The night sky above Pyrros erupted in flames as Ferraclysm's orbital strike platforms unleashed their first volley. Mana-enhanced projectiles streaked toward the peaceful canyon city like falling stars, each one carrying enough destructive force to level a city block.
Maxwell von Pontes watched from his command center aboard the flagship Iron Dominion, his golden eyes reflecting the deadly light show below. His fingers gripped the tactical display's edge with white-knuckled intensity as he waited for the inevitable destruction. Arthur Nightingale had made his final mistake by leaving himself vulnerable, and now he would pay the ultimate price.
"Direct hits confirmed on target location," reported his weapons officer, her voice crisp with military precision. "Calculating damage assessment."
Maxwell allowed himself a cold smile. "Excellent. Prepare for second volley. I want nothing left of that hotel but—"
The smile died on his lips.
