Wept

That wasn't the first time Mitchell Manthrew and his wife Drethnell lost their home, and it wouldn't be the last.

They grew older and older, their kids having kids, and their community grew with every passing year with more like-minded Metal Mages seeking asylum from the zealous public.

They suffered through imp raids, goblin thieves, and more nobles claiming Mitchell's land as their own. The worst of it was when a Metal dragon attacked their most recent home, killing dozens of friends they had known for years and even his eldest son.

As he kneeled there, cradling the smoldering husk of his son's body in his arms, something snapped inside of Mitchell Manthrew.

His foundation solidified, his knowledge of his Facet skyrocketing as he finally realized the true depths of what it was capable of.

In one leap, he shot from the end of the Master Stage to the start of the Arch-Mage Stage, rising to his feet and raising his hand to the sky.

The Metal dragon, still wreaking havoc on their small town, froze in the air, reptilian eyes flashing with fear as Mitchell squeezed.

The dragon's blood ignited, the tiny amounts of metal within multiplying over and over again until the beast was pierced from the inside out by red-hot sword blades.

The panicking and grieving townsfolk stopped their tears and flights as they watched in awe as the creature was eviscerated into tiny pieces, blood and flesh and metal raining down from above only to leave the bystanders untouched.

The sword blades fell like rain and embedded themselves into the ground, the flaming droplets of blood leaving swathes of grass as burnt black stalks.

Soon, the beast vanished from the skies altogether.

The townsfolk turned their heads from the sky to the man that had just slain a Tier IV beast with nothing but a gesture.

Their fear was paved over by reverence as they fell to their knees, prostrating themselves and proclaiming Mitchell to be their savior.

But Mitchell had a bad taste in his mouth, he realized as he looked at his son's corpse.

Why should he and his kind suffer just for the Facet they were born with?

His son died because the Emperor refused to help his people. He had his home taken time and time again because the world refused to leave him alone.

He was done.

After an impassioned speech, he rallied his fellow Metal Mages, and his children and grandchildren, and vowed to them that he would give them a place to be accepted and safe wherever they chose to live.

"The Emperor is at fault!" Mitchell shouted at the top of his lungs. "He sits on his gilded throne as his subjects are subjected to these atrocities! We've begged for his help, but what had he given us? A deaf ear, home after home taken from us!

"I say we show our beloved Emperor the 'love' he's shown us!"

The town and Mitchell's family roared, grabbing whatever weapon they had and marching off to the capital that very day with Mitchell in the lead.

So caught up was he in his newfound power and zealous beliefs that he missed his wife of sixty years staying behind, her face gushing with tears as she held her dead son in her arms.

The ensuing war was more even than you'd expect.

The Empire back then was fractured and disjointed. Each noble family was essentially a sovereign of their land, and any attack levied on them was their responsibility alone, barring those from other nations.

But Mitchell had learned a thing or two about fleeing a scene unseen and unheard in his many years on Ziobrun. And he'd experienced hundreds of attacks from imps, aesh, dragons, and Magical Beasts.

Every sign the Emperor's men dug up pointed to the wildlife getting out of hand, a dragon attack, or standard demon raids that the nobles were unequipped for.

And against the Metal powers of Mitchell and his army, they stood not a chance.

Weapons rusted before their enemies' very eyes, their sturdy armor flaking off in the wind and their bows turning to inflexible metal.

It was a full year before the Emperor's suspicions were raised, and another month before the true nature of his empire's plight was unearthed.

In his rage, he left his palace to confront the army himself. The resulting slaughter made the Metal Mages' previous suffering look tame in comparison.

The Emperor wore no armor and used no tools or weapons. He brought only his Facet and his hands, and even his blood was immune to Mitchell's powers.

The battle was nasty, brutish, and short.

The Emperor left the battlefield without a drop of blood on his robes, but the same could not be said for the Metal army. They had been torn apart, burnt, reduced to ash or a scrap of cloth in a crater dozens of feet wide.

As Mitchell looked up at the sky one final time, his last thoughts were of his wife and children. His children had been led like lambs to the slaughter by his own hand, and he hadn't seen his wife in over a year.

As these melancholic thoughts filled his mind, his vision fading to black, fate decided it wasn't done toying with Mitchell Manthrew just yet. It had one more trick in store for him.

Just as the lids of his eyes slid closed, he saw the unmistakable outline of his wife, Drethnell.

He forced his eyes open in shock, blood-soaked hand reaching up to cup her cheek in disbelief.

"Drethnell? Is that you?" he said, his words more like a gurgle than a coherent sentence.

"It's me, my love," Drethnell said, and she smiled. It was a radiant, breathtaking smile that belonged on a goddess rather than a Mage such as her. It was full of such kindness, such love, that it instantly put Mitchell's fading thoughts at ease.

As Mitchell's hand fell limp at his side, and a smile graced his face while his eyes closed one last time, he was unaware of the sadness that had broken his wife's beautiful smile.

In the same two years that she held her own son's corpse, she now held the love of her life in her arms.

And she wept, her heart-wrenching cries a death knell that traveled for miles.