Vol towered over Roy, a silhouette of promised death against a sky bruised with twilight. Blood hissed from the ragged ruin of his wing, but the smile on his face never faded; it stretched wider, a grotesque crescent of triumph. One massive claw, tipped with what looked like shards of obsidian, rose for the final, contemptuous thrust that would end the "Thunder Rider." Roy, pinned by the crushing weight of his own failing mana and the demon's oppressive aura, could only watch, his vision tunneling, the world reduced to that single descending point of annihilation.
Then, a blur of polished steel and righteous fury.
Teddy, Super Elite Presidroid and part-time wielder of "Big Stick Energy," slammed into Vol's side like a locomotive. The impact was titanic. Metal screamed against demonic flesh. Vol was thrown sideways, his killing blow deflected, his claw gouging a deep, angry scar in the cobblestones where Roy's head had been a half-second before. The Presidroid, its fine 19th-century suit now torn and scorched, stood over Roy, its optical sensors glowing with a cold, protective light.
"On your feet, Captain!" Teddy said as he snapped a crisp salute. "There is glory to earn."
Vol roared, not in pain, but in sheer, unadulterated fury at the interruption. Before he could retaliate, the air filled with a sound like a hundred synchronized thunderclaps. A swarm of Presidroids, led by the imposing, figures of Washington and Lincoln, leaped from the deck of the distant Nightshatter. They landed in perfect, ground-shaking unison at the edge of the plaza, forming an impenetrable phalanx of steel and silent, unwavering resolve. The base models fanned out, their rifles raised, creating a defensive perimeter that bought the battered crew a few precious, desperate heartbeats.
Roy, his head ringing, pushed himself up onto trembling elbows. "Warrex! Lutrian! Takara!" he rasped, his voice raw. "Fall back! Get behind the line!"
Warrex, his ribs a symphony of agony, gave a grim, bloody nod, grabbing the injured Lutrian and hauling him back. Takara, having just deposited a still-limp Zehrina behind the fountain, sprinted after them, her runic gauntlets flickering with dwindling power.
With the non-essentials clear, the battlefield was set. Vol turned his burning, demonic gaze from Roy to the approaching mechanical horde, a sneer of contempt twisting his lips. "You send your toys to fight me? Pathetic."
Washington, leading the charge, did not reply. He and the other Super Elite and Elite models, Teddy, Lincoln, Eisenhower, Jefferson, and Grant, simply accelerated, their movements a blur of polished steel and cold purpose. They fanned out, a perfectly coordinated wave of destruction, their shared combat data linking their actions into a seamless, terrifying whole.
The base models hung back, forming a tight perimeter around Roy, their rifles raised not to fire, but to act as a final, physical barrier if needed. Their purpose was clear: contain the battlefield and protect the captain.
Washington was the first to engage. He didn't throw a punch; he flowed, using Vol's momentum against him, his movements an elegant, brutalist form of martial arts Roy had never witnessed before. He ducked under a savage swipe of Vol's clawed hand, his own metallic palm striking a precise, calculated blow against the demon's knee joint. The impact produced a sickening, wet crack.
Vol roared, more in annoyance than pain, and lashed out with a backhand. But Teddy was already there, his massive frame absorbing the blow with a thunderous clang. He didn't even stumble. Instead, he gripped Vol's arm, his servos whining under the immense strain, holding the demon in place for a fraction of a second.
It was all Lincoln needed. He moved in low, his attack a fluid, spinning leg sweep that would have seemed impossible for a being made of metal. He targeted Vol's other leg, the one not damaged by Washington. Vol, his arm still trapped by Teddy, was forced off balance.
He was a titan, a demon of immense power, but the Presidroids were a perfectly synchronized engine of combat. They didn't fight like individuals; they fought like a single, multi-limbed organism. As Vol staggered, Eisenhower and Jefferson struck in perfect unison, their fists hammering into his kidneys with the force of pile drivers. Grant, flanking from the other side, delivered a series of rapid-fire palm strikes to the back of Vol's head, each one calibrated to disorient, to disrupt his concentration.
Vol roared, unleashing a wave of raw, dark energy that blasted the Presidroids back. They skidded across the broken cobblestones, their armored bodies gouging shallow furrows in the stone, but none of them fell. They simply absorbed the blast, recalculated, and charged again.
They swarmed him, a relentless tide of iron fists and steel-toed boots. They gave him no room to cast, no space to breathe. Washington would create an opening, Lincoln would exploit it. Teddy would act as an unbreachable wall, absorbing a devastating blow, while the others descended, their attacks a merciless, percussive symphony of violence.
They were, Roy realized with a jolt of awe, beating him. No arrogance, just calculated tactics, wearing him down, testing his defenses, gathering data with every single blow. For the first time since his transformation, a flicker of something that might have been genuine concern, or perhaps even frustration, crossed Vol's demonic face.
Vol roared, a sound of pure, primal frustration. He was a demon of immense power, yet he was being humbled, corralled, and systematically dismantled by a swarm of emotionless, metal-clad "toys." The indignity was unbearable.
With a final, desperate surge of will, he unleashed a calamitous, omnidirectional burst of black, corrupt mana. The shockwave erupted from his body in a tangible, black nova. The Presidroids, caught in the blast, were flung backward like discarded dolls, their synchronized assault finally broken. Washington and Teddy crashed through the wall of a nearby tavern. Lincoln and the others were sent skidding across the plaza, their metallic bodies gouging deep scars in the stone before coming to a halt, optical sensors flickering as they attempted to reboot from the overwhelming magical overload.
For a moment, there was silence. The battlefield was clear.
Vol stood panting in the center of the devastation, his demonic form battered and bleeding, his armor cracked, one wing torn and useless. He needed more power. Roy's mana drain was potent, but slow, not easily converted to something usable. He needed something now.
His burning eyes swept over the plaza, past Roy's defiant crew, and settled on the ruined buildings where the townsfolk of Eridian were cowering in terror. A cruel, predatory smile twisted his lips.
He raised his clawed hands, and from the shadows, faint, shimmering tendrils of ghostly white energy began to rise. They streamed from the doorways and shattered windows, silent, ethereal ribbons of pure life force being drawn from the terrified villagers hidden within. Cries of a different kind began to echo through the plaza, not of fear, but of sudden, inexplicable weakness. Healthy bodies slumped, strong limbs grew feeble, and those already sick or injured simply… stopped. Dozens of villagers, hidden from sight, collapsed in an instant, their life energy siphoned away to fuel their monstrous, disguised lord.
The stolen energy swirled around Vol, a vortex of pale light against his dark form. His wounds began to close with a sickening, wet hiss. The torn membrane of his wing re-knitted itself. The cracks in his armor sealed over. The deep gashes and bruises left by the Presidroids' relentless assault vanished as if they had never been.
He stood tall once more, fully regenerated, his power now amplified by the stolen life force of his own people. He let out a low, satisfied chuckle, the sound dripping with a chilling, rejuvenated malice. He turned his gaze back towards the two figures now moving to confront him.
Eryndra and Zehrina.
"Now then," Vol purred, his voice a low, confident rumble. "Where were we, ladies?"