71. WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS

A pilot’s paradise…and a death trap.

When the Gem awakens to call a Hero, the world is ill prepared...and its fate is placed in the hands of a 17 year old boy, named Wendell. 

Some will say this is nothing but a tale of fiction.
Let them think as they may. 

After all...I can't fix stupid.

Previously: Wendell shows Dax his growing control of magic. The moment is quickly stolen by the news of a Bellows factory fire killing hundreds of workers. A fire that didn’t look like an accident.

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Chapter 71

No matter how small the lie might be—all truth eventually claws its way into the light.

“You want me to what?” Chuck sputtered, nearly choking on his own spit.

I tightened the zipper on my pilot jacket and stared at myself in the mirror. “I want you to give Morty the Lanthya Shard. The one you took from Til-Thorin. You do still have it, right?”

The wizard’s eyes went wide. “Well, of course I have it, but—”

“Then give it to him.”

Dax was perched on the edge of the desk, legs swinging as he puffed on a cigar like he owned the room. “Not sure that’s a good idea, kid.”

I turned, glaring. “Really? And why’s that, hmm? This is Morty we’re talking about—Morty, who’s done nothing but use his knowledge to help his people. If anyone deserves that shard, it’s him.”

“Oh, I ain’t disagreeing with the sentiment,” Dax said, waving his cigar. “I just don’t think anyone oughta have a shard, period. That’s too much power for one person.”

I snorted. “But he has it!” I jabbed a finger at Chuck. “And aren’t you the one always complaining about how dangerous it is when he uses magic?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And don’t you always say it’s a mistake every time he starts mumbling incantations and waving his hands around?”

Dax winced and glanced at Chuck, half-apologetic. “Well… yeah.”

The wizard gasped and clutched his beard like a wounded maiden. “Monkey!”

“So tell me,” I said, keeping my tone calm and level, “what has Morty ever done to hurt you? To betray you? To let you down in any way?”

Chuck’s mouth opened, finger lifted, ready for the usual retort—but nothing came out. He froze, looking like a frog caught mid-hop. Slowly, he turned to Dax.

The elf shrugged. “I got nothin’.”

Chuck sighed dramatically, beard quivering. “Fine! I’ll consider it. But that’s all I’m promising.” He puffed out his chest and glared at me. “I’m not about to hand over one of the most powerful forces in existence to a tinkering fool, Wendell. Now, you two—get out there! You’ve got a championship to win, and a wizard’s promise isn’t something I break lightly.”

I couldn’t help but grin. “Thank you, Chuck.”

The old man huffed, flicking his beard over his shoulder like it offended him. He flung open the library doors with a theatrical sweep. “Come along then, heroes. We don’t want to be late.”

As the transport rumbled into the underground garage, I caught a glimpse of Alhannah tugging her father’s sleeve to keep him from following the rest of us out.

Shamas was already at my side, his usual calm intensity back in full force. He guided Dax and me toward the elevator, then planted himself beside the doors like a stone sentinel while the others filed in behind us.

Morty and Deloris looked like they were headed to some royal banquet instead of a war zone. Morty had squeezed himself into a brown church suit that probably hadn’t seen daylight in a decade, and Deloris—well, she looked radiant, dressed in what could only be described as a bouquet come to life. The petals of her tea-length gown shimmered under the garage lights, giving off the illusion she was made of blossoms.

Then came Chuck. The old wizard strutted like a peacock in a tuxedo, twirling a dragon-headed cane with enough flair to make an entrance on any stage. His beard—braided, clamped with steel rings, and hanging like a badge of honor—swung with each step. I swear he’d spent more time styling it than the ladies had in doing their hair and makeup.

Beside him, gripping his arm tightly, was Lili.

She looked…breathtaking.

…though I tried not to make it obvious.

Her one-shoulder yellow gown flowed elegantly, perfectly matching her copper-toned skin. Her hair was braided into a crown that gleamed in the light, with a few rebellious curls brushing her cheeks and bare neck. She looked as though she’d been pulled out of a dream and dropped into this grimy gnome city—and somehow made it all seem less gray.

Behind me, I could hear Alhannah’s voice trembling slightly. “Dad, are you sure you want to do this?”

I turned just enough to see her clutching Höbin’s hands, the stubborn worry etched across her face. “If they find you here, they won’t banish you this time. They could…” Her voice faltered. We all knew what the government did to those it branded traitors.

The old gnome smiled, cupping her cheek with his hand, his missing fingers giving the motion a sort of delicate grace. “My sweet little girl…I wouldn’t miss this for the world. You’re making history tonight, and by TGII, I’m here to see it. There’s no way I’m letting this pass me by.” He gave her nose a playful tap. “Besides,” he added with a wink, tapping his chest, “I’ve got a backup plan if things get…sticky.”

“Red!” Shamas called from the elevator, his tone sharp and commanding. “Time to go!”

Höbin leaned in and kissed his daughter’s cheek. “Good luck, sweetie,” he whispered with a grin. “Rip their heads off.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

For all the chaos, danger, and impossible odds ahead of us…at least we had moments like that.

The hum of the crowd was deafening, even through the walls of the prep chamber. From where I stood behind the lift doors, I could feel the vibrations of millions of gnomes pounding their feet, clapping, and chanting in rhythm. It was enough to make the steel beneath my boots tremble.

Up above, the camera crews were already rolling, streaming to the hundreds of monitors attached to just about every surface around us. I could hear the muffled count through the stadium speakers.

“Live in four… three… two…”

Then the roar hit.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlegnomes,” boomed the announcer’s voice, echoing through the dome, “to the historic finals of W.E.T., INC.’s Trench Wars—Season Four!”

I could imagine the lens sweeping across that sea of faces—this new stadium packed to capacity. Two million screaming fans shoulder to shoulder, waving banners, throwing confetti, and lighting up the stands like a living fire.

“This epic arena,” the announcer continued, “is five times the size of the old one, crowned with a crystal dome that opens to the night sky!”

Monitors cut to the studio.

I’d seen these two before—Dusty Beckworth and his ever-grinning co-host, Pip Flocker. The perfect pair of talking heads.

“Thanks, Dusty,” Pip said, waving his cards. “And may I just say, this has got to be the event of the century! Every seat filled, every screen tuned in…over a billion pay-per-viewers across the city!”

“You don’t say, Pip!”

“I do, Dusty, I do!”

Even in the pit, I could hear the fake enthusiasm oozing through the speakers.

The feed switched to a clean-cut gnome in priestly robes, standing like he’d just swallowed a broomstick. “And of course,” Dusty continued, “we’re honored tonight by the presence of Father Noah himself, representing the Temple of TGII.”

The camera zoomed in on the gnome’s perfectly trimmed mustache and wire-thin beard as the caption appeared: Father Noah, Great Temple of Nothing.

Then came the clip.

“Though we are here to be pillars of the community and to fight for the faith,” Noah droned, “we cannot stand idly by or condone injustice…even in friendly competition. The Church acknowledges Armored Ensemble as the previous victor, but feels it only just to extend this match to Steel and Stone. Tonight will allow Mr. Dipmier to participate when he was cheated…and grant grace to Banshee when she had failed.”

He smiled—or tried to. The camera froze mid-frame, catching the twist of his lips that looked more like a snarl than mercy.

Pip shuddered audibly. “Well, that was a canned sermon if I ever heard one! Good thing we got some life out of the Steel and Stone camp earlier. Here’s their head programmer, Nathan Taylor.”

The feed jumped, showing Nat in his wheelchair, blinking at the camera like a deer caught in headlights. “Y-you caught me off guard,” he stammered. Nibbles leaned in beside him, her face smudged with grease, waving cheerfully.

“Hi, Mom!” she squeaked.

Then from off-camera, Tumbler’s gravelly voice barked. “Tell ‘em we’re gonna kick the butt-grease outta those S.L.A.G.s!”

Nat blinked. “Uh—we’re grateful for this opportunity to—uh…”

“To bury ‘em!” Tumbler hollered. The camera jostled, then fell sideways, catching the bottom of Nat’s chair and a lot of chaos.

“You’ll edit that, right?” Nat whimpered as a wrench clanged against something metal.

And then…silence.

The feed cut back to Dusty and Pip, both wiping away tears of laughter.

“You’ve got to love honest gnomes, don’t you, Pip?” Dusty said.

“As long as they want your autograph, Dusty!”

More laughter.

Then, Dusty ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, smiling wide for the camera. “Well, folks, the pilots are locked in and ready to rumble! Let’s take a look at this year’s stats as they rise to the arena floor!”

The crowd erupted again, the sound of the chant starting low, building like thunder.

“GNO-LAUM! GNO-LAUM! GNO-LAUM!”

The lift beneath my feet started to move. My hands tightened around the controls.

Here we go again.

“…and that makes three. You’re all good to go.”

Nat’s voice crackled through the com-link, calm but buzzing with excitement. On my monitor, I could see him tapping away at the HD interface in the control booth. The new setup looked incredible—sleek, modern, and packed with more tech than I could wrap my head around. Honestly, I was just grateful he’d spent the extra time building out his programs and fine-tuning strategy.

“How we doing, Cryo?” he asked.

The shimmering blue face that lived inside the crystal disc flickered into view. “The corporate programmers have yet to fill all the holes in their system, Nathan,” he said smoothly. “There are still… opportunities we can exploit.”

Nat grinned, his hands flying across the keys. “That’s what I want to hear.”

Freak leaned into his own mic, cheeks jiggling with enthusiasm. “Alright, remember what I told ya! We’ve tweaked your systems and localized some functions. Turnpike’s arms and legs now operate independently, which means more agility, faster recovery. You probably won’t notice it until things get hairy, but trust me, it’ll save your metal hide.”

Dax chuckled. “Yeah? How’d you test it?”

“Deflected one of Alpha’s bullets, that’s how!” Tumbler bellowed from somewhere behind Freak, voice half-drowned by static and laughter. “I’m tellin’ ya, my blasted arms are still cramped from welding all day!”

“Nice,” Dax said with a satisfied growl.

Alhannah’s voice came through next, full of irritation. “You messed with my cushioning again, didn’t you? How am I supposed to fight if I can’t move right?”

“Orders from Wheels,” Freak replied bluntly.

There was a pause…and I could feel her glare through the headset.

Freak cleared his throat. “You could’ve suffered a lot worse than a concussion last time, Red. Take it as a sign we care, huh? We want you to finish the match alive.”

Grumbling filled the line. Possibly a few choice words in Gnomish.

Then came the thrum beneath my feet. The floor vibrated as the lifts under each of our S.L.A.G.s began to rise.

I smiled. “Here we go, ladies and gentlegnomes. Let’s make it fast, furious, and completely overwhelming.”

Dax’s laugh rolled over the comms like thunder. “Would ya look at that—our little hero’s turned into a fighting animal!”

Alhannah’s tone was smug. “Nice to have another one in the family.”

Above us, the announcers were practically salivating into their microphones.

“As we all know, Dusty,” Pip crooned, “there’s been some bad blood between these two teams…and tonight, it’s going to boil over.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Pip! If I had to pick one to watch, it’d be…WHAT IN CLOCKWORKS!??”

“What’s wrong, Dusty?” Pip chuckled, “Not ready for the main event?”

Then I noticed it through the monitors.

The entire stadium had gone silent.

…gnomes by the hundreds of thousands were rushing to the chained walls above the Trench pit.

Dusty’s face looked confused on the screen. “I think someone just fell from the stadium seating, Pip!”

Pip gasped, leaning in towards the camera, glancing at his own monitor. “You don’t say!!”

“I do say, Pip. I DO! A fat little gnome in a cape…LOOK, in between Hook and Beatdown!”

“Oh my!” Pip gasped again.

“He’s GETTING UP!” Dusty shouted, bouncing up and down in his chair. “LOOK AT THAT!”

The stadium exploded with cheers.

Pip laughed. “That is absolutely insane AND lucky! To fall from that height and to get back up?”

Dusty frowned again. “What’s he doing, Pip?”

It was Pip’s turn to frown. “Is he…challenging the S.L.A.G.s?”

“Not the wisest choice,” Dusty chuckled, “Trench rules specifically declare that participants are fair game in the pit.”

“Then again, he’s just an unprotected spectator, Dusty.”

Hook then leaned down onto one knee, bent forward, reached out with a single hand…

And flicked the gnome with a finger.

I sure hope he survived the impact, because that poor gnome flew across the stadium and out the hangar doors.

Ouch.

Dusty sat back in his chair, looked directly into the cameras and shrugged. “Not sure that matters.”

Without missing a beat, both announcers flashed their far-too-white smiles.

“As I was saying, Pip, if I had to pick one to watch, it’d be…Turnpike! Beatdown and Hook are both out for blood after getting humiliated by that flashy acrobat in round two!”

The music hit…thunderous, pulsing, and laced with electric bass. It shook the air like a living thing. The crowd roared back, a tidal wave of sound crashing against the glass dome as we rose into the light.

The second my S.L.A.G. cleared the lift, the brilliance hit me full in the face.

Spotlights.

Smoke.

Streaming banners.

Two million fans chanting, screaming, losing their minds.

I glanced down at my monitors…and froze.

This place was massive.

Unlike the previous arena, where obstacles and towers gave you cover, this was a battlefield stripped bare…a perfect, endless grid of light and polished metal. Above us, the crystal dome stretched higher than I’d ever seen, wide open to the skies. It was both beautiful and terrifying.

A pilot’s paradise…and a death trap.

“Heads up, boys,” Alhannah’s voice came through, calm as ever.

Across the stadium, lining the far wall, stood The Trinity. Beatdown. Armored Ensemble. Hook. All gleaming, rebuilt, and terrifyingly pristine—like they’d just rolled off a new production line.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Dax said. “Tell me it’s not just me…those S.L.A.G.s look…different.”

I zoomed in on my screen.

My stomach turned.

“Yeah…someone got a serious upgrade.”

Their armor gleamed like molten chrome under the lights.

No dents.

No burns.

Hook’s red optics flared like living fire under that tattered cloak.

My throat went dry. The sheer intimidation radiating from them was unreal.

Come on, Wendell. You’re a pro. Act like it.

But inside, I felt like a kid again—small, out of place, and painfully aware that millions were watching. Everything…everything…came down to this match.

I pressed my fingers to the Ithari embedded in my chest. “Are you ready?” I whispered.

Warmth spread through my spine, tingling from the base of my skull to my lower back.

The fear melted.

My pulse steadied.

Then let’s do this.

The instant the buzzer sounded, the arena erupted…two million gnomes roaring as the six titans of steel launched from the walls like bullets from a rifle.

“And there’s the buzzer, Pip—and OH MY GOODNESS, someone’s out for revenge!” Dusty’s voice cracked through the speakers like lightning. “All six pilots are out from the wall, but Beatdown looks more like a wildcat than anything else! Booker is pushing it tonight!”

“Turnpike’s no slouch either, Dusty,” Pip countered. “Look at that S.L.A.G. haul bolts! It may not match Trinity’s speed, but we’re about to see how it matches in pure prowess!”

Their voices faded as the battlefield filled my view. Beatdown tore across the open floor, claws raking against the metal panels, eyes glowing like twin furnaces.

Dax met him head-on.

The two S.L.A.G.s collided mid-air with a bone-jarring CRACK. The impact rattled through my cockpit like an earthquake.

“UNGH!” Dax grunted over the com, jerking his controls. Turnpike flipped backward, tumbled, then rolled up and over a shoulder in a perfect recovery. “I ain’t that easy, punk!”

Sliding one hand through the spiked knuckle slots on his console, he threw a virtual haymaker. On-screen, Turnpike’s arm pistoned forward like a freight train.

The blow connected.

“OH!” Dusty cried out dramatically. “Now that’s what you call a punch! A perfect hit to the head…sending Beatdown sliding toward the far wall!”

“Don’t forget the main event, Dusty,” Pip added, his tone giddy. “Here comes the clash of the night—The Gnolaum versus Armored Ensemble! Looks like both sides want to leave these two alone to duke it out…”

“Careful, Wendell,” Alhannah warned. Her voice was steady, professional. “Panicswitch is the most skilled sword fighter in the league.”

I blocked a downward strike with my shield, the vibration humming through Gnolaum’s frame. “Besides you, right?”

“Of course.”

Across the field, her blade flashed…Banshee’s movements a blur of silver and red. She sidestepped Hook’s scythe, spun out, and cracked the reaper’s chest plate with the hilt of her sword. Sparks scattered like fireflies.

In the commentary booth, Pip was practically dancing. “Look at that! Beatdown is going down in record time!”

The massive stadium screens zoomed in on Turnpike pummeling Beatdown’s face with a flurry of punches. Each hit sparked bright as lightning, the machine’s armor denting under the relentless barrage.

Then Beatdown raised its arms…and spikes popped from its gauntlets, snapping off as Dax’s fists crushed them one by one.

“Oh HO!” Dusty howled. “That brawl’s got the Reaper’s attention! Hook’s making his move!”

The camera feed cut to Banshee.

Hook’s tattered cape suddenly whipped through the air, blinding her. Alhannah swatted it aside…just as a metallic click echoed through my headset.

“What the—?!” Alhannah hissed.

Her S.L.A.G.’s arms locked against its sides, a glowing cable cinched tight across her chest. Her sword jammed uselessly against her own shoulder.

“Red!” I shouted.

Hook raised its gauntlet.

Electricity flared.

“ARRRGHHH!” Alhannah screamed.

“What’s wrong!?” I barked, blocking another blow from Panicswitchs’ blade.

“She’s being electrocuted!” Dax roared. “They’ve got new tricks of their own!”

He spun Turnpike toward her, but before he could reach Banshee, a mace came out of nowhere, smashing into his legs.

The impact was brutal. Turnpike hit the floor like a felled tree.

“Dax!” I yelled, but my own opponent gave me no time to breathe. Panicswitchs’ rhythm was flawless, reading every move I made, matching my strikes blow for blow.

“Concentrate on your fight,” Nat’s voice cut through the noise. “I’ve got control of the Trench. Help’s on the way.”

Banshee wasn’t moving.

“‘Hannah?” he called.

Silence.

“Alhannah!”

Dax threw Turnpike to the side just as Hook’s scythe cleaved through the floor beside him.

“Woopah!” he grunted. “These guys are awfully fast tonight.”

“Mace, to your right,” Nat called.

Turnpike rolled, snatched up Beatdown’s fallen wrecking ball, and sprang to its feet.

“Take this,” Nat muttered under his breath.

The floor beneath Beatdown shimmered…and then collapsed. A viscous yellow liquid swallowed the metal panels whole.

Beatdown sank like a stone.

“I’ve only got one shot,” Dax growled. “I’m taking it.”

He swung his S.L.A.G.’s arm back, then hurled the mace. It smashed into Beatdown’s chest and sent the machine tumbling backward into the liquid. The motion slowed, then stopped completely. Frozen mid-fall.

“What the crap is that stuff?” Dax asked.

Nat chuckled. “Industrial glue. Trench-style.”

He typed furiously. “Cryo—initiate the W.H.E.E.L.S. system. Lock out Trinity from the arena controls.”

“Executing now,” the AI responded.

I couldn’t help it. I actually laughed between gritted teeth. “You named it W.H.E.E.L.S.? I thought you hated that nickname.”

Nat’s grin was audible. “What can I say? It stuck.”

Dax dodged another swipe from Hook, then lunged and grabbed the Reaper’s cape. “Gotcha!”

The fabric instantly detached.

Motors screamed as Hook’s torso spun a full 360 degrees. The scythe flashed once…then again.

Turnpike’s legs exploded in a shower of sparks.

The machine crashed to the ground, chest-first.

“UNBELIEVABLE!” Pip shouted, half-standing on his chair. “That strike completely crippled Trench Wars’ favorite acrobat! And Hook isn’t finished yet!”

The crowd’s roar became a single, bloodthirsty note as Hook raised its weapon high and plunged it into Turnpike’s chest…again and again.

“What a turn of events!” Dusty exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement. “If only we could hear what the pilots are saying right now!”

If only you could, Dusty, I thought grimly.

Because you’d realize none of this is a game anymore.

“GET THIS PSYCHO OFF ME!” Dax screamed. His voice crackled through the comms, ragged and desperate. Each blow from Hook’s scythe shook his cockpit like a jackhammer. I could hear the metal buckling with every strike.

The first hit had punched through Turnpike’s chest plate—which would be right above Dax’s head. Sparks rained past his display as the S.L.A.G.’s core systems flickered under the strain.

“HE’S GONNA KILL ME!!”

Sweat burned into my eyes. I could barely see my console through the haze of adrenaline. “Hold on, Dax…I’m coming!”

I yanked Gnolaum into an aggressive charge, but Armored Ensemble was relentless. The pilot mirrored every move I made…strike for strike, parry for parry. His timing was impeccable.

This guy’s skill is unreal, I thought, teeth grinding. I can’t land a clean hit on him!

Our shields locked together in a shower of sparks. Armored Ensemble shoved forward, grinding me back into the arena wall.

“Nat, can you help Dax?” I barked, trying to twist free. “I’m pinned—I can’t reach him!”

Nat’s voice came through, tight and frustrated. “I’ve locked the systems, Wendell—there’s nothing I can—”

“I gotcha, Uncle Dax,” came Alhannah’s shaky voice, weak but determined. “Hope this new toy works, Freak, ‘cause I’m about to gut that piece of garbage.”

Her S.L.A.G.’s blade began to hum, the sound deep and menacing. The metal turned cherry red, then white-hot.

The electrified cables binding Banshee melted and snapped.

She stumbled forward, coughing, and seized one of Turnpike’s severed legs. With a roar, she hurled it across the arena. The limb spun end over end and slammed into Hook’s forearm, knocking the scythe free.

The weapon clattered across the floor.

“Now I’m gonna…” she panted between laughs, “what did Tumbler say again?”

From somewhere in the control room, Tumbler’s gravelly voice cut in through Freak’s mic: “KICK THE BUTT-GREASE OUTTA HIM!”

Alhannah grinned at her monitor like a predator. “Exactly.”

I strained against my controls, pulling and pushing through every combat combination I knew, but Gnolaum’s shield refused to unlock.

“I’m out of ideas,” I gasped. Red lights started flashing across my dashboard.

Then, Armored Ensemble shifted its stance. Its shoulder plates opened like hatches.

Tiny metal shapes crawled out…each one gleaming, jointed, and disturbingly alive.

“Now this is new, Pip,” Dusty muttered over the broadcast. “Are those… pets?”

The camera zoomed in, showing a metallic, eight-legged creature scuttling toward me.

“I think it’s a tick,” Pip groaned. “Ew, ew, and triple ew! Whatever that thing does, I guarantee it’s not pleasant.”

Dusty touched his earpiece. “I’m being told that the official rules do allow robotic assistance—up to four devices, fifty pounds each, as long as they’re remote controlled. So yes, Pip… technically, those creepy things are legal.”

The audience gasped as the ticks crawled over Gnolaum’s shield and onto its armor.

“What are those things!?” I grunted, slamming the red panic button.

Spikes erupted from both my forearms, and I forced Gnolaum to twist hard at the waist, slamming forward to expose Armored Ensemble’s midsection.

“Gotcha,” I hissed, lining up my strike.

But when I slammed the controls forward…nothing happened.

“Wendell?” Nat’s voice turned sharp. “Wendell, do you read?”

“What happened?” Dax coughed. He sounded half-conscious. “Why’d he stop?”

“He’s lost all power,” Nat said grimly. “Completely dead!”

The lights on my dashboard flickered, then died altogether.

“Oh, crap,” I muttered. My heart raced as the world outside dimmed. Gnolaum toppled backward, hitting the wall with a thunderous crash. I felt the impact vibrate through my ribs as the S.L.A.G. slid down to the arena floor and went completely still.

Without power, I had no control.

One arm was locked around my sword, the other limp at my side. My shield flew loose, skidding across the battlefield with a metallic clatter.

“What a turn of events!” Dusty and Pip shouted together.

“It looks like Father Noah was a prophet after all,” Pip sneered. “Because the favorite tonight isn’t Wendell Dipmier.” He threw up his hands. “There goes my paycheck!”

“Don’t count Steel and Stone out just yet!” Dusty shot back. “Looks like we’ve still got a fight left in Banshee!”

The crowd roared as the cameras cut to Alhannah’s feed. She was panting hard but pressing the attack. Hook was retreating, its scythe still on the ground while she swung her glowing sword in wild, blazing arcs.

They circled…closer and closer…to where the scythe lay.

Then, suddenly, two massive hands reached up from below and seized Hook’s ankles.

“You have got to admit,” Dusty bellowed, “you did not see that coming! Turnpike’s still alive—and he’s got the Reaper in his grasp!”

Both announcers jumped as Hook’s head detached and rolled across the floor, sparks spraying from its severed neck.

The crowd went feral.

I thrashed in my seat, trapped in darkness. “Stupid bugs drained my power!”

“Välo,” I whispered.

A dim light flared inside the cockpit. The Ithari pulsed faintly in my chest.

Unhooking my harness, I stood in my chair and ripped open the control panel. Wires spilled out like a nest of snakes.

“But I’m not done yet,” I growled.

“Mäjäkä!”

The light from the Ithari shifted—narrowing, focusing, like a spotlight that followed my gaze.

The cockpit glowed white wherever I looked.

I couldn’t help it…I laughed. “This is so cool!” I yelled.

Then I cracked my knuckles. “Now for the hard part.”

High above the chaos, in one of the exclusive sky balconies lined with gold filigree and platters of food fit for royalty, Höbin Luckyfeller was pacing like a caged beast. His boots clicked against the marble floor, each turn sharper than the last.

“You’re going to wear out the carpet,” Morty muttered, his voice tight with nerves.

Deloris jabbed him in the shoulder. “Oh, let him pace.”

“What?” Morty snapped. “He’s making me nervous!”

Höbin didn’t answer. His single good eye never left the glowing arena below.

“Why couldn’t they have wired the com-links up here?” he demanded, gripping the railing. “I need to hear her!”

Chuck, sitting comfortably in his tuxedo and top hat, spun his dragon-headed cane lazily. “Sit down, Höbin. Even if you could talk to her, it would only distract her. You can’t help from up here, anyway. This is Trench Wars. She knew what she was getting into.”

The historian’s head snapped toward him, glare sharp enough to make the wizard flinch.

“I’m just saying…” Chuck mumbled, raising his hands in surrender.

“She’s the best fighter in the games,” Deloris said softly, trying to calm the storm. “And look—she’s still holding her ground.”

Far below, the crowd screamed as Banshee…Alhannah…lifted her still-glowing blade. The white heat had dimmed to an angry red, but it sliced through Armored Ensemble’s shield like butter.

The first hit had shattered her opponent’s sword in half, forcing the knight to rely solely on its shield. The fight had turned into a desperate dance—Ensemble circling, staying just out of Turnpike’s crippled reach while Banshee guarded Hook’s fallen scythe.

But Alhannah was fading.

Her movements were slower now; the once-fluid grace of her piloting replaced by trembling control. Every breath through the monitors came with a cough that shook her entire frame.

“It’s you and me, you puke,” she wheezed into the comm. “Let’s finish this.”

“Fre—,” a voice crackled faintly through her speaker.

She froze on my monitor. For a moment, she looked like she was hallucinating from exhaustion.

Then again, clearer this time—

“Freak… come in.”

“Wendell?” she gasped, barely holding herself upright. “You guys hearing this?”

Banshee slashed again, narrowly missing Ensemble’s arm. “Wendell!?”

Static hissed. Then, faint but steady—

“I’m okay,” I said, yelling at my monitor. “What do the main power… cables…” Everything around me kept blinking in and out.

“Repeat that, Wendell!” Freak barked, eyes glued to the screen. The control room went silent except for the hum of servers. “Main power what?”

“Cables,” I repeated. “Where are the main power cables!?”

Freak frowned. “Cables? Why would you—”

“Tell him where the cables are!” Alhannah snapped, which instantly sent her into a violent coughing fit. Banshee stumbled back, defenses wide open.

Armored Ensemble seized the opportunity.

The heavy shield slammed into Banshee’s forearms, knocking the sword from her grasp. The weapon clattered across the floor as the knight pressed the assault…each strike slamming into her armor with brutal precision.

“ARGH!” she cried, her cockpit shaking with every hit.

With one final swing, Ensemble tore Banshee’s head clean off and kicked the crippled S.L.A.G. onto its back.

“Alhannah!” Nat shouted. “Red, respond!”

Silence.

I could see everyone’s faces frozen in the cameras.

The TNT crew stared in horror as Ensemble turned, slowly marching toward me. The knight’s steps echoed across the arena floor, heavy and deliberate.

Gnolaum lay motionless.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t fight.

The power drain had paralyzed everything.

For several tense seconds, the massive knight simply stood over me…watching.

The roar of the crowd dulled into a low, expectant rumble.

Ensemble dropped its shield.

The red-hot sword rose high above its head, aimed straight for my chest.

The stadium went silent.

A single blinding flash.

Gnolaum’s own sword shot upward like a piston, stabbing straight through Ensemble’s abdomen.

Electricity exploded outward in a spiderweb of lightning.

The current fused both machines together, sparks raining across the arena. The knight convulsed violently, its glowing sword falling from its hand before the great metal body collapsed in a smoking heap.

The buzzer sounded.

Game over.

Dusty’s voice cracked with excitement. “I have to say, Pip—this has been the greatest Trench Wars match I have ever seen! Who could’ve guessed such an incredible comeback by Steel and Stone!?”

Pip slapped the desk and laughed. “Couldn’t agree more, Dusty! And I couldn’t be happier!” He pulled a ticket from his pocket and waved it at the camera. “Looks like I’ll be having an extra drink tonight…on Father Noah’s tab! And it says here the Brothers Trench planned a special surprise for the winning team!”

Dusty grinned, leaning toward the camera. “What could that possibly be, Pip?”

“Why, a pyrotechnic salute, of course!”

A low, distant rumble shook the air…like thunder trapped beneath the earth.

Overhead, the crystal dome began to retract.

The crowd went wild.

“What in TGII’s name is going on?” Morty choked out, his voice trembling. He squeezed Deloris’s hand so tightly his knuckles turned white, and behind him, Lili clung to the back of his chair. The whole balcony shook underfoot. “Feels like a quake!”

Chuck’s gaze snapped upward toward the ceiling as the massive dome above began to peel open, revealing the night sky. The color drained from his face. “No, no, no, no, no!”

His tuxedo shimmered, unraveling into his old gray robe. The top hat on his head stretched, sharpening into a familiar point. Before anyone could react, he lunged across the room and grabbed Höbin by the front of his coat.

“Get down there and get them out!” he barked, shaking the historian so hard his monocle popped loose. “Use your port key—take them straight to the Black Market!”

“What’s the mat—” Höbin began, but the wizard’s grip only tightened.

Chuck’s face was grave now, eyes wet. “They’ll kill her if they catch her,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do whatever you have to do. Don’t stop for anything.”

That was all Höbin needed. He bolted for the door, shoving servants out of the way as he vanished into the hallway.

Morty’s face turned pale, his voice thin. “W–what’s going on, Chuck? Please tell me why you’re so nervous?”

Below them, the arena looked like a dream—crowds cheering, confetti falling, the heroes victorious. Wendell had won. Everything should have been fine.

The wizard turned toward the door, his voice low and urgent. “Deloris, get everyone out.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.”

She ushered the startled servers toward the exit, forcing smiles and thanks as she slammed the door behind them and locked it. The room went silent.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” she said gently, inhaling slow and deep as a visual cue. “Just take deep… steady breaths.”

Lili didn’t move. She’d backed herself into a corner, trembling. Her copper skin had gone ashen under the flickering lights. She slid down the wall and pulled the train of her dress around her knees, trying to disappear into it.

Chuck shoved his arm into his hat up to the shoulder. Glass clinked. Something metallic crashed. “Mahan’s Pink Panties, where are they!?” he grunted.

Morty stared, panic and confusion twisting in his eyes.

Then Chuck’s hand emerged triumphantly, clutching a massive keychain—hundreds of mismatched keys jangling wildly. “Got it!” he declared.

Morty stepped forward, grabbed the wizard’s beard in both fists, and yanked.

“CHUCK!”

The wizard wheezed, eyes watering, his nose turning crimson. He looked like he might faint from the sudden shock. Morty stood there shaking, one fist clenched at his side, the other buried in the wizard’s beard.

But instead of anger, the emotion on his face shifted—melting into fear.

“Please, Chuck,” he stammered. “W–what’s going to happen to us?”

The room fell utterly still. The hum of the air system was the only sound, carrying the faint scent of roses from a bowl of pot-pourri on the counter.

Old, steady hands reached up and gently pried Morty’s fingers from the beard. Chuck took the gnome’s trembling hands in his own.

“Morty Thadius Teedlebaum,” he said quietly, his tone softer than a whisper, “I’ve dragged you into a great many messes over the years. But tell me, my friend…when have I ever broken my word to you?”

Morty blinked through his fear.

He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

“Not once.”

The wizard’s wrinkled lips curled into a familiar, grandfatherly smile. The one that somehow made you believe the world wasn’t ending, even when it was.

“No harm will come to you or your young sweetheart,” Chuck said, voice full of gentle conviction. “I promise.”

Morty exhaled in relief.

From the couch, Deloris chuckled softly, squeezing Lili’s shoulders as she guided the girl to a softer seat. “He called me young.”

Chuck crossed to the door, pressing his ear against the cool metal. Tap-tap-tap… tap-tap-tap. His frown deepened.

“I don’t understand,” Morty said, still trembling. “Why did Höbin run out like that?”

Tap-tap-tap… tap-tap-tap.

Chuck moved to the small bathroom door and shut it. Tap-tap-ting!

He smiled faintly, kissed the wood, and murmured, “That’s a girl.” Then he started flipping through the keys one by one.

“Chuck,” Morty pressed, “what’s going to happen to Alhannah, Dax, and Wendell?”

“Höbin’s on his way to get them,” Chuck said without looking up.

“And if he’s too late?”

The keys stilled in his hand. “…I don’t know.”

Deloris scowled. “You’re not just going to leave them, are you?”

“Oh, blast it all!” Chuck bellowed suddenly, nearly knocking his hat off. “I’m so stupid!”

He spun the keyring on his finger and tossed it into the air. The jingling mass vanished into his sleeve with a soft whoosh. Then he reached under his robe and pulled out a thin silver chain around his neck. Hanging from it was a tiny golden key.

“Ah, there you are,” he murmured. He slid it into the lock and turned.

Click.

“Bingo.”

The door swung open, flooding the room with warm light. With a snap of his fingers, his staff appeared in his hand, humming faintly.

He extended his other hand out to Lili. “Apologies, my dear, but you’ll have to watch your step inside. It’s been… ages since I’ve cleaned up. Wouldn’t want anyone tripping over the clutter.”

Outside, thunder rolled.

The fireworks began…huge rockets bursting upward from the arena’s base, dozens at a time. Red, blue, and gold flames split the sky, each explosion shaking the walls.

Chuck’s head bobbed. “Time to go.”

Morty tugged at his robe, still confused. “Why won’t you tell us what’s got you so worked up?”

The wizard managed a weak smile. “Because I just remembered what’s been bothering me for weeks.” His eyes reflected the fireworks outside, flashes of color dancing in the pupils. “I was wrong.”

Deloris stood up slowly. “Wrong about what?”

Chuck grimaced sheepishly. “About being a genius at making charms.” He shrugged. “Truth is, I just bought a lot of them over the years. Bit of an addiction, really. Used to get them from old man Lampkowski—funny fellow. Ran that little shop down on—”

“Chuck!” Morty snapped.

“Oh, fine!” The wizard huffed, then lowered his voice. “I just remembered the counter-charm.”

The fireworks thundered overhead, bathing the arena in flashes of red and gold as the ground beneath our feet began to shift. The floor panels folded away with mechanical precision, revealing a rising podium at the center of the arena.

On either side of it, two stairways emerged.

…gnome-sized stairways.

“I guess this means we’re walking,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck.

“Yeah,” Alhannah coughed through the comms, her voice thin but steady. “They like to do the ceremony while the fans are still screaming their lungs out.”

“Can I get some help over here?” Dax groaned. “My door’s busted.”

Banshee’s cockpit popped free with a metallic clang. “Don’t look at me,” Alhannah wheezed.

I frowned. “Are you alright?”

There was silence…then a wet, hacking cough. “I’ll be fine, Wendell. Just get Uncle Dax and meet me at the stairs. Let’s make this moment count.” She paused, her tone softening. “You remember your speech?”

I forced a small grin. “All too well.”

Gnolaum crouched beside the ruined Turnpike and tore the dented hatch free with a screech of metal. I parked the S.L.A.G. at Turnpike’s feet and climbed out, the air thick with the smell of burning oil and ozone.

Dax was crawling out of what was left of his cockpit, dragging a half-crushed med kit behind him. His face was a mess of blood and soot…a deep gash split his forehead from temple to brow. He collapsed against Turnpike’s massive arm, letting his good arm hang limp over the edge.

“Oh boy,” I breathed, crouching beside him. “You look like you went ten rounds with a freight train.”

He chuckled, wincing. “Sure is different, standing down here in the flesh. Lot o’ gnomes out there.”

I tore open the med kit, pressing a sterile patch over the wound. “Put pressure on this.”

He hissed through his teeth as I wrapped his head in fresh gauze.

“You know,” I said, tying the knot tight, “most of these guys aren’t even gonna get out of their S.L.A.G.s without a rescue crew cutting them loose.”

We both turned to look.

The wreckage of Team Trinity’s machines was scattered across the floor…a metallic graveyard under the floodlights.

“Eh,” Dax smirked, “let ‘em sit in time out for a while.”

We both laughed.

It was a tired, raw laughter that felt more like survival than humor, but it felt good.

We’d won. Clean and fair.

No one could question it.

We walked toward the stairs.

Alhannah was already there, bracing herself against the railing. Her body trembled with each coughing fit, shoulders jerking forward violently. A slick puddle of crimson pooled at her feet.

“Hannah!” Dax shouted, limping the last few steps to her side. He caught her before she could collapse, wrapping his good arm around her waist.

“I’m… alright,” she rasped, fighting for breath.

She wasn’t. Not even close.

The dark rings under her eyes had deepened into bruises. Her skin looked almost translucent, thin purple veins writhing beneath the surface like cracks in glass. Her once-clear eyes were now cloudy, threaded with red. Blood streamed from her nose and mouth, streaking her chin.

My stomach dropped.

She gave me a faint, crooked smile. “You did it, kiddo. Let’s go claim the prize.” Her lungs crackled as she exhaled.

“No,” I said firmly, stepping forward. “We need to get you to Chuck. To your dad. You can’t—”

Her frail hand shot out, grabbing my sleeve with surprising strength. “You’ll never get another chance like this,” she whispered, her voice trembling but fierce. Her eyes locked onto mine. “Gnolaum.”

I swallowed hard.

“You’re about to address the entire gnome population,” she said, a weak grin breaking through. “So don’t blow it.”

Her hand slipped from my arm and found Dax’s sling. “Help me up there.”

He looked at me…sympathy, pride, and sorrow all tangled together…then tightened his grip on her waist and began the climb.

“AND HERE THEY ARE, LADIES AND GENTLEGNOMES!”

The roar of the crowd was deafening as the three of us stepped onto the podium.

The massive overhead screens zoomed in as Dusty Beckworth and Pip Flocker rose from the platform’s center. Dusty waved theatrically to the screaming audience while Pip stepped forward, microphone in hand, his grin wide enough to split his face.

“Though the win goes to you all as a team match,” Pip said, his voice booming through the speakers, “who do you think should really be crowned Grand Champion of season four?”

He shoved the mic toward Dax and Alhannah.

With a trembling hand streaked in blood, Alhannah gripped the microphone over his. Pip froze, his grin faltering as her blood smeared across the metal.

“As a previous champion of these incredible games,” she said hoarsely, “I have never seen the skill that Wendell Dipmier displayed in the Gnolaum.”

Her voice wavered, but the conviction in it silenced the crowd.

“There’s no question in my mind,” she finished, turning toward me with that same battered, fearless smile, “who the real winner is this season.”

She pushed the mic into Dax’s face.

Lightning tore across the sky, splitting the clouds in jagged streaks of white as thunder bellowed through the arena.

Then the rain came.

Cold at first…a shock to the system…but refreshing after the heat of the fight.

Dax’s voice cracked through the storm. “Alhannah is right.”

The elf glanced at me, his expression solemn but proud. “Gnolaum was the heart and strength of this team,” he said into the mic, voice echoing over the roar of the storm, “and the true hero of this city.”

Then, one of those rare moments occurred. Dax smiled. Not that usual half-mad, cocky grin, but something warm. Genuine.

“Wendell Dipmier,” he declared, raising his voice again over the thunder, “is the People’s Champion.”

The crowd erupted.

A tidal wave of sound hit me: screams, cheers, the rhythmic chant of my name rolling with its own thunder through the stands. Tens of thousands of gnomes waving signs and flags filled the screens above, the energy so strong it made the ground tremble.

Pip stumbled back a step, face pale, and yanked a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He tried to discreetly wipe the blood off his hands while Dusty slid in beside me with his trademark news-anchor grin.

Perfect, fake, and blinding.

“I couldn’t agree more!” he beamed. “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for! Not only is he sixty million credits richer, but let’s hear from the leader of Steel and Stone himself…Wendell Dipmier!”

This was it.

The moment I’d been fighting for.

The one that haunted my dreams through sleepless nights, through bruises, fear, and the unending whisper of You’re not good enough.

And yet, somehow…I’d made it.

I stepped forward into the downpour; the rain washing the grime and blood from my skin. The first raindrops tickled my nose, light and playful. I almost laughed. I took the mic, shook Dusty’s hand, and lifted my face to the sky.

The cold rain hit my cheeks, running down my neck and into my collar. It was glorious.

Cooling.

Cleansing.

For the first time in a long time, I felt free.

You did it, Wendell.

You actually did something right.

The burning in my skin faded; the exhaustion in my muscles melted away. Warmth spread through my body…gentle, soothing. By the time it reached my shoulders, I felt weightless, like every worry had been rinsed away.

With a grin tugging at my lips, I lifted the mic.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to say to the amazing gnomes of this city,” I began, “ever since the moment I entered these games—”

“Pssst!” Dax hissed behind me.

The speakers popped.

Pip’s microphone hit the ground, the shriek of feedback slicing through the air.

I flinched, blinking against the rain as the sound cut out.

Both Pip and Dusty were suddenly sprinting away…tripping over each other, shoving past officials, bolting down the stairs like terrified children.

I frowned. “Where the heck are they—?”

Then I realized what was wrong.

The crowd.

Two million gnomes frozen in place.

No cheers.

No chants.

Not even the rustle of movement.

Only the sound of rain.

And thunder.

Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

“WENDELL!”

I turned.

Dax was clutching Alhannah, trying to hold her upright—but his skin…his arm…

My breath caught.

His five fingers were now four-fingered.

His hand was green.

My stomach dropped.

…and I looked down.

The silver chain around my neck, now visible, hung heavy against my chest…its crystal centerpiece cracked and smoking.

The magic shimmered across my body, fading in the natural rain.

No more illusion.

No more disguise.

Dax looked up at me, eyes huge again…those unmistakable, alien eyes.

His mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Awww…fairy farts.”

END of Season 5

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Author’s Note

Thank you for walking this road with me…through every twist, every fall, every triumph, and every moment that left you muttering, “Oh, Wendell…really?”

Your loyalty and enthusiasm mean more to me than you know. This story lives because you show up, care deeply, and keep turning pages.

Rest, breathe, and brace yourself.

Season 6 of Chronicles of a Hero begins Friday, January 2nd, 2025…and if you think things have been wild so far…well, you haven’t seen anything yet.

With gratitude,
…and very Happy Holidays,
Jaime

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