Liberi Reader

The calls for vengeance swell like waves, as thugs rush forward like the tide...

Zima takes a deep breath as the tide approaches, following in hot pursuit of Rosalind's group.

Dur-nar puts up only symbolic resistance before turning and running away. Behind them, the thugs pursue like hungry manglerbeasts, squeezing into the narrow alley barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other.

They do not notice the viscous liquid beneath their feet, nor the unnaturally shut windows above their heads.

At the end of the alley, Dur-nar suddenly stops her fleeing steps.

She does not look back, only turning sideways and knocking her shield on the ground with a 'thump'.

The windows open at the same time, dropping burning torches and explosives onto the thugs with impressive precision.

Flames climb their flimsy clothing, and the alley is suddenly filled with screams of terror.

Countless figures emerge from the shadows, from underneath the shattered windows, from behind the overflowing trash cans.

Wielding pipes, spanners, and assorted weapons confiscated from Gromov's stash, they charge at their former oppressors with a roar.

Some wear school uniforms of various degrees of refinement, others wear old cotton coats, but all are wearing the same 'uniform' now.

On all their chests, painted in oil pigment, is a prominent symbol—a clenched fist, once raised simply to survive, now tightened to break its chains.

Angry fists meet the thugs attempting to flee the siege in the alley.

One by one, the erstwhile jailers fall to the angry prisoners they have berated and persecuted.

Zima walks over the weapons on the ground to the head of the formation, gazing at the fleeing backs of their foes.

Zima walks towards her with a smile that permits no question or doubt. She extends her fist.

After a moment of hesitation, Leto nods and lifts her right hand, knocking it firmly against the offered fist.

A group appeared ahead.

It is as though they just crawled out from underground; few in number, they nevertheless charge at the thugs on the right flank without hesitation, and soon their greasy clothes are stained with blood.

The swing of the massive hamaxe shatters the ground, sending burning grease and debris flying with the shockwave, and brutally ejecting the air itself from the area.

Denied oxygen, the flames are stemmed for a moment, before being quenched by the stirring dust.

She steps forward and puts her boot on the ash where flames had burned a moment ago.

One strike, two strikes... sparks fall upon her hair and shoulders, as she continues to slam the burning earth, as though trying to forge a path where none existed.

People start to gather behind her, following her to the end of this flame-forged path—

The statue of Igor Velikiy stands next to the gate of the quarantine zone, gazing down at the last corner of Grypherburg, and at the bearer of the hamaxe.

The young leader walks toward the thousand-year-old giant, whose stony head wears a golden crown of sunlight, the emperor admiring the centuries of creation and suffering that he began.

She clutches her hamaxe. Every breath she takes seems to be the roaring furnace...

She raises her arm, for the voices trapped in her throat, and a gushing crack appears in the marble pedestal.

She brings the hamaxe down again, for those dreams frozen in the winter night. Cobweb-like cracks spread through the empire's foundation, and the illusion of grandeur begins to wail.

He peers up at the statue, once awe-inspiring, now trembling and teetering, his heart trembling along with the sound of every hit.

He cannot help but put his hand on the statue too. He hears the cries of young people all around him, feels the warmth of their shoulders rubbing against his.

Igor's pieces come thundering down on his head as he mutters his last words.

The dust has yet to settle. A bright ray of light shines in.

The cold winter wind blows past, freezing the mud on her young face.

Antosha charges forward, an Originium bomb in his arms. A bolt whistles past, and his left leg buckles, causing him to fall in the mud.

Footsteps approach like the beating of drums. Before he can react, a firm hand has snatched the Originium bomb from him.

Fyodor can see the red velvet in the black car parked a short distance away, even seems to smell the familiar aroma.

He pauses, then keeps walking.