Roaring, racing—the terrifying exhilaration of that speed reminded Sevatar of a pastime once enjoyed by Nostramo's powerful. The sick ones among them would tie living people to vehicles, strip away every safety measure, push the engines to maximum output, and send those people hurtling down a long, straight road.
The pastime had been carried out in secret on Nostramo for three hundred and twenty years.
Konrad Curze later killed everyone involved because of it. Fourteen hundred people in total. No more, no less. Just right.
Sevatar snickered, twisted his right hand, and accelerated again. He was hurrying toward another weak point in the Black Tower's field—because the Black Tower could now be used for teleportation, he could move rapidly between planets as well. In just half an hour, he had already crossed four worlds. If he had to find a reasonable description for his actions, he would call himself a firefighter.
He had read about it in an ancient Terran text. The article described it as a noble profession, one only brave, fearless, and quick-witted people could hold. They had existed in Terra's ancient past, charged specifically with beating fires into submission with fists full of justice and truth whenever wizards who used sorcery to summon flames and harm civilians appeared, making those fires disappear.
It sounded interesting, but also very overblown—still, Sevatar liked that exact right amount of overblown.
Besides, he did think he was brave, fearless, and quick-witted.
All right, enough blowing your own horn. He thought. Time to do the real work.
Sevatar whistled to himself in good spirits as the Combat Bike screamed across the wilderness far from the city, kicking up a spray of dust and dirt. On other worlds, this was hard to imagine. Every piece of usable land would have been transformed. Only