The world erupted in a symphony of glorious, beautiful noise.
Forge's roar was a physical thing, a shockwave of pure, stubborn grit that rolled across the battlefield. "IRONHEARTS! TO ME!"
A wall of battered steel and grim determination slammed into the Umbraxis's western flank. It was a beautiful, suicidal charge, a glorious act of defiance. Hammers fell, shields flared, and a dozen grizzled veterans who had probably forgotten more about fighting monsters than most Hunters ever learned began their final, desperate dance.
They were the anvil.
And up in the skeletal, blackened branches of a dead oak tree, Jinx was about to become the hammer.
"Alright, Boss Lady," she murmured into her comms, her voice a low, steady growl. "Anvil is in position. Ready to start chipping away at the pretty boy's pillars."
Her world had shrunk to the circle of her scope. The chaos of the Great Lawn, the screams, the explosions—it was all just a distant, blurry backdrop.
