Albert yawned. Setting his sword down for a moment, he pulled off his helmet and rubbed his eyes. God, sentry duty was boring. If only there was a bit of excitement.

"Hey, Albert, anything new?"

"Nope. Quiet as a grave."

"Damn." Peter walked up next to him, holding his lance over his shoulder. "Why'd the Princess even have us out here anyway? Seems like such a waste."

"Hey, don't question her. Or do you want Elivagar to the face?"

"Touche." Squinting out into the darkness, Peter closed his eyes for a split second, then turned towards Albert. "Hey, do you hear something?"

"What? No—"

A blue bolt of lightning struck downwards out of the cloudless sky. The sudden light cast Albert's vision into a blank white field, sending him groping blindly for his sword. As his sight returned, he realized that Peter was simply… gone, not even his armor remaining. He'd disappeared without a word.

"Wha—wha—"

Before he could get his tongue under control, a whinny had him spinning around. There, towering behind him, was a horse. Its rider sat astride it, cloak billowing in the sudden wind, a tome open in one hand and crackling with blue energy. Albert's eyes widened as he realized who he faced, but before he could reach his sword the rider thrust his hand forward. Albert heard the figure shout something, but before he could begin to understand a lightning bolt unceremoniously erased him from existence.

"To arms!"

Silva ran up the stairs, buckling on his armor as he went. The alarm had been sounded only a few moments before, but the fort was already buzzing with activity. An Askran attack, now of all times?

"Who is it?" yelled another soldier as he ran past.

"No idea! Whoever is it, we'll beat them!" His platoon was assembling just ahead, lances and swords glinting in the lantern light. Silva felt a surge of pride for his comrades. It didn't matter what Heroes the Askrans threw at them, they wouldn't beat the pride of Embla.

"Alright! All you jokers, listen up!" Sergeant Colber growled, pacing back and forth. "Reports indicate that the enemy forces consist of one lightning mage! That's it! Think you can handle that, meatheads?"

"Sir yes sir!"

"Alright then, get in gear! Move out!"

Armor clanking and weapons at the ready, they ran towards the walls where other soldiers were surely already engaging the enemy. Silva felt a surge of annoyance towards the Askrans. Did they really think so little of Embla's soldiers that they would send one puny mage after them? Surely they didn't think the tactical prowess of the High Deliverer or the theatrics of the Potent Force would be enough to defeat an entire fort of enemies?

The point men paused upon reaching the walls, looking around in confusion. "Huh? Where's the guards? Shouldn't there be someone out here?"

"Who cares? Spread out, search for that mage and bring them down!" The soldiers split up into groups of four, cautiously advancing along the walls and down into the fort's courtyard as they looked for the enemy.

Silva poked his lance experimentally at a barrel, then stood up in disgust. "There's no one here, dammit!"

"Yeah, fucking waste of time," another soldier said. "Probably a false alarm."

"When I find the jerkwad who made me get out of bed…" Silva smacked his fist against his palm for emphasis. "Oh, they'll be sorry they were ever—"

A scream was the only warning he got before a squad across the courtyard vanished in a flash of blue. Turning around, mouth half-open to yell, Silva could only watch as bolt after bolt of lightning fell from the clear, dark sky, each one striking down three, four, five, six men at a time. Soldiers ran around in panic, unable to see from where these attacks were coming from, and no matter where they tried to hide they couldn't escape. The lightning smashed through walls, pierced roofs and punched straight through solid stone, frying those who tried to seek shelter inside storehouses or under carts.

"God!" Silva frantically looked about, searching for the assailant whose identity he was suddenly becoming aware of. "I know who it is!"

"Who?!"

"The Fist of Thunder! It's Rein—"

The feared name made it barely halfway past his lips before a final bolt of lightning wiped Silva from existence.

"Sir, we're losing all our men!"

"I know, dammit!" Major Pellen, commander of the fort, slammed his fist against the table, rattling everything upon it. "Withdraw everyone to the citadel, we have to make a stand!"

"Yes sir—"

"Agh!" A soldier standing at the window screamed as a lightning bolt struck him in the chest, turning him into ash even as it flung him across the room. Everyone else yelled in shock, diving for cover and cowering away from the strikes which would surely follow.

"Seal the doors! Nobody gets in here!" Soldiers jumped to obey his orders, barring the doors and piling furniture in front of them. Someone thought to douse the lights, and there they waited in the darkness and sudden, oppressive silence, weapons shaking in their hands.

"M-Major…"

"Stand firm, men! He can't defeat all of us together!" Pellen shouted, voice containing much more bravado than he truly felt. "Stand firm—"

The doors exploded inwards, sending fragments of wood and metal spraying across the room. Soldiers screamed and fell as the shrapnel cut into them, flailing about as they bled from dozens of gashes in their throats and chests. Pellen himself was thrown against the wall, stars swimming in his vision as he slid to the floor, sword falling from his limp grasp.

"Wha…" Painfully, he looked up to see a shape emerge from the dust. A fist, almost comically small, wrapped in crackling lightning. A figure emerged behind it, walking out of the dust, a tome held open before it, expression grim and merciless. "Y-you—"

"Me," said Reinhardt of Friege, Thunder's Fist, Mage General of Friege. "Major Pellen, your time is up." He raised his hand above his head, energy surging through his arm. As Pellen screamed, raising his own arm up in a futile attempt to stave off the blow, he heard the man, no, the demon shout the words that had accompanied the demise of so many of his men.

"Magic is everything!"

A/N: Scientists believe that small hands were favored by natural selection in the evolution of the Reinhardtica buttfuckticus, as individuals with smaller hands could shove their fists further up the asses of their prey, the common F2P, thereby ruining more arena runs and harvesting more salt, enabling them to reproduce and spread fear across the player base.

I don't have Reinhardt.