Echoes of the Chrono-Forge

The Inversion Catalyst

Valen reached down to his hip and drew his weapon. It wasn't a standard corporate sidearm. It was a heavy, custom-forged broadsword, its hilt integrated with an overcharged plasma battery. With a sharp clack, he flipped the ignition switch. A blade of white-hot, superheated plasma erupted from the hilt, crackling violently as the rain hit the energy field and turned instantly to hissing bursts of steam. The brilliant white light cast long, jagged shadows across the wet metal platform, illuminating the desperation etched into Valen's face.

"The ritual is already past the point of inversion," Malakor mockingly chuckled, a sound like grinding gears. "The quantum pylon has tasted the sub-space magic. It cannot be contained. In less than two minutes, this entire sector will be reduced to an idealized state of absolute nothingness. I will ascend on the back of the blast wave. You, however, will simply cease to exist."

"Valen, don't!" Lyra screamed over the rising howl of the wind. The pylon behind her gave a deep, thundering groan, the metal structural supports beginning to warp as the violet and crimson energies inside began to tear at the fabric of space-time. "You don't understand the balance anymore! Your mind can't take another fracture! If you ignite the Forge again, it will consume whatever piece of you is left!"

"I don't care about my mind, Lyra!" Valen roared back, stepping forward onto the catwalk, his cybernetic right knee hissing as hydraulic fluid vented to compensate for the sudden shift in his weight. "I don't care about my humanity. Not if I have to live in a world where you aren't in it."

"How touching," Malakor said. "A monument to mortal futility."