One squad was brave enough to charge him. They died in a matter of seconds. The last to doe was picked up by the target and thrown into another of the walkers with enough force to smash the machines front armour. As soon was the walker fell the target ran towards the foot soldiers, using the makeshift shield to protect himself.

What followed next was sheer butchery. The target ploughed through the squads of foot soldiers, discarding his shield and fighting only with his bare hands. Armour that had proven to withstand mortar shells cracked and shattered under the creature’s strikes. Some men were even thrown the full length of the street. One hit the rear of Degette’s trawler and he was thrown clear. The vehicle itself crumbled under the impact.

Degette looked up to find that all of his men were dead. The target was now finishing off the final tank. He punched a hand through the front view panel and dragged the tank’s operator through. Then, as the turret swivelled round to fire he threw the man at the barrel of the cannon. The operator was incinerated by the blast. His death clouded the view of the gunner and the target climbed up onto the tank. He ripped the turret off and cast it aside, reaching inside and pulling the gunner’s head off.

As the target dropped down from the tank, Degette saw a shard rifle within reach. He wrapped his armoured hand around it and stood, aiming at the creature. He fired one shot, sending a spike of red hot metal towards the target. The creature simply caught it in his hand, ignoring the heat. He threw it back and the shard struck Degette in the side, ripping through his armour and tearing into his flesh. He fell, seeing the target heading his way.

Damned Miscallans. They always thought they were the best around. It almost made him want to wipe out the entire race. After all, who could put up with a race of mercs for long? Even their own employers couldn’t stand to be associated with them for long.

Speaking of which, he’s have to find out who’d sent this lot after him. It wouldn’t be easy, what with the war going on. It could have been anyone. He’d made enemies everywhere.

He walked up to the Miscallan Supreme Command, sliding his pulse pistol from its holster. The Miscallan was bleeding heavily from the wound caused by the antique shard weapon. The pulse pistol hissed in anticipation of the kill. This was a worthy kill and it loved to end the strong lives. It gave the weapon some great satisfaction.

“That’s impossible.” The Miscallan stammered. Clearly he hadn’t been told everything about the man he’d been sent to kill.

“They don’t call me the Destroyer for nothing.” Elvorn Darek said, silently pulling the trigger.