Nic landed in the forest, amidst carnage. Trees had been uprooted and shattered to splinters. The earth had been dragged into mud; everywhere he looked he saw destruction.

And towering above it all…

The wretch-queen.

She was a crooked figure, her right half left stunted where Nic had stolen the evolutionary energy she needed to break through.

Her leg was crude and clumsy, the arm twisted and useless. She stood above the trees as a hunched, broken demon, bleeding flame from the magmatic stone that grew from her skin and hooded her face. Each time the wind rose, it hissed and stung against that superheated rock, dragging away trails of embers that swirled like a thousand fireflies and took root as small fires amidst the forest.

Her roars filled the sky like thunder.

Her good arm came crashing down. Away from the collision, darting out of the way like a fly that refused to be swatted, sprang a skinny old creature in saffron-colored robes that fluttered around his bony limbs.

Old 13.

His body truly was invulnerable. He darted from tree-top to tree-top, evading neatly, but there was no escaping forever; when the wretch-queen landed a strike against him with her lightning-quick claws, it seemed impossible for the tiny human to persist in the face of such overwhelming power.

And yet he was unharmed. He was sent smashing into the earth, but simply rolled onto his feet again.

Nic had to wonder…

How powerful had the old man been, before his masters crippled him to send him here as a G-Class?

The battle raged. Each step, each swing made the air shiver and tremble. Each footfall echoed through the forest like a drum.

Nic braced himself, pushed power into his legs, and took a flying leap. Open sky took him as the earth fled away underfoot; for a moment it felt like he was flying, the gargantuan figure of the wretch-queen rising before him like an approaching mountain.

He slammed into her neck and delivered the Hand of Ash with the full force of his momentum, his cultivation, everything he had to give.

It barely stung her.

She reached up and swatted at her neck, clapping massive fingers down as Nic barely escaped.

Despite her size…

She was fast.

He moved across her skin feeling the heat and roiling power underneath burning his own soft, aquatic flesh. Gwungo wrapped around his skin in a protective layer of black mercury, but the slime could only defend him so long; the heat was bleeding through already.

Nic unleashed a chain of attacks, striking again and again with every weapon he could think of; his open palm, the paintbrush, his resonant greatsword. All did as much to the beast as the stings of a fly.

She was turning now, twisting to try and shake him off. With adhesive tar wrapped around his limbs he held on, feeling his fingers burn the longer he was forced to stay in one place. The terrible heat that bled from her flesh was potent enough to make the air waver and shiver like a distorting reflection; it was cooking him alive, and only his regeneration kept it from doing real damage.

Old 13 flew past, striking against the beast’s skull. The blow sent her reeling back, chips of stone raining from the conical mask that obscured her face, but the titan was still barely harmed. She turned, the motion causing centrifuge to grip Nic and try to throw him out into the sky, her claw shooting forward to chase the retreating man.

As her fist slammed into the earth she paused, exhausted. Volcanic drool dripped from her beak-like mask, long strands of burning saliva hanging off the small, grated opening that hid her mouth. They set fire to the forest where they fell.

She couldn’t keep this up forever.

Her body was incomplete and imperfect. She was making no headway against the annoying gnat in the saffron robes. Worse, Nic had arrived, and his attacks were pestering her all over her skin; combined with the constant pain of being cloaked in burning stone, the irritation and the torment were more than her mind could take.

She was bleary and broken and angry. She saw the lights of the town in the distance, the cool water of the lake…

She began to walk.

Nic redoubled his efforts, sliding down to her neck and beginning to hack away at the veins beneath her red skin. Blood oozed out, fiery and volcanic. But she simply slapped him away, covering the wound with her hand. He shifted places, attacking the far side of her neck. She no longer cared.

Old 13 appeared again and again, leaping up to swing his staff at her knees, her joints, trying to unbalance her…

But while their attacks had commanded her attention before, they had never truly harmed her. Now she simply ignored the stinging pains. Each moment brought her closer to the city at Winterhome’s heart by a single step. Each step tore through the forest; each breath sent a rain of fire down to catch upon the treetops, igniting the green canopy into a blazing trail that extended behind her like the wake of a burning ship.

The world filled with rising embers and smoke; a hellish air of orange-crimson-red flickered across the horizon.

From his perspective, high on her shoulders, Nic saw the city; a speck of dust waiting to be blown away.

Nic redoubled his efforts. Old 13 struck like a hurricane, aiming for the joints of her crippled leg and trying to break her stride.

Nothing stopped the queen.

Not until a bolt of green fire hurled down from on high, cutting like a beam of destruction across the sky. It slammed into the back of her shoulders; fire should have been as comfortable to her as bathwater, should have done nothing to harm her…

But dragonfire was a different beast.

It clung to her flesh and clawed at it. It added a new, unfamiliar pain to the constant drumbeat of agony.

She turned and roared, making the air shake.

Nic looked up alongside her and saw…

Tarquin.

Floating high in the air, already lifting his hands to muster another attack.

The queen turned and began to advance, her wings beating, lifting up into the air to chase this new and annoying pain.

Tarquin abandoned his attack and fled; rising higher into the sky.

He shot through the cloud layer, full of thunder and lightning. A moment later the storm was torn apart, the wretch-queen bursting up, ribbons of dark cloud catching on her wings and her outstretched, reaching fingertips. Her body was a blaze of fire piercing through the heavens.

Nic clung on. As he raced through the lightning-veined clouds, he reached his sword out, tracing it through the storm. Power gathered and formed a blazing blade of electricity; bright and brilliant as a scar upon the face of the world.

Tarquin was racing just a hair ahead; that distance was closing with every second. The claws of the wretch-queen were closing around him.

Nic slammed his blade down, into the queen’s throat. It blazed and kicked and burned in his hand, sputters of smoke erupting outwards as the resonant sword dug into the flesh of her neck. Blood poured around his fingers, burning them down to the bone. He snarled with pain and twisted the blade.

The wretch-queen screamed.

She turned, twisting in the air. Her hand caught him, grasped him, crushed down against his flesh.

With no other recourse-

Nic transformed into his Warform. He drew on the strength of the Sun God’s Dictate, covering his skin in golden armor. As the fingers closed around him, cracks spread through the shield, but it refused to break. Nic’s serpentine body twisted between her fingers and stabbed down with the lightning-blade, into the back of her palm. He severed tendon and bone.

She screamed…

The air shook…

“Nicolas!”

“Sofia? You’re back?” He thought, rather than spoke, the words.

“Yes! They blocked me, but- No time. No time! Nicolas, I can do this. Just- Just get her into position.”

“Position?”

“In front of Winterhome.”

Nicolas didn’t ask any more questions. He’d learned to trust Sofia.

And now…

Now he just needed to do the impossible. They were racing higher, up into the skies, and Tarquin was only staying ahead by fractional seconds. Heartbeats. And they were running out.

Nic snarled, and opened his mouth.

Y̶̡̗̳͍͎͖͚̫̎́́ǫ̵̹̼̻̺̩͍̈́͐̌̆̌̏̆̾́̃̽͆͆͐͝u̵̢̢̫̩͕̞̦̤̻͓͂̋͑̑̚ͅ ̶̛̟̒̉͆̾͂̅̄͆͌͛̿̂͛͘ç̸̧͚̫̲̮̝͐̎͝ǎ̴̧̧̧̜̲̱͚̰̜̟̹̠͔̬̰̜̓͋̿́n̷̡̠̜̤̲̤̱̪͓͇̩͍̫͖̾̃̆͂̓̾̀́̓̓̈͜͝͝͠ņ̸̢̢̨̹̟̦̦͚̻̞̮͙̌̉́̀̎̊̉̌͗͝ͅo̵͚͖͍̠̬͕̹̝̜͔̤̿͒̓̀̄͋͆̈͝͝t̷̨̨̞͍̹͎̻̦͔̪͌̈́̚ ̴̛̜̖̞̮͙͖̹̑̈̕̚͜f̵̲̻͇̤̙̟̃̐͑̏l̵̻͙͔̲̮̗̘̀̄͂͊̔̉̚̚͠ỷ̴̛̰̳͎̞̳̪̠̟̲̦̻̩̦̬̆̾̄̌̂̍̑̍̀͗̚͠.̸͎̲̞̘̬̻̟̬͚͖͍̼̼͈̘́̅͑̾͊̄͑͂̓̂̽́̊̓̅

The wretch-queen fell.

Like a stone from the sky.

Her wings no longer obeyed her. Her body was not her own. The command gripped her flesh and held it still, unable to move, dead to her mind. The words overrode her own will and crushed it, as fragile as glass.

Nic felt the backlash hit his soul.

He didn’t care.

He clung on as they fell, fell, fell through the howl of the wind; as they tumbled, past the clouds, the trees, into the dark beneath Winterhome’s shell. Into the gleam of the massive turtle’s black eye.

“Nicolas. Let go. Get away. Now.”

He released his hold. The Eight-Directions Ring took him away, flickering, climbing step after step through the sky. He shed his Warform and became small; he pushed his aura to the limit, one teleportation after another to reach out towards Winterhome.

The wretch-queen tumbled past him…

And with a single, earth-shattering movement, the head of Winterhome reached out of its shell. The beak cut ribbons of twisting air as it reached out, opening, a dark void yawning open.

It crashed shut and the wretch-queen was gone.

The highest individual tally is:

Winterhome - 500

The highest Settlement tally is:

Winterhome - 1,262

Nic flickered and reappeared one more time before his aura was spent.

Still in open sky.

Still far from home.

But a hand shot out and caught his; Tarquin pulled him up as he hung over Winterhome.

“Now what would you do without me?” Tarquin asked, laughing.