A pall of gray clouds clung to the sky over Griffon's Watch, casting the jungle-clad island in perpetual half-light. The ominous silhouette of the gothic fortress rose like an iron spearhead from the rugged slopes of a long-dead volcano at the island's center. Black spires and turreted walls bristled with jagged gargoyles, their mouths perpetually agape in silent screams. Ancient vines crisscrossed the stone, giving the ramparts a faintly organic look, as though the island's vegetation sought to strangle the fortress.

At sea level, the thick jungle spread outward in every direction—a dark tapestry of monstrous ferns, gnarled roots, and drooping creepers that thrived in the warm volcanic soil. And tucked amid those vast leaves and twisted vines were clusters of eyes that blinked in the half-light.

Eyes that were watching, unblinkingly, for what was coming.

A great perimeter wall enclosed the volcanic mountain's lower reaches, carved into the basalt as part of the fortress's ancient defense. Built into that wall, modern bunkers jutted: reinforced strongholds of black stone, carefully re-fortified by a cunning mind. The mind of Doctor Haylock, the Blood Mage who had ruled this Isle for at least a century. Within those fortifications, dozens upon dozens of the golems stood posted, each a twisted amalgamation of necrotic flesh, metal grafts, and protective plating. They twitched restlessly, awaiting orders.

The doctor's most recent improvements had given them ranged weapons—grotesque firearms fused to forearms, or magical rods grafted to shoulders. Some Golems had elongated rifle barrels protruding from their chests, vile lumps of synthetic muscle coiling in place of mechanical recoil springs. Others crouched behind black-lacquered turrets, scanning the shoreline with unblinking, empty eyes.

Each of their System screens told them only one thing:

Alert Status: HIGH.

Before them stretched the Argwylian Sea, shimmering with a faint haze that spoke of hidden dangers. On most days, the island's swirling tides parted to reveal a few miles of open water. But now, the watchers on the ramparts saw something else:

A fog bank had formed out in the northern waters, rolling swiftly inland as though propelled by unnatural winds. Along the fringes of that fog, faint shapes flickered—dark silhouettes moving in uncanny unison. The watchers in the bunkers tensed as the swirling white gloom overtook the horizon.

Atop a forward bunker, one particularly large Golem raised a bony, metal-laced arm. Its single spectral eye glowed red, and at that silent signal, a wave of tension rippled through the Flesh Golem ranks.

They saw it happen gradually: a thin sheet of ice spread across the waves, creeping inwards from the north. It glistened with a bluish sheen in the weak sunlight, an expanding crust that swallowed the surf with each passing second. Over that newly frozen path, shapes began to move, shadows flickering in the fog.

Whatever these shapes were, the Golems had their orders—destroy anything that advanced on Griffon's Watch without question.

One Golem twitched, adjusting the angle of a bizarre shoulder-mounted cannon. Another cluster of Golems pressed themselves to slits in the bunker walls, spectral rods leveled. A line of bristling monstrous silhouettes formed along the ramparts, heads pivoting, awaiting a further signal. All around, tension hung like the hush before a storm.

Suddenly, with an eerie, mechanical synchronicity, every Flesh Golem opened fire.

The beachhead and the sea beyond exploded into devastation. Arcane bullets, jagged shards of spectral energy, scorching beams—it was an onslaught so fierce that the brine and foam seemed to boil under the concentrated barrage. Muzzles spat greenish flames, barrels glowed red-hot, and shrieking projectiles scythed through the fog in rapid succession.

Spectral Snipe volley: 100% coverage. Effect: Fog parted by heavy bombardment. Visibility: compromised by smoke and steam.

Every Golem continued to fire, ceaselessly. An earsplitting thunder hammered the coastline, each shot echoing off the stony fortress walls. The bunkers rattled from the recoil. Molten craters formed in the watery gap, jets of steam rising high. The swirling fog churned, battered by the relentless wave of attacks.

One minute passed—two—perhaps three. The entire coastline was wreathed in dense smoke as the barrage continued without relenting. The Golems refused to yield, or question. Not a single shape, not a single cry emerged from that swirling chaos, until at last the monstrous volley slowed, then finally stopped, as if the Golems were reloading in unison.

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A silence, tense and brittle, fell over the beachhead. Smoke and steam clung thick to the air, drifting in eddies. The watchers on the walls or bunkers tried to peer through the haze, searching for evidence of the intruders' destruction. For a drawn-out moment, there was nothing but the hiss of evaporating water. Then a faint sound—like an airborne whistle—cut through the gloom.

Something streaked across the sky. An object soared in an arc, trailing an icy corona. Golems that still had operational weapons locked on and resumed firing. Blazing arcs of magical bullets and beams hammered the projectile, but it deflected everything with shrill metallic clangs. Closer it came, unstoppable, until it crashed onto the beach with cataclysmic force.

A shockwave of frost erupted. Nearby Golems tumbled backward, joints popping from the impact. As the ice shards cleared, the bunkers' defenders gazed upon a monstrous figure:

A knight clad in ice.

Its entire body was coated in jagged, bluish-white plating, with massive spikes jutting from the shoulders. The knight's helmet featured a wicked crown of icicles, and a flaring visor from which a single twisted face glared out—Lysandus, once King of Westerweald, now a half-transformed wraith of frost and bitterness. He hefted an enormous greatsword of pure ice, the edges hissing with magical cold.

Golems scrambled to redirect their weapons. They fired more shots, but Lysandus roared—a sound that shook the bunker walls—and advanced in unstoppable fury. He swept his greatsword in a wide arc, unleashing a crescent of freezing energy that sheared through the first wave of defenders. Flesh Golems, their limbs fused from necromancy and steel rods, shattered under the blow, torn apart as the ice severed their hideous bodies.

A second group of Golems rushed from flanking bunkers, spitting bullets and vile hexes. Lysandus lunged, ignoring the impacts that sparked off his armor, and crushed two Golems with a single downward strike. Chunks of necrotic flesh and twisted metal littered the ground as he strode into the thick of them, unstoppable.

Raising his gauntleted left hand, Lysandus conjured jagged icicles that soared forward like spears. A half-dozen Golems collapsed, transfixed by these projectiles. Others tried to close in, but Lysandus met them with savage, precise cuts from his frost-greatsword. The island erupted into chaos, bunkers frantically spewing more defenders. Overhead watchers bellowed, but found no coherent plan could form in time: the unstoppable frost knight was among them.

Meanwhile, along the far side of the beach, a second landing was underway. While the defenders of the island were appropriately preoccupied, Ethan and the rest of the team walked calmly into the fray.

Unlike the Golems, they recognized Lysandus's rampage for what it was: a carefully orchestrated infiltration.

Fauna glanced around at the carnage—explosions of ice, Golems in disarray. "It's even worse than I expected," she murmured. "He's tearing them apart."

Klax's wolfish eyes narrowed. "We must be swift. The Doctor's abominations won't stay in chaos forever."

Tara hopped onto the wet sand, daggers at the ready. "Ethan, how did you—? Did you really get him to do all that?"

Ethan set his wooden jaw, eyes glinting. After the savage confrontation at sea, Ethan had discovered that Lysandus's battered, half-dead form was still a suitable host—so long as certain conditions were met.

And the perfect skill had revealed itself exactly when he'd needed it to:

[System Notification!] New Skill: Remote Possession (Grade B) Allows possession of any ONE creature at or below the user's current level from up to 500 yards away. Warning: Hostile minds resist more strongly, may cause mental backlash.

He felt it even now—like a cold line binding him to Lysandus's tortured psyche. The once-king raged at the compulsion, but had no choice. Ethan's skill overcame Lysandus's level and bound him to the Archon's will. Lysandus retained his hatred, but Ethan had pointed it at a new target: the Flesh Golems of Doctor Haylock.

Turning to his allies, Ethan spoke in a low voice. "Yes. I'm controlling him from a distance—barely. We patched him up enough to stand after the last battle, and…let's just say I have him on a long leash. He's still full of resentment, but it's no longer aimed at us."

Lamphrey's serpent eyes flicked with faint amusement. "You do realize what it means to chain a wrathful spirit to your side, Archon? The price you pay might be—"

"I know," Ethan cut in firmly, adjusting the battered Greybane strapped across his back. "We need his raw strength. If we're to breach Doctor Haylock's fortress, Lysandus is the perfect distraction. For once, we've put our enemy's fury to good use. He might even die for a good cause."

"Not that it makes up for who he was in life," Tara spat on the sand. "Still, guess it's better than nothing."

A thunderous crash echoed from up the slope, where Lysandus had just bisected a Golem-laden turret. Chunks of black stone and rotting flesh tumbled down the hillside.

Tara gave a low whistle. "Hell of a distraction, all right. Shall we?"

Ethan raised his bark-covered arm, a glimmer of shadow swirling around his wrist as Repulsor Shield flickered into readiness. "We push forward. Keep behind me. Klax, watch for flanking Golems. Fauna and Lamphrey, lay down ranged support. Tara, pick off any stragglers that slip past. This place is crawling with hostiles, but while Lysandus has them in disarray, we've got the advantage."

They all nodded, adrenaline coursing.

"Don't show any hesitation," Ethan told them all. "We smash this island, break into the castle, and finally show the Blood Doctor what us Hybrids are made of."

And, with a slight giddiness at being able to finally do this, Ethan opened his mouth in a roar that sent himself and his party hurtling towards their destiny:

"CHARGE!"

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