The jungle was no longer a jungle.
It was a battlefield.
Trees burned. Rivers boiled. The sky itself split open under fire and smoke.
The Sky People had come in force, and every engine they brought roared like a beast trying to devour Pandora.
But I would roar louder.
The first wave of Scorpion gunships broke formation, missiles streaking toward the Na'vi lines.
"NOW!" I shouted.
I launched into the sky, arms spread wide, the air shuddering around me. Heat vision cut the dark like twin spears of red, vaporizing the missiles mid-flight. I spun, caught an incoming gunship by its rotor, and flung it into another. The explosion painted the canopy in fire.
Below, Omatikaya riders swooped on ikran, loosing arrows that pierced the gaps of RDA armor. The Metkayina fought on the river's edge, riding skimwings and dragging soldiers into the depths.
Pandora fought back.
And I was its storm.
One of the new prototype walkers lumbered forward, easily twice the size of the old AMP suits. Its cannons spat fire, tearing apart roots and sending Na'vi scattering.
I landed before it, the ground cracking beneath my feet.
"Let's dance."
The walker's guns roared, but I charged through the barrage. Bullets sparked harmlessly against me as I slammed a fist into its armored chest. Metal screamed, crumpling inward. With a grunt, I ripped the cannon from its arm and swung it like a club, smashing the machine down into the earth.
Another tried to flank me. I inhaled, the air around me crackling with power—then exhaled a freezing breath that turned steel brittle as glass. One strike, and it shattered.
The Na'vi around me stopped fighting for a heartbeat, their eyes wide. They had seen warriors. They had seen hunters.
They had never seen a god.
But gods drew enemies like flame drew moths.
From above, a massive carrier descended, its belly splitting open. Dozens of drop pods rained down, slamming into the ground like meteors. Each unfolded into mechanized exosuits, bristling with weapons.
At their head, a voice boomed through comms.
"STORM!"
Quaritch.
He stepped forward in a reinforced suit unlike the others—sleeker, deadlier, built for one purpose: to fight me.
"You've had your fun," he snarled, raising a massive blade of composite steel. "Now it's my turn."
The Na'vi lines clashed with the drop troops, chaos erupting everywhere. But in that storm of fire and fury, I saw only him.
Quaritch. The man who refused to die.
"Come then," I said, my voice low but carrying. Lightning arced across my skin, the air humming with the weight of power.
"Let's finish this."