The battlefield was a graveyard of civilizations.
Fragments of shattered planets drifted in slow procession, broken continents turning lazily in the void. Hulks of fortress stations spun silently, their jagged silhouettes haloed in fire. Corpses of titans, dwarves, elves, and beasts of war alike floated among the wreckage, their blood crystallized into ruby mist that glimmered in the pale starlight. This was the Dwarven Empire's final frontier, the border of their last five galaxies. Once, they had held twenty-five. Now, they clung to survival with calloused hands and bloodied resolve.
In the heart of this abyss stood a fortress a colossus of blackened steel and adamant stone. Its walls bristled with cannons and rows of laser turrets, each barrel glowing with the heat of unceasing fire. Shields sputtered, scarred by a thousand blows, yet still they held. The fortress was the dwarves' last bulwark. Within, six hundred Absolutes fought on, their breaths ragged, their strength frayed thin as thread. Three hundred of their brethren already lay dead, their immortal lights snuffed in the storm of war. And no reinforcements would come.
This was their final stand.
Inside the command chamber, Emperor Thorine Steelsword stood tall despite the weight of despair pressing against him. His beard, streaked with iron-grey, was matted with dust and blood. His armor, forged from Adamantite Steel, bore dents from battles that would have shattered lesser men. He rested both hands on the haft of his warhammer, the legendary Stoneheart Breaker, its head glowing faintly with runes of power.
Beside him loomed Supreme General Gurio, his most loyal Absolute and commander of the fortress defenses. Gurio's broad shoulders carried a mantle of command as though it were nothing more than an old cloak. His eyes, sharp beneath his heavy brow, scanned the tactical hologram that flickered before them. The glowing display painted the chamber in shades of red each light a swarm of enemy signatures.
"They do not stop," Gurio growled, his voice like grinding stone. "Every hour, another wave. And every wave costs us more."
Thorine's jaw tightened. "They fight like ants. Kill one, and ten take its place."
On the hologram, the icons of Elven fleets shifted, pouring into dwarven space like a tide. Elegant warships of living crystal and woven light swept across the stars, their formation flawless, unbroken. At their head, a single symbol glowed brighter than the rest: Eluis Elfish, Supreme Commander of the World Tree Empire, Absolute among Absolutes.
The elves called him the Spear of the World Tree, and his name alone had broken a dozen civilizations. Where he commanded, legions followed in endless rivers of light.
The fortress shuddered as another barrage struck its shields. Warning runes flashed crimson. Dwarves at their posts tightened their grips on their weapons, sweat streaming down soot-streaked faces.
"Report!" barked Gurio.
"Outer shield at twelve percent!" shouted a lieutenant. "Reactor output falling we're draining the last Energy cores faster than we can replace them!"
Another explosion rocked the chamber, and alarms wailed.
Thorine slammed the butt of his hammer into the floor. The sound echoed like thunder. "Hold it together. We have no more galaxies to lose."
The silence that followed was grim but resolute. Every dwarf knew the truth: if the fortress fell, so too would the Dwarven Empire.
Beyond the fortress, the Destruction Cannon floated like a slumbering god. It was a colossal construct, kilometers long, its barrel lined with glowing runes that pulsed with restrained energy. The dwarves had built it as their last hope, a weapon capable of erasing entire systems with a single shot. Yet it had failed them.
Every time the cannon fired, the elves' Energy Eater Shield absorbed the blast, devouring the destructive wave as though it were nothing more than a spark. The dwarves could not pierce it. Not yet.
General Gurio's gaze lingered on the cannon's hologram. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "So much blood, and still the tree devours the flame."
Thorine closed his eyes, recalling the long war. One hundred thousand years of retreat. One hundred thousand years of sacrifice. Twenty-five galaxies reduced to five. His people scattered, beaten, starved and yet still they fought. "We endure," he murmured. "We always endure."
On the battlefield's edge, the Elven armada gathered like a living sea. Their ships shimmered with translucent light, wings of crystal unfurling as they advanced. Between them swarmed creatures of the World Tree, beasts bred for war: serpentine dragons woven of branches and flame, colossal golems of bark and starlight, swarms of winged soldiers that moved as one.
At the heart of it all stood Eluis Elfish. Clad in radiant armor grown from the roots of the World Tree itself, he stood upon the bridge of his flagship, Sylvan Wrath. His eyes, emerald and cold, surveyed the battlefield without pity.
"Another fortress," he said softly, his tone almost bored. "Another stone in the way of the roots."
His adjutant bowed. "Shall we press the next wave, Supreme Commander?"
Eluis allowed himself a faint smile. "Press. Always press. Their strength is a candle in a storm. Let the wind decide when it gutters out."
And with a wave of his hand, the next swarm surged forward, blotting out the stars.
Back in the fortress, alarms shrieked again.
"They're coming!" shouted a watchman. "A full wave mechs, warships, and Absolutes among them!"
The walls trembled as the first impacts struck. Fire streaked across the void.
Thorine turned to Gurio. Their eyes met, steel against steel.
"This is it," the Emperor said.
Gurio nodded. "Then let it be written in the stars the dwarves do not kneel."
Together, they strode from the chamber, weapons in hand, to stand with their warriors.
The final war had come.