"Cough! Cough, cough! Cough, cough, cough—!"
Eidolon struggled violently out of a heap of scorching rubble mixed with broken stone, molten metal residue, and thick radioactive dust, hauling his upper body free as he broke into a fit of choking coughs.
He felt a roar still reverberating in his eardrums. It was not sound, but the sharp phantom ringing left in his nerve endings after the high-energy plasma strike.
For the first few seconds, his vision was a blur of wavering, distorted spots of light and lingering white afterimages that seared his retinas.
His purple-and-gold Power Armour was covered in fresh scratches and scorch marks. Its joints grated unevenly, while the internal cooling system worked desperately with a shrill hiss, trying to disperse the residual heat on the armour's surface—enough to roast a Mortals alive.
Every breath carried the pungent smells of Ozone, molten rock, and the strange charred stench of something utterly vaporized, scorching his throat.
He shook his still-ringing head and blinked hard. Sweat, dust, and some sticky black ash plastered his hair to his forehead. His flawless face was now smeared with grime. Only his violet eyes quickly regained their sharpness after that initial confusion, but the fire burning in them was not pure joy. It was a tangled mixture of relief at surviving and intense fury.
"Loken, that madman... those war dogs in the Luna Wolves have nothing in their heads but explosions and charges..." Eidolon cursed under his breath through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse.
He fought his way upright through the rubble still trickling down around him and surveyed his surroundings.
The high ground—or what had once been the high ground—had been transformed completely.
The sturdy defensive line, the rocky shelters they had held for hours at the cost of blood, had either vanished