The wasteland stretches before me, barren and beautiful in its desolation. Lighthouse City's distant silhouette grows steadily larger against the darkening horizon as I make my way back from the D-tier rift. My body aches from the Architect's Gambit—muscles protesting each step, fractured forearm throbbing beneath my makeshift bandage, and knuckles swollen to twice their normal size.

  From this distance, the city resembles a defiant monument to human perseverance—concentric rings of structures surrounding the central spire that houses the dimensional anchor. The outer districts sprawl outward in unplanned chaos, while the inner zones ascend in calculated precision toward the pristine towers of Downtown where only the highest tiers reside.

  My city. The only home I've ever known.

  Even from twenty kilometers away, I can make out the faint shimmer of the barrier that separates Lighthouse from the corrupted wilderness. I've spent all my life within those barriers, except for expeditions like today's.

  I know every district, every sector—from the grimy corridors of Lower Residential where I grew up to the twisted architecture of Dimensional Research Plaza. I remember hiding from Stability officers in the maintenance tunnels as a child, sharing stolen rations with other blank children beneath the Eastern Harbor docks, selling salvaged tech in the underground markets before I ever became a raider.

  The evening sun casts long shadows across the wasteland, transforming the corrupted landscape into something almost beautiful. Light refracts oddly through dimensional particles suspended in the air, creating halos around distant objects and stretching shadows into impossible shapes.

  Then the world turns red.

  For a split second, I think my vision has malfunctioned. But this is different. The entire horizon to the north has lit up with crimson energy, a massive atmospheric disturbance that sends columns of scarlet light stretching into the upper atmosphere.

  "What the hell?" I freeze mid-step, eyes fixed on the phenomenon.

  The red light intensifies, pulsing like a massive heartbeat before suddenly contracting inward. The abrupt collapse of energy creates a vacuum effect visible even from my position—clouds being pulled toward a central point high above the northern wasteland.

  Then I see it.

  A burning object tears through the upper atmosphere, trailing fire and dimensional distortion. Its trajectory is unmistakable—a direct path toward Lighthouse City. The object is massive, perhaps hundreds of meters across, its surface rippling with energy patterns unlike anything I've encountered in rifts.

  Cold dread washes through me. For something to generate atmospheric disturbances visible from twenty kilometers away, its power must be beyond anything I've witnessed.

  The distant wail of sirens interrupts my thoughts. Lighthouse City's emergency alert system has activated—the distinctive three-tone pattern that indicates imminent dimensional threat. I've heard it during training simulations, but never in reality. The sound carries across the wasteland, distorted by distance and the corrupted atmosphere.

  I start running, ignoring the protests of my injured body. Logic dictates I should move away from the approaching catastrophe, but instinct pulls me toward the only home I've ever known. The city barrier flickers, then stabilizes with renewed intensity. The normal transparent shimmer transforms into a solid-looking dome of energy as the protective field engages emergency protocols.

  Through my enhanced perception, I notice something else—a figure hovering above the highest spire of Lighthouse City. Even at this distance, I can make out the distinctive blue-green energy signature characteristic of water manipulation.

  Seramos. The B-tier City Lord.

  I've never actually seen him. Few citizens have. Seramos remains a figure of distant authority, rarely appearing in public and delegating most governance to appointed administrators. A living weapon of last resort against dimensional threats too powerful for conventional defenses. His main job had always been to delay any attack until an S-tier could get to the city.

  Looks like today's the day he earns his keep.

  The meteor-like object has entered the lower atmosphere now, its surface blazing with energy that shifts between familiar fire and something else entirely—temporal flames that burn in reverse, consuming their own light before it fully forms.

  Seramos rises higher, his form surrounded by a rapidly expanding sphere of water pulled from the ocean below. The liquid defies gravity, swirling around him in increasingly complex patterns that reflect his B-tier mastery. Within seconds, the sphere has grown to hundreds of meters in diameter—a miniature ocean suspended above the city.

  The first attack comes without warning. A massive column of pressurized water erupts from the sphere, rocketing toward the descending object with impossible speed. The water column strikes with force that should shatter mountains, engulfing the meteor in a momentary cocoon of turbulent liquid.

  For a heartbeat, hope flickers. Then the object emerges unchanged, the water evaporating instantly upon contact with its temporally distorted surface.

  Seramos doesn't hesitate. The remaining water reshapes into dozens of spears, each hundreds of meters long and rotating at speeds that transform the liquid into something approaching solidity. They launch simultaneously, converging on the object from multiple angles.

  I've slowed to a walk, transfixed by the battle unfolding above my city. The spears strike in perfect sequence, targeting what appear to be structural weaknesses in the object's surface. For a moment, the meteor's descent slows fractionally, its trajectory shifting by mere degrees.

  Not enough. Nowhere near enough.

  The Terminus Protocol flashes through my mind—the dimensional shift I helped trigger. Could this be connected? The timing seems more than coincidental. A global restructuring of dimensional barriers would naturally invite threats from beyond those barriers.

  Seramos unleashes his second major assault. The remaining water above the city freezes instantly, transforming into a massive ice structure that resembles a reverse mountain—point downward, base spread wide to intercept the meteor's path. The physics-defying construct must weigh millions of tons, a testament to the B-tier's power.

  The meteor strikes the ice mountain with apocalyptic force. The impact sends shockwaves rippling through the atmosphere, distorting my vision even at this distance. Massive chunks of ice shatter and vaporize simultaneously, creating a cloud of steam and frozen particles that momentarily obscures both entities.

  When visibility returns, the meteor continues its descent, now trailing fragments of ice that orbit it like satellites. Its trajectory has shifted slightly, no longer aimed at the city's center but still well within the perimeter of the barrier.

  A knot forms in my stomach as I realize that nothing Seramos has tried has significantly slowed the object. Something about its composition or the dimensional energy radiating from its core makes it resistant to conventional forces, even those wielded by a B-tier.

  Seramos descends to just above the barrier's surface, his form now clearly visible through my enhanced vision. His movements betray frustration or perhaps fear—emotions I wouldn't have expected from a B-tier who has protected the city for over a century.

  He raises both arms, drawing not from the ocean this time but from the dimensional moisture inherent in the atmosphere itself. Water molecules coalesce around him, forming a swirling vortex that grows with exponential speed. Within seconds, a massive hurricane has formed directly above Lighthouse City, its eye centered perfectly on Seramos.

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  The wind speed within this unnatural storm must exceed anything ever recorded. The hurricane rotates with such violence that the atmospheric pressure visibly distorts, creating ripples in reality itself. Seramos directs this concentrated force upward, aiming the hurricane's full fury at the descending meteor.

  The object encounters the hurricane's outer bands first, the incredible wind speed tearing at its surface. Flakes of material peel away, revealing glimpses of something beneath the burning exterior—not solid matter but a churning mass of dimensional energy that defies classification.

  For the first time, the meteor's descent noticeably slows as it fights against the hurricane's contrary force. Seramos pushes harder, the storm intensifying until lightning crackles continuously around its circumference, striking the meteor repeatedly with blinding flashes.

  I've reached a crystallized plateau approximately fifteen kilometers from the city. My entire body screams with exhaustion, but I can't look away from the battle. The storm continues to rage, the meteor continues to descend, and the outcome remains uncertain.

  Hope stirs within me—perhaps this is working. The object's descent has slowed considerably, its surface now visibly damaged from the hurricane's assault. If Seramos can maintain this level of power, he might actually succeed in stopping the threat.

  Then the hurricane begins to disintegrate, its structure collapsing under the continued pressure from the meteor's passage. Seramos' posture changes, shoulders slumping slightly before he rallies for another attempt. The remaining water gathers around him in a tight sphere that pulses with concentrated energy.

  Seramos contracts the water sphere to an impossibly small point, compressing it beyond what physical laws should allow. The resulting singularity glows with blue-white brilliance, dimensional energy patterns visible even from my position. He launches this concentrated essence directly at the meteor, the projectile moving so quickly it leaves a vacuum tunnel in its wake.

  The impact is beyond spectacular. The compressed water detonates on contact, releasing energy equivalent to multiple nuclear weapons in a perfectly directed blast. The explosion illuminates the entire region with blue-white light, temporarily overwhelming my vision and forcing me to shield my eyes.

  When my vision clears, the meteor has finally shown damage—a significant crater has formed on its surface, exposing more of the dimensional energy core within. But it hasn't stopped. If anything, the impact seems to have accelerated its descent, the object now just kilometers above the city barrier.

  A pit forms in my stomach. I've seen enough battles to recognize desperation, and Seramos' movements now speak of it clearly. The city lord is running out of options.

  He divides his water reserve into thousands of smaller spheres that orbit him in complex, overlapping patterns. Each sphere pulses with a different frequency, creating a hypnotic visual effect that I recognize as dimensional harmonization—attempting to match and counter the meteor's inherent frequency.

  The spheres launch in perfectly timed sequence, each striking precisely the same spot on the meteor's damaged section. The coordinated assault creates a cascading resonance effect, each impact amplifying the vibration caused by the previous one. The meteor's surface begins to fracture along new lines, pieces breaking away to reveal more of its inner structure.

  For a moment, I allow myself to believe. Perhaps this precision approach will succeed where raw power has failed. Perhaps Seramos will find the exact resonance frequency needed to shatter the object completely.

  My home lies directly beneath the approaching catastrophe. Memories flash through my mind—from childhood exploration of Lower Residential's maintenance tunnels to my first successful rift raid. Despite its flaws, despite the rigid tier system and resource inequality, Lighthouse City represents everything familiar, everything stable.

  Seramos pauses his resonance attack, gathering power for what appears to be another major assault. The water around him moves differently now—slower, more deliberate, suggesting he's reaching the limits of his reserves. B-tier or not, no one has unlimited power.

  The remaining water coalesces into a single massive construct—a perfect replica of the dimensional anchor that stabilizes Lighthouse City, complete with the intricate geometries that allow it to function. The water construct begins to rotate, generating a counter-frequency to the meteor's dimensional signature.

  For a brief, hopeful moment, the meteor's descent slows dramatically. The counter-frequency is working, creating a repulsive force that fights against whatever drives the object toward the city. Seramos pushes harder, the water construct spinning faster and glowing with intensifying energy.

  Then something changes. The meteor's core pulses with renewed vigor, dimensional energy patterns shifting to adapt to the counter-frequency. It begins to descend again, accelerating rapidly toward the barrier.

  Seramos' posture changes again—not slumping in defeat this time, but straightening with what can only be described as resigned determination. The water construct dissolves, the liquid gathering around his form in a brilliant aura of blue-green energy.

  His intention becomes clear as he accelerates directly toward the meteor—a final attack, trading his existence for the possibility of stopping the threat.

  The city lord ascends with incredible speed, his form leaving a trail of luminescent particles as he rockets toward the meteor. The distance closes rapidly, Seramos' aura growing brighter with each second as he channels every remaining ounce of power into this final assault.

  Impact.

  The collision releases energy beyond anything I've witnessed. Seramos' form disappears entirely, consumed by an explosion that engulfs the meteor's leading edge. The blast expands outward in a perfect sphere, dimensional energy patterns rippling across its surface in hypnotic complexity.

  For one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three—the meteor stops. Suspended in the atmosphere, surrounded by the fading remnants of Seramos' power, the object appears finally neutralized.

  Then it begins to move again. Slower than before, its surface significantly damaged, but still descending inexorably toward the city barrier.

  A century of service, ended in a moment of sacrifice. Seramos' death wasn't just the loss of a powerful defender—it was the culmination of a story that began when he first assumed the role of City Lord after the Collapse. The countless rifts he'd closed, the dimensional invasions he'd repelled, the centuries of accumulated knowledge and power—all expended in a final, desperate gambit that had failed.

  From my position, I can see the barrier strengthening in response, additional power diverted from the city's reserves to reinforce the protective field. The normally transparent dome has become an opaque wall of energy, pulsing with patterns that indicate maximum defensive configuration.

  The meteor crosses the final kilometer separating it from the barrier. Its reduced speed makes the approach almost graceful—a drifting harbinger of destruction rather than the blazing projectile of minutes before. The dimensional energy at its core pulses visibly now, cycling through patterns that seem almost deliberate.

  Impact is inevitable. I find myself holding my breath as the gap closes to mere hundreds of meters.

  As the meteor strikes the city barrier, reality itself seems to fracture. The initial contact produces no sound—just a momentary silence as universal laws decide how to interpret the collision of incompatible forces. Then comes the light—not the expected flash but a slow-motion bloom of energy that expands outward from the impact point in concentric rings of color that shouldn't exist in natural physics.

  The barrier holds for approximately three seconds, distorting inward like a membrane under extreme pressure. Energy cascades along its surface in fractal patterns, the dimensional stabilizers beneath struggling to compensate for forces they were never designed to withstand.

  Then it fails.

  The barrier doesn't simply collapse—it shatters, fragments of energy dissolving into cascading particles that rain down upon the city beneath. Without the protective field, Lighthouse City lies exposed to both the meteor and the corrupted atmosphere beyond.

  The meteor continues its inexorable descent, now passing through the space where the barrier once stood. As it enters the city's airspace, secondary explosions begin to blossom across its surface—defensive systems finally able to target the object directly, but hopelessly inadequate against its power.

  I realize in this moment that I'm about to witness the death of my home—not just the structures, but the people, the history, the collective memory of what humanity had salvaged after the Collapse. Everything that defined me, everything that anchored my existence, will be gone in moments.

  The impact, when it comes, defies description. The meteor strikes somewhere in Mid-City, the exact location impossible to determine through the eruption of energy that follows. The blast expands outward in a perfect circle, consuming everything in its path—buildings, streets, people, history—all transformed into component particles and scattered across dimensions.

  The shockwave follows, a physical manifestation of dimensional displacement that races outward at supersonic speed. I watch it approach, a visible distortion in the atmosphere that flattens everything in its path.

  "Sync," I command, targeting a nearby dimensional anomaly detected by my Hazard Sense. My skin develops familiar fracture-like cracks as I sync with the anomaly—a small tear in reality that manifests as a temporal distortion where time flows approximately 30% slower than normal.

  The shockwave hits with staggered, but devastating force despite my preparations. The impact sends me flying backward, tumbling across the crystallized plateau with bone-breaking force. I struggle to maintain consciousness as my body absorbs punishment.

  Through fractured vision, I witness the ongoing destruction of Lighthouse City. The initial blast continues to expand, consuming entire districts in seconds. The central spire—housing the dimensional anchor that has stabilized the region for seven decades—topples slowly, its fall resembling underwater movement through my temporally distorted perception.

  Secondary explosions pepper the urban landscape as power facilities and dimensional research laboratories succumb to cascading failure. A particularly violent detonation near the harbor sends a tsunami of corrupted water surging through Eastern Districts, structures dissolving on contact with the contaminated liquid.

  My vision begins to darken, consciousness fading despite my desperate attempts to remain awake. The last image burned into my retinas is Lighthouse City—my home, my world—transformed into an expanding cloud of particles that rise into the atmosphere, carrying the atomized remains of millions.

  Then darkness claims me, and I know nothing more.