Page 322 of Scarlet Wars
And with numbers.
Coastal Offensives, dressed in red attire, lined the edge of the square, hands raised, conjuring sparks that danced like starlight between their fingers.
Alliance Offensives, dressed in green, stepped forward with fork-tipped blades humming with embedded magic, edges parting like an open serpent’s jaw, meant to tear more than only flesh.
Sisu’s soldiers, dressed in white, were the quietest. They moved like ghosts, silently, faces painted in pale ash, unreadable and inhuman. Every motion promised death.
There was no doubt: with three other Collectives by his side, the Chiefs had won the numbers game.
But we came loaded with a few surprises of our own.
“Emma!” Caden’s voice rang out through the square. “Now!”
I didn’t hesitate, and stomped my right foot into the ground, as my scarlet magic surged, roared to the surface like it had been waiting for cycles to break free.
Pressure climbed my spine and bloomed across my shoulders, vibrating in my teeth and fingertips. The red energy bled from my skin like fire leaking from its core, moving with purpose. With rage.
I dropped to one knee and slammed my fist into the cracked stone, hard enough to send a jolt up my arm. Then I pressed my other hand down beside it.
And pushed. Until the earthscreamed.
A deep, wrenching sound split through the square as the ground beneath us buckled and tore. A jagged fault line ripped through the courtyard from my hands, carving a massive fissure straight through the enemy's formation.
Offensives yelled at each other as they stumbled back, while their perfect ring splintered like glass under pressure. Chunksof rock collapsed into the rift. Lines were broken. Coordination vanished.
The enemy’s setup fractured—not broken, not yet—but the seams were there. They were still many. But now, they were scattered.
Before they could recover from the canyon I’d sliced into the heart of the forum, the fabric of space tore open. A dozen jagged portals ripped along the edge of the square, claws raking through reality itself.
Cara Sinclair stepped through the first one, lips curled into a grin that didn’t belong to a strategist, but to a predator.
The grin reminded me of James. Was she really his sister?
Focus Emma.
Then her Radicals came through.
They didn’t move like soldiers. Theysurged, pouring out of the portals like a natural disaster, like vengeance given form.
Hundreds of them.
Dust-caked. Bloodstained. Scarred from the inside out.
No polished armor. No uniformed colors. Just mismatched gear and haze-soaked weapons, and eyes that said they had nothing to lose.
They exploded into the fray, scattering like fire across dry grass. Sprinting to the perimeter, weaving between broken bodies and burning magic, and slicing through Offensives like they were swords tearing through paper.
Blood sprayed the air.
Screams followed.
It was brutal: bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed.
Charming folk.
And then all hell broke loose.
Energy tore through from every direction. Coastal magi lit the air on fire, the sharp scent of ozone burning my lungs. Sisumoved through the chaos like shadows with knives, appearing, disappearing, bodies dropping in their wake.
