward the western ridge where the neighboring states had been rallying their relief columns.
"They tried to help," he said, as if pity was an insult. "SO I WILL TEACH THEM WHAT HELP COSTS."
He lifted two fingers.
A thin maroon seam appeared across the road miles away—barely visible, like a scratch on glass.
A Denial Line.
And the war rolled forward, not like an invasion...
Like an approval stamp moving from page to page.
The first relief battalion from Leblaela reached the Auttumotto border at dawn.
They came with banners. Medical trucks. Fuel drums. An escort of armored carriers and fresh-faced officers who still believed courage could bargain with gods.
They saw the empty highway. They saw the silent toll structures.
Then they saw the line.
Not a wall—just a faint discoloration in the asphalt, like someone had drawn a rule across the land with a pen that didn't need ink.
"Advance slow," the Leblaela commander ordered. "Engineers forward."
The first engineer stepped across.
His boot hit the other side and... stopped.
Not because his leg failed.
Because the road refused to recognize the step.
His body pitched forward, then snapped back as if tugged by an invisible leash. He staggered, eyes wide, breathing hard. His squad rushed to catch him—hands grabbing shoulders, trying to steady him.
The air tightened.
A calm, polite glow appeared on the highway sign above them.
AUTHORIZED MOVEMENT: NO
RETURN TO DESIGNATED ROUTE
"Who's doing this?" someone whispered.
A blur answered.
Darkenedstride appeared on the median barrier like a blade set down gently. He didn't roar. He didn't posture. He looked bored—because to him this wasn't combat yet. It was positioning.
Behind him, Darkhit and Darkhitter stepped out of the morning haze with the quiet confidence of predators that don't need to hurry.
The Leblaela soldiers raised rifles, disciplined and terrified.
They fired.
The bullets didn't bounce.
They simply lost purpose—dropping into the grass like someone had told them mid-flight that they weren't permitted to arrive.
Darkhit tilted his head, almost curious.
Then he moved.
Not a cinematic charge. Not a heroic clash.
A sequence of vanish-and-reappear impacts that turned a neat relief formation into scattered panic. Radios screamed for orders. Officers shouted grid references that meant nothing when the road itself was rewriting what "north" felt like.
Darkhitter swung once—heavy, brutal, and efficient—cracking an armored carrier's front end and sending the vehicle sliding sideways into a ditch. The engine wailed, then died.
Not destroyed.
Dismissed.
And above them, as if to ensure the world would remember the lesson, Darkwing's voice rolled through the pressure-field like a courthouse speaker.
"LEBLAELA RELIEF," he said in FULL CAPS. "REJECTED."
The survivors fled—if "flee" was the right word for running in directions the state kept editing underneath their feet.
By midday, Zachon tried next.
Zachon didn't send banners. They sent artillery.
From a ridge two towns away, their gunners fired a full salvo toward the occupied transit corridor—hoping sheer force could puncture whatever invisible rule had been imposed.
The shells flew clean.
Then, mid-arc, their trajectories bent—subtly at first, then decisively—curving away from the target like the sky had politely declined to be struck.
Zachon's command tent erupted into chaos.
"That's impossible!"
"Recalibrate!"
"Fire again—!"
Darkenedye appeared inside their communications truck without opening a door.
He placed a hand lightly on the broadcast console, as if calming an anxious pet.
Every monitor in the truck blinked once and updated to the same calm line:
SIGNAL STATUS: OVERRIDDEN
Zachon's commander grabbed his radio mic.
Nothing came out.
Not static.
Silence with permission behind it.
Darkenedye's voice was quiet, clinical, and devastating.
"Your battlefield is loud," he said. "Your network is not."
He left as cleanly as he arrived—no explosion, no spectacle—only the sudden realization that Zachon's entire defense depended on systems that had just been politely taken away.
Outside the truck, Zachon soldiers looked up and saw a new symbol projected faintly on the ridge path ahead:
COMPLIANCE ROUTE ACTIVE
Some of them fired anyway—because humans do that when their world starts lying.
The shots didn't matter.
The fear did.
That night, Darkwing made the occupation visible on purpose.
He opened a single broadcast corridor—one narrow street in Kropolis where the cameras were allowed to run, where the reporters were allowed to breathe, where the story was allowed to exist.
Because fear spreads faster when it has footage.
A Westonglappa correspondent—young, shaking, still trying to sound professional—stood in front of a live camera and read what the teleprompter told her to read.
Behind her, Auttumotto's skyline glowed maroon with new projected marks: district lines, travel restrictions, emergency "guidance" that looked clean enough to pass for law.
She swallowed and began.
"We are receiving... updated safety routing," she said, voice tight. "Citizens are advised to report to—"
A scream cut through the background.
The reporter flinched, but she didn't turn.
Because she knew the rules.
The cameraman did turn.
He saw what the corridor permitted him to see: a small group of resisting soldiers dragged to their knees by Darkened elites, their weapons stripped and tossed aside like trash.
Darkglimpse stepped into frame, smiling warmly like a man hosting a televised event.
He leaned toward the camera, voice gentle.
"Keep filming," he said. "This is history."
The cameraman's hands trembled.
He tried to steady the shot.
And when one resisting soldier lunged—one desperate, doomed act of defiance—Darklance drove the butt of his spear into the pavement hard enough to crack the stone and drop the soldier flat.
Not gore.
Just finality.
Darkglimpse didn't stop smiling.
"See?" he told the camera. "Order."
The reporter continued reading. Tears gathered in her eyes. Her voice did not break, because breaking would be punished.
This was Darkwing's generosity:
You may record the truth I permit.
Far away, on the AES continents, the sky never stopped rattling.
BRD aerial squadrons and naval carriers kept striking Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, Galaxenchi—continuous bombardment cycles meant to exhaust defenses and break morale.
But the AES had its own loophole: supremacy through interception.
They didn't "win" the air.
They denied the BRD the result.
Solar interceptors burned orange through cloud layers, breaking formations before payloads reached cities. Lunar anti-air cannons flashed cold-blue and clean, carving corridors of safety over evacuation routes. Star Regime defense arrays lit the upper atmosphere with green tracer lines, swatting incoming waves like insects. Galaxy tracking systems—calculated, precise—fed predictions to everyone else like a heartbeat of coordination.
The BRD kept attacking.
The AES kept defending.
And because Absolute Leaders could not be erased by lesser tiers, the war became a grinding equation: constant pressure, constant counter-pressure—stalemate in the sky, catastrophe on the ground, where civilians still bled time they didn't have.
Which was exactly why Westonglappa mattered.
It wasn't a duel of gods.
It was a test of what the gods could protect while the world watched.
Near the end of the week, the Galaxy Regime finally arrived to observe the wound up close.
Not Galaxbeam—because when an Absolute Leader moves, the whole board tilts.
This was the next tier down: the professionals who hold the line when the leaders are elsewhere.
Galaxastorm, Supreme Commander of the Galaxy Regime, stepped onto Westonglappa soil with two elites at his side—Galaxkeiko and Galaxymizuki—their gold-yellow radiance muted beneath travel cloaks that still looked too clean for a continent in panic.
Galaxastorm didn't give speeches.
He looked at the horizon where the Denial Lines were faintly visible in the light.
He looked at the refugee columns being redirected into Compliance Zones.
He looked at the broadcast corridor where reporters were forced to narrate their own humiliation.
Then he spoke one sentence, calm and heavy.
"This is not occupation," he said. "This is psychological warfare with teeth."
And as if the universe wanted to prove him right immediately...
The air went colder.
A different kind of presence slid into the war like a scalpel.
Deathendale arrived with two Death Regime elites—Deathgrubaris and Deathtragar—moving with that clinical-horror stillness your Death faction does so well. No shouting. No swagger. Just the sense that biology itself had become negotiable.
Darkwing didn't greet them like allies.
He greeted them like tools.
"You will strike the edges," he said in FULL CAPS. "MAKE THEM AFRAID TO FORM LINES."
Deathendale's eyes glowed with the Death Regime's signature plus-shaped pupils, expression unreadable.
"As you authorize," he replied.
Even the Darkened elites shifted slightly at that—because fear respects hierarchy, but it also respects unknown methods.
The next battle hit Fortborter Harbor, where the last unbroken escape route still pretended it was possible.
Thousands of civilians waited with bags and blankets, faces turned toward the sea like the sea was salvation.
Darkenedstream stepped to the waterline.
He did not raise his voice.
He raised his hand.
And the harbor changed.
Not frozen—just controlled.
Currents tightened into lanes that didn't belong to nature anymore. Boats trying to depart stalled as if the ocean had decided "forward" required permission.
A ferry captain screamed into his mic, "We've got power—why aren't we moving?!"
On the pier, Westonglappa marines aimed rifles at the Darkened advance and tried to look like heroes.
They were heroes.
It still wasn't enough.
Darkenedstorm arrived behind the first wave and slammed the air with pressure that flattened banners and made helmets ring. Soldiers stumbled, coughing—not from gas, but from the sheer weight of being told by reality that they were outclassed.
And in the middle of it all, Darkwing allowed the cameras to roll again—his press corridor extending like a leash.
"LET THEM SEE," he said.
So they saw buildings buckle under precision strikes.
They saw supply depots breached—not by mobs, but by Darkenedale's calm redirection, trucks rolling out in organized convoys under Darkened escort.
They saw desperate defenders dragged back from the docks as Denial Lines cut off every route that looked like hope.
And when a young marine—barely old enough to shave—tried to sprint past a Denial Line to reach a boat full of children...
He hit the boundary like an invisible wall and fell, not injured, just stopped.
He looked up, terrified and furious.
Darkhit stood over him, shadow heavy.
For one second, it looked like the elite might finish him.
Instead, Darkhit leaned down, voice low.
"Wrong route," he said.
And then he vanished—because cruelty didn't always need a corpse. Sometimes it only needed a lesson the survivor would carry forever.
By nightfall, Westonglappa's neighboring states stopped calling it "a crisis."
They started calling it what it was.
A spreading front.
In the darkness above Fortborter, Galaxastorm watched BRD aircraft cutting across the clouds in distant streaks—heading for other continents, other targets, other civilians.
He keyed his comms.
"AES air defense is holding," he said. "But Westonglappa will collapse politically if this continues. We need a counter-operation that doesn't rely on Absolute Leaders."
Galaxkeiko's jaw tightened. "Then we fight their commanders."
Galaxymizuki looked toward the harbor, eyes narrowed. "And we protect the humans long enough to matter."
Galaxastorm nodded once.
Across the water, Darkenedstream's control held firm.
Across the shoreline, Darkwing's pressure held firmer.
And in the press corridor, the reporter's voice kept trembling through lines of scripted calm—because she had learned the most terrifying truth of all:
Sometimes the enemy doesn't silence the news.
Sometimes he sponsors it.
So the world can watch itself lose.
And somewhere behind the maroon glow, Darkwing turned his head slightly, as if listening to the far-off AES bombardment defenses like background music.
"THEY ARE BUSY DEFENDING THEIR SKIES," he said in FULL CAPS, amused. "GOOD."
His gaze returned to Westonglappa.
"NOW," he said, "TURN THE CONTINENT INTO PANIC."
The Denial Lines brightened.
The Compliance Zones widened.
And the war took another step forward—clean, methodical, and loud enough for every screen to carry.
Fortborter Town became the first headline because the harbor itself turned into killing silence—warships from neighboring Westonglappa states pushed in with flags raised and courage loud, only for Darkwing to stand above the dock like a sealed verdict, watching as Darkenedstream unfurled a heavy, unnatural pressure across the bay until hulls shuddered, ropes went taut, and even the water seemed to "refuse" the idea of escape, while the Darkened elites, Darkvesperia and Darkvanya, prowled the pierline with predatory calm, splitting supply crates, stripping armories, and knocking defenders off their footing with shadow-maroon surges that didn't feel like explosions so much as the world itself denying humans the right to stand; Sidetown City was worse because it was intimate—alleys packed with civilians, soldiers from surrounding states funneling families through back routes, and a trembling press team still filming because Darkwing allowed it, smiling at the camera like fear traveled faster when it had a broadcast signal, and then a denial-surge snapped through the street grid so the "safe" turns became wrong turns, and when a brave local captain tried to hold an intersection with a last platoon, Darkvanya's spear-like magic cracked the pavement in a jagged wave that sent shields skittering, while Darkvesperia slipped behind the line and dropped a suffocating veil that turned radio calls into nothing but breath and panic; in Kropolis, the media hub, the war became an image—emergency anchors reading evacuation guidance with shaking hands as the screens behind them flickered, then reassembled into calm Darkened messaging, and the whole studio felt stamped under a foreign jurisdiction, and that single broadcast—Fortborter locked, Sidetown collapsing, Kropolis compromised—raced across oceans and satellites to AES command rooms in Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi like a slap across the face, where General Sunbeam watched with hard, quiet fury and understood what the villains wanted: not just territory, but the sound of hope breaking in public, even as BRD aerial and naval forces continued relentless harassment strikes along every AES coastline, bombers probing, dreadships lobbing long-range bombardments, raider squadrons trying to bait defenses into overextension—only to be met, again and again, by the disciplined "loophole" of AES supremacy: layered interceptors, coastal sky-barriers, fleet screens, and counter-barrages that held the storm at the shoreline without letting conquest take root; Sunbeam didn't argue with the footage—he dispatched Solarpuff with Sunwyndon and Sunarken at once, and Starrup answered in kind, sending Starrastorm with Starloan and Stardance, and by the time the Darkened occupation tried to "settle" Pendammal Town into compliance—quiet lines, forced order, polite checkpoints where soldiers were disarmed like it was paperwork—two different kinds of AES power arrived like opposing weather fronts and the main square erupted into a controlled catastrophe: Darkenedstream lifted both hands and the atmosphere thickened into a crushing tide that compressed sound and rattled glass like the town sat beneath an invisible ocean, but Starrastorm answered with green cosmic surge—wind, ionized pollen-light, razor-clean starforce—cutting breathable corridors through the pressure, while Starloan snapped between collapsing walls and civilians with guided precision, prying open blocked exits in neon-edged bursts, and Stardance moved like a performer turned weapon, her rhythm pulling shimmering arcs that redirected falling debris away from evacuation routes; Solarpuff hit the ground like a soft-looking disaster, orange radiance blooming outward into a protective dome that kept human defenders from being crushed before folding into compact, efficient blasts that hammered Darkened elites back without wasted motion, Sunwyndon's solar gusts sweeping smoke aside to keep sightlines alive, and Sunarken diving into close quarters where fists and flame-magic collided with Darkvanya's shadow-lances in exchanges violent enough to crack streetlamps and shatter shopfronts—yet the true pivot came at Clattermoor Keep, the last fortress and symbolic holdout, where reporters were herded into a "permitted" corridor by Darkened escorts because Darkwing wanted the world to watch the keep fail, Darkenedstream advancing with the weight of a sea in his palms to drown battlements in invisible pressure while Darkvesperia climbed the walls like a nightmare reaching for the last signal tower and Darkvanya drove denial-waves across the bridge approach until every charge felt like sprinting into a wall made of refusal, but Starrastorm anchored a green-lit counterforce over the keep's crown like a protective canopy, Solarpuff reinforced the gate with condensed solar shielding that glowed like molten glass, and the elites became the entire war in miniature—Starloan and Stardance carving openings for rescue teams with speed and rhythm, Sunarken refusing to yield in a bruising duel that lit the ramparts orange against maroon, Sunwyndon sweeping parapets clean of suffocating haze, Darkvesperia and Darkvanya pressing harder with ruthless coordination—while overhead the distant thunder of the wider conflict never stopped, fleets still trading pressure at the horizon, and when the camera finally zoomed on Darkwing watching from below, untouched and patient, the implication landed like a cold nail: the Absolute Leader wasn't here to be beaten today, he was here to prove a message, and as Clattermoor's stones screamed under pressure and solar light and starforce, the feed that reached allies across Titanumas carried the same brutal truth in every language—Westonglappa wasn't asking for sympathy anymore; it was buying minutes with bodies, and whether a continent survived now depended on how long these Supreme Commanders and elites could keep winning time.
Pendammal Town, Westonglappa — Early Evening
Within the battered heart of Pendammal, the main square was a chaos engine—streets already cratered from previous bombings, glass and marble dust still swirling in the late sun. Solarpuff and Starrastorm stood at the forefront, flanked by Starloan and Stardance with Sunwyndon and Sunarken covering the flanks. Civilians huddled at the edges of makeshift shelters, while Westonglappa's battered soldiers lined up behind AES elites, adrenaline burning away their fear.
Across the Denial Line, Darkvesperia and Darkvanya walked shoulder to shoulder, shadow-maroon energy bristling around them—driven, precise, never wasting a gesture. Above it all, Darkwing stood atop the Pendammal monument, coat flaring, voice echoing across the square like a judge's gavel.
"THERE WILL BE NO RETREAT," he declared, the air tightening as the words landed. "SUBMIT OR BE ERASED."
Supreme Commander Darkenedstream stepped forward, hands loose at his sides, gaze locked on Solarpuff and Starrastorm. The air changed; a warning as palpable as a drawn blade. In the PSS—the pulse sense shared among regime elites—everyone felt the shift. Supreme Commanders could sense the threat level; the Elites understood the rule: cross the line, and you gamble everything.
Darkvesperia flicked a shadow-lance at Starloan—a probing strike. Starloan pivoted, dodging at the last instant as a silent flash of "danger" ticked in her mind (off-story: a successful dodge roll). Stardance, in turn, swept through the pressure zone, launching a pulse of green-edged starforce toward Darkvanya, who parried and retaliated, both combatants trading blows that rattled the pavement but never landed fatally.
Suddenly, Darkenedstream moved—targeting Solarpuff directly. Solar radiance burst as Solarpuff braced, the impact sending up a wave of heat that protected the civilians behind. The collision was brutal, both Supreme Commanders exchanging blows that could have leveled half the block, each deflecting the other's all-out assaults. Both drew deep on their reserves—every clash a silent negotiation of stamina and focus, each feint a test of the other's endurance.
Meanwhile, Sunarken and Sunwyndon coordinated a desperate extraction—pulling wounded Westonglappa defenders from the danger zone as denial-surges licked at their boots. Starloan signaled Stardance to cover the far exit; Stardance, reading the PSS for a spike in threat, leapt clear of a shadow blast at the last instant, narrowly avoiding a disabling blow (off-story: a dodge and coin-flip for retreat).
Darkwing leapt from the monument, landing with supernatural weight that cracked the flagstones beneath him. Every AES Supreme Commander and Elite felt the warning jolt: untouchable. As he advanced, both Solarpuff and Starrastorm reflexively fell back, their senses screaming the unspoken law. Sunarken lunged forward, only to feel the impossible—his fist, bright with solar fire, passed within inches of Darkwing's cloak and simply... refused to connect.
"FALL BACK," Starrastorm barked, the decision instinctive, immediate. He locked eyes with Solarpuff—no shame, only tactical clarity. "We can't win ground here!"
Sunwyndon and Stardance circled to cover their allies. Starloan, injured but unbroken, flashed a hand signal—evac needed. In the moment of retreat, a thin golden flash appeared behind the group—Galaxbeam's backup protocol, a teleportation relay surging into place. Within heartbeats, the battered Supreme Commanders and their elites vanished, pulled away to home territory to regroup (off-story: instant teleport triggered by critical health or stamina checks).
Westonglappa's remaining defenders, seeing their protectors retreat, understood the new command. Officers shouted for a fallback; soldiers hauled civilians away from the collapsing square, moving to secondary positions, desperately trying to avoid the advancing BRD lines.
As the dust settled, Darkwing paced the silent, ruined square, voice carrying through every shattered comms device, every open feed.
"WESTONGLAPPA LEARNS OBEDIENCE," he announced, a satisfied sneer in every word.
Darkenedstream and the elites fanned out, locking down Pendammal with methodical efficiency. Compliance checkpoints were established within minutes; those who resisted were subdued, not with gore but with a cold, bureaucratic violence—protocol overrides, access locks, and denial waves that reduced resistance to paperwork and silence.
Above, the sky pulsed with distant flashes—BRD and AES aerial and naval forces still waging their attrition war, neither side able to tip the scales decisively.
But on the ground, the message was undeniable: Westonglappa's strongest had been forced to yield, their greatest heroes retreating not from lack of courage, but from inviolable law.
Clattermoor Keep
As night descended, only the keep still stood in AES hands—a flickering ember surrounded by encroaching dark.
Within, a bruised but resolute Sunarken radioed to the last company, "Hold the keep as long as you can. Avoid direct engagement. Our only hope is delay."
And in the gloom outside, Darkvesperia and Darkvanya advanced once more, a wave of shadow-maroon light preceding them. Reporters caught glimpses of the final stand—transmitting, trembling, hoping that somewhere, someone was still watching.
Fortborter Town — Harbor District
The sea no longer moved like water.
Starrastream felt it the moment his boots touched the pier—currents locked into unnatural lanes, waves rising and falling as if obeying orders instead of gravity. Cargo ships groaned in place, engines screaming uselessly as Darkenedstream's control wrapped the harbor tight.
"Harbor is dead," Starrastream said into comms, voice strained but steady. "We're not pushing water. We're pushing authority."
Above him, Starrapuff descended in a wide arc of green‑gold radiance, his arrival cracking the fog like a sunrise forced into being. The pressure eased for a breath—just long enough for evacuation skiffs to lurch forward.
On the docks, Starglimmerelle blinked between cover points, pulling wounded sailors out of open fire, her teleport flashes coming faster now, shorter, less precise. Sweat streaked her face. Mana burn.
"Last group!" she shouted. "After this, I'm dry!"
Darkenedstorm answered her voice with thunder.
The air collapsed inward as maroon lightning slammed down the pier, splintering steel and tossing containers like toys. Darkened ground units surged through the smoke—not charging, not screaming—just advancing, knowing resistance had a shelf life.
Darkforjadrón hit the front line like a siege engine, crushing barricades with his shoulders. Darksong followed, his presence killing radio chatter mid‑sentence. Orders died in throats.
Starrapuff raised both hands and forced a dome of compressed starforce outward. It held—for seconds. Long enough.
"Extract," Starrastream ordered. "Now."
That was when the pressure changed again.
Not heavier.
Sharper.
Every AES unit felt it at once—the instinctive recoil, the sudden need to move now or be erased.
Darkwing had stepped closer to the shoreline.
No blast. No attack.
Just presence.
Starrastream didn't look back. "All Star units—fall out!"
Green light snapped across the docks as Stargalvon fired a final lance, carving a corridor through the Darkened advance. Starvirellastrae collapsed the spell lattice behind them, sealing the gap with a screaming wall of fractured air.
One by one, the Star elites vanished in clean flashes.
When the light faded, Fortborter belonged to the Darkened Regime.
Darkenedstream lowered his hand.
The sea resumed breathing.
Sidetown City — Inner Alleys
Sidetown died quietly.
No sirens. No skyline collapse. Just streets that stopped making sense.
Starglimmerelle landed hard in an alley that hadn't been there a moment ago. Brick walls leaned inward, routes folding back on themselves like a maze designed by something that hated escape.
She grabbed a local soldier by the collar. "Move when I say. Don't question directions."
Too late.
Darksong's veil dropped without sound.
The alley filled with weight—lungs working harder, radios turning into dead plastic. Soldiers panicked not because they were attacked, but because nothing responded anymore.
Darkvlad emerged first, blade already wet with someone else's last stand. Darkvaldromar followed, each step cracking pavement.
Starvirellastrae took the air, weaving counter‑sigils just to keep gravity negotiable. "We're boxed," she called. "City's rewriting itself."
Starrastream arrived like a gust through the maze, ripping a corridor open with raw force. "Then we don't fight the city. We leave it."
Darkenedstorm dropped into the intersection ahead of them, boots denting the street.
"RUNNING?" he thundered. "GOOD."
He struck once.
Starrastream blocked—barely. The impact threw him through a storefront, glass exploding outward. He rose slower this time, blood at his temple, eyes still sharp.
"Countdown's over," Starrapuff said, landing beside him. "We're done here."
Darkwing's pressure brushed the district again—enough to make Starglimmerelle gasp, enough to force every Star elite into instinctive retreat posture.
Starvirellastrae snapped her fingers.
The alley burned green.
Not fire—space collapsing and reopening, a forced exit.
Starglimmerelle shoved the last civilians through and vanished after them.
Starrastream held the line for three more seconds, then disappeared in a flare of exhausted light.
Sidetown City sealed itself behind the Darkened advance.
Clattermoor Keep still burned at the edges.
Solar glass had fused into the ancient stone, veins of orange-white light locked beneath spreading maroon fractures. The last defensive towers hummed weakly, their resonance fading as Westonglappa soldiers obeyed new orders whispered through cracked comms: fall back, regroup, stay alive.
Above the shattered ramparts, Starrapuff hovered just off the stone—her cloak snapping violently in the crosswind, emerald‑gold radiance pulsing along her forearms like a restrained star. Sweat streaked her temple, not from fear, but from the sustained exertion of command under siege. Her eyes tracked the battlefield below with brutal clarity.
To her right, Starrastream carved through the air in disciplined arcs of green cosmic force, his movements crisp and economical. His voice cut through the interference.
"Glimmerelle. Extraction status."
Static crackled, then Starglimmerelle's voice snapped through, strained but steady.
"Evac line holding. Darksong collapsed the north stairwell. We need a reroute now."
Starrapuff's jaw tightened. Darksong's presence below felt wrong—like sound being pressed flat against the ground, like fear given rhythm.
"Copy," she said. "Starvirellastrae, with me. We carve space."
She dropped from the parapet, heat flaring from her descent, twin jets of starfire incinerating falling debris before it could choke the escape corridor.
The lower city had become warped geometry made manifest.
Maroon Compliance Zones crawled along alley walls like living ink. Denial Lines shimmered beneath collapsed arches. Ground units—human and Darkened alike—moved as if obeying invisible instructions only the battlefield understood. Every breath tasted of ozone, smoke, and magic still screaming from the air.
Starvirellastrae spun through crossfire, emerald sigils blazing at her wrists as she wove layered counterspells.
"Darkvlad eastbound," she called. "He's targeting the press convoy. Galvon—cover!"
A volley of green‑white lances answered.
Stargalvon stepped from cover and fired, star‑energy punching through rubble and forcing Darkvlad to twist aside, cloak tearing sparks from shattered masonry. For a fraction of a second, they locked eyes across the street—both knowing how narrow the margin had become.
Darkvlad smiled, slow and contemptuous.
"You Star types keep rescuing ghosts. How many lines do you need broken before you learn?"
Stargalvon didn't answer. He dragged two wounded soldiers behind a shield flare and advanced again.
Three blocks south, Starglimmerelle crouched behind a fractured column with a cluster of medics and exhausted Westonglappa conscripts.
"When the flare goes up, run," she whispered. "Do not stop."
She scattered iridescent dust across the pavement and blinked forward—reappearing directly in the path of Darkforjadrón.
Chains of black‑red energy snapped toward her like hunting serpents.
Starglimmerelle slipped between them by instinct alone, detonating a concussive pulse at his feet. Darkforjadrón staggered, boots carving trenches into the street.
"Not today!" she shouted, already teleporting again as her mana burned dangerously low.
Darkforjadrón snarled, vanishing back into the chaos.
The sky darkened.
Darkenedstorm arrived without ceremony.
Clouds convulsed overhead, and maroon lightning tore through the central plaza, collapsing rooftops and hurling defenders into desperate retreat. The air tasted metallic, pressure hammering lungs with every breath.
Starrastream surged upward to meet him, weaving between bolts as reality cracked in their wake. Their clash turned the skyline into a battlefield—cosmic force and crushing authority colliding with thunderous force.
"Face me!" Starrastream roared.
Darkenedstorm's laughter rolled like a storm front.
"YOU'RE ALREADY UNDERWATER."
A Denial Line snapped shut behind Starrastream. He twisted away as a building imploded where he had been a heartbeat earlier.
"Starrapuff—I need support!"
"I see you," she answered, already moving—redirecting a shield wall to cover evacuees before launching skyward, solar fire trailing her like a comet.
At the media district, Darksong stood atop a crushed press truck, eyes closed, voice carrying a melody that strangled sound itself. Radios died. Orders became whispers. Cameras jittered in and out of focus.
From the shadows, Darkvaldromar advanced—each step marked by broken weapons, collapsed barricades, and silence where resistance had been.
Still, the Star Regime refused to fold.
Starvirellastrae raised a cyclone of star‑laced wind, debris spinning into a moving bulwark that bought precious seconds. Starglimmerelle blinked again—nearly collapsing on reentry—but forced herself upright.
A Darkened ground captain lunged toward Stargalvon, screaming a challenge.
Galvon swept him aside with a single arc of emerald force. The man hit stone and did not rise.
Then the pressure changed.
Darkwing stood at the edge of the square.
His presence alone bent the battlefield.
"STAR REGIME SUPREME COMMANDERS," he declared in FULL CAPS, reality vibrating with each syllable. "YOU HAVE MOMENTS LEFT."
Instinct screamed.
Every AES elite and commander moved at once—not retreating in panic, but dodging on pure survival sense. Attacks veered wide. Spells aborted mid‑cast.
Starrapuff landed hard, skidding across shattered stone. She took one look at her team—mana depleted, stamina burning low.
"Fall back," she ordered. "Pendammal. Now. We cannot engage him."
Starrastream seized Starglimmerelle before she collapsed, hauling her clear as they vanished into backstreets flooded with smoke and sirens.
The Darkened elites did not pursue past Darkwing's shadow.
They didn't need to.
Pendammal Town, minutes later.
AES survivors regrouped in a ruined schoolhouse. Medics worked in silence.
Starrapuff stood at the center of the room, shoulders squared despite the tremor in her hands.
"Report."
Starglimmerelle forced a weak grin. "Alive. Mana's gone."
Starvirellastrae pressed a bandage to her temple. "Corridor held long enough. Too many lost."
Starrastream stared through a cracked window toward the maroon glow. "We go again. Just not tonight."
In Kropolis, the feeds ran nonstop.
Collapsed districts. Burning keeps. Darkwing's message repeated on every sanctioned channel.
"REMEMBER THIS," his voice boomed. "A STATE LOST IS A LESSON LEARNED."
AES Warroom — Starrup
Silence ruled the chamber.
Maps glowed with hostile overlays. Auttomotto was gone.
Starbeam finally spoke.
"We adapt. We endure. They have not broken us."
Determination answered him.
Outside, the war continued to breathe.
And in Westonglappa, under maroon skies, Darkwing ruled the field.
Auttomotto, Westonglappa: The War's Edge
Clattermoor Keep smoldered beneath a sky streaked with maroon and star-green, the battered fortress now a crossroads of fear and determination. The stones themselves seemed to shiver under the pressure of so many clashing powers. In the thick of the chaos, Starrapuff—her orange hair swept back, aura blazing in fiery, solar arcs—hovered over the broken parapet, voice ringing in the comms with fierce command.
"To all units—regroup and keep moving! We don't give them a clean victory. Every block we hold is a life bought."
Her every motion was a blend of discipline and raw power; with each pulse of her radiant shield, she forced debris and Darkened shockwaves away from the evacuation corridor below. The battered Westonglappa defenders looked up at her, awe flickering in their exhaustion, and found a reason to keep running.
Not far away, Starrastream—Supreme Commander of wind and starlight—rocketed through a corridor of collapsing buildings, drawing maroon lightning fire from Darkenedstorm high above. His maneuvers were a dance on the edge of annihilation, green wind shearing through the battlefield as he barked into the comms, "Starglimmerelle, sitrep! Where's your team?"
A flicker of static, then Starglimmerelle replied, voice breathless but defiant: "Pendammal evac route open. Got most of the medics clear, but Darksong and Darkvlad are closing in—fast."
Down below, Stargalvon shielded a knot of civilians and Westonglappa soldiers, channeling starforce through trembling hands. "Get moving!" he yelled, pushing the last group toward a cratered avenue. Shadows lunged at the edge of his vision—Darkforjadrón smashed into his flank with a wall of crushing denial magic, sending Galvon skidding across glass-strewn pavement.
"Try harder, starlight," Darkforjadrón sneered, his tone laced with venom. "Every minute you stand here, you fail another city."
Galvon gritted his teeth, summoning an emerald pulse that lit the ground between them and forced Darkforjadrón back, but he felt his stamina burning out—a warning flashing through every nerve.
Meanwhile, Starvirellastrae soared above Sidetown's ruined rooftops, emerald runes spinning around her arms as she spun defensive wards, trying to buy seconds for a desperate medical convoy. "They're coming from the north and west!" she warned. "Darksong's silencing the entire block—I can't get a spell through!"
A sudden shadow—Darkvlad—landed beside her with an echo of broken glass. "How does it feel, knowing your brightest magic isn't enough?" His blade cut the air in a lazy, taunting arc.
Starvirellastrae dodged, unleashing a storm of star-laced wind that sent Darkvlad tumbling backward, but her own mana was dangerously low. "Back off, monster!" she spat, but her voice betrayed a tremor—she was nearly spent.
Below, the streets of Pendammal Town buckled as Darkened ground units—emboldened by their elite commanders—charged AES defenders in waves. One particularly reckless Darkened captain hurled himself at Starglimmerelle, only to be blasted aside by a flare of iridescent starlight, left groaning and utterly outmatched.
Yet the tide refused to turn. Darkenedstorm unleashed another wave of maroon lightning, and Darkenedstream crushed the harbor approaches with suffocating pressure—ships trying to escape found themselves locked in place, the sea itself rebelling against them.
Suddenly, the air thickened—Darkwing Shadowsypher strode into the square, maroon aura bleeding through the war fog, his voice an unyielding sentence:
"YOU THINK TO STALL ME? YOU BURN TIME FOR WHAT? SO THE WORLD CAN WITNESS YOU FAIL?"
All across Auttomotto, it was as if the continent paused to listen. For a heartbeat, both armies froze.
Starrapuff felt her senses scream in warning. "Fall back! We can't engage him—move, now!" Her team responded instantly; Starvirellastrae and Starglimmerelle scooped up wounded, Stargalvon slammed a shield between his group and the advancing Darkened elites, and Starrastream blasted open a corridor with the last of his cosmic wind.
Darkwing did not pursue—he simply watched, eyes aflame with the certainty of a conqueror.
"REMEMBER THIS MOMENT, STARREGIME," he bellowed, his gaze burning into every fleeing AES commander. "YOU BOUGHT MINUTES. I BOUGHT A CONTINENT."
The city lights flickered, Compliance Zones expanding across every block. Darkened banners replaced local insignias. Westonglappa's own reporters, trembling but alive, broadcast the surrender—because permission was a weapon sharper than fear.
AES Warroom, Starrup
In a chamber washed with green light and heavy silence, Starbeam stared at the live feeds. The faces around him—elites, generals, intelligence officers—looked hollowed by fatigue and fury.
The screens played looping footage: Auttomotto falling, Supreme Commanders retreating, Darkwing's triumphant speech.
Starbeam's hands tightened on the table, knuckles white. "They held as long as humanly possible. They are alive. That is the only measure that matters now."
A comms officer spoke up, voice shaking. "Sir, our satellites confirm—Clattermoor, Sidetown, Pendammal, all under Darkened control. Civilian extraction incomplete. We have... significant casualties."
Starbeam closed his eyes, then opened them with new resolve. "Prepare counter-offensive proposals. If they think this is the end, they don't know us yet."
Outside, the world kept burning. On every continent, the skies thundered with the endless clash of AES and BRD squadrons—stalemate above, catastrophe below.
As the AES warroom screens blinked between red-marked city maps and shaken survivor transmissions, a final transmission broke through the static—Westonglappa's last active news drone, broadcasting from the battered ramparts of Clattermoor. The camera's lens, cracked but still clear, showed Darkwing standing atop the fortress, maroon banners snapping behind him in the storm.
He stared directly into the feed, lips twisting into a vicious smile.
"TO ANY WHO STILL LISTEN," he thundered, voice thundering across every channel, "REMEMBER—WHAT FELL TODAY WILL BE FORGOTTEN TOMORROW. YOU HAVE SECONDS TO RUN. THE REST I TAKE."
And as the feed cut out, leaving only the flicker of static and the rising howl of a war far from over, every regime—hero and villain alike—realized the next move would decide not just a state, but the future of the entire world.
The storm had only just begun.
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