Chapter 3 is complete. As promised, I brought the story's focus back to FE7 in this chapter. But don't think you've seen the last of my MTG plot elements. This is still very much a crossover, albeit a FE-centric one.

I don't own Fire Emblem and I sure as hell don't own "Magic: the Gathering." I wish I owned Magic the Gathering.

Chapter 3: Disaster Strikes

Mark hovered above the hidden village of Arcadia tracking the movement of the azure flare as it grew closer and closer to Elibe. By the Planeswalker's reckoning, the flare was moments away from breaching Elibe's outer atmosphere and would make contact with the surface within the hour.

Mark had spent the past three days tinkering with a simple but effective shielding spell. As a planeswalker, it was within Mark's power to cast such a spell on a global scale. Unfortunately inexperience prevented Mark from using his powers to their full potential. As it was, Mark could barely maintain his magical hold over a single village.

Mark's original plan had been to erect a barrier over one of the Lycian city-states, but those wards had been too unstable. Realizing that he could only spread his newly awakened powers so far, Mark had instead cast his protective spell over the Village of Dragons. It was probably for the best. If there was one settlement on Elibe that deserved to survive the coming disaster it was Arcadia. This was the one place where humans and dragons could still live in peace.

Perhaps it would not be so bad if the rest of the world is destroyed, and only Arcadia remains to herald a new age. The world could be remade in the image of this desert paradise. It would be a return to the days before the accursed scouring.

Mark immediately dispelled such nihilistic thoughts. It was a dangerous line of thinking; one that the Planeswalker did not which to pursue. Mark was defending Arcadia because it was within in his power to do so, not because he had some maniacal desire to remake the world.

No matter how powerful I become I will never stoop that low. I will protect mortals. I will not use them to pursue my own selfish goals. I will not become another Nergal. As I ascend, I will not forget the value of life.

The flare had broken through the clouds and was getting dangerously close to the surface. Mark made a few last minute adjustments to make sure his barrier would hold. Reaching out to the distant plains of Sacae, the Planeswalker drew white-mana from the land. Of all the skills Mark had acquired since his encounter with the fire dragons, the ability to use mana was the one he understood the least. Mana was the oldest and most perfect form of magic…a natural means of casting spells that predated the invention of tomes and staves by countless millennia. Mark knew that there were five types of mana. There was the green mana which came from forests and the red mana that came from mountains. There was the blue mana that came from islands and the black mana that came from swamps. And then there was the white mana that came from plains. Of the five colors Mark found white mana to be the most effective for casting defensive spells, which is why he now found himself drawing upon the strength of the Sacaen Plains to fortify his barrier.

His final preparations complete, Mark retreated to his perch atop the Library of Arcadia. Here he would have a grand view of the collision that was now only minutes away. As much as he hated to admit it, part of Mark was actually curious to see what would happen when the flare struck. If nothing else, it would be one hell of a show. Within the protective confines of his power-shielded village, Mark hunkered down and prepared for impact.

The impact wasn't quite what Mark had anticipated. He had expected the azure flare to accelerate as it descended and crash into Elibe with great force, but the flare seemed to defy the laws of physics. It actually slowed down as it approached the surface. Even more bizarre was the fact that the rest of the world seemed to be slowing down with it. It was as if time itself was being reduced to a snails pace by the incoming ball of blue mana.

The longer Mark watched the strange spectacle, the more he became convinced that's exactly what was happening. He could sense a temporal disturbance building around the flare; for his enhanced senses and keen mind missed nothing. Frowning, the planeswalker pumped more white-mana into his shield. This was going to be bad…

Elibe seemed to come to a standstill as the flare made contact with the horizon. For one unnaturally long moment, nothing happened. There was no cause. There was no effect. The flow of time had come to a complete stop. The surface glowed pale blue under the strain of pent up temporal energy. In that one moment Elibe ceased to be a world and instead became a crucible; a sea of infinite potential inundated with the history of two timelines. Then with a sickening jolt, the overloaded world snapped and the order of frozen time gave way to complete and utter chaos. Beyond the planeswalker's barrier history was unmade and remade in the image of a world that never should have been allowed to exist.

Dragons and humans alike cowered in fear beneath the bombardment of extraplanar forces. Mark had advised the citizens of Arcadia to remain cloistered in the underground ruins while the storm spent itself on his shield. Not that the underground ruins were any safer then the village. Mark simply wanted to spare them the trauma inherent in witnessing an event of apocalyptic proportions. However, some of them had been too curious (and many more had just been to damn stubborn) to listen to the planeswalker. Now they stared in wide-eyed horror as the world that had sustained their people for countless generations collapsed into a twisted mockery of its former self.

Mark's frown grew more severe. The terrified Arcadians were still blissfully unaware of the full extent of the disaster. They saw only what was happening to their native Nabata. Mark looked past the corruption of the desert and sent his conscious mind to other lands to inspect the damage.

The verdant plains of Sacae had given way to a barren wasteland. Where once there had been endless seas of grass and gentle streams, now there were only baked ravines and scorched sands. It seemed more like the Nabata Peninsula then the proud home of the nomads.

Nabata itself was even worse. Elibe's natural desert had given way to blighted grounds and unnatural monsters. These creatures could not have possibly been created by the benevolent saint. They were grotesque amalgams of machine and flesh. Their hearts pumped vile blood and glistening oil. Their bodies were supported by skeletons constructed of interwoven bone tissue and steel filaments. Their skin, if it could even be called skin, was a bulky suit of reptilian scale and metal armor plating. Their muscles consisted of live wires entwined with organic protein fibers. Demonic horns adorned their metal skulls. Grafting-plates covered their expressionless faces. Next to their hulking bodies and thick skulls, their limbs seemed disproportionately long and slender. Most shocking of all, these creatures had no hands. In place of the dexterous human appendage these monsters sported various killing instruments—mechanical scissors, harpoon guns, barrel cannons, chainsaws, power drills, venomous stingers, metal talons, etc.—grafted directly on to their lower arms.

Phyrexians.

It was a name Mark had never heard, but instantly recognized at the sight of the metal invaders. Every planeswalker since Dyfed had ascended with an inborn fear and hatred of these foul creatures. They would have to be dealt with before their presence on Elibe expanded.

Temporarily blocking out thoughts of the Phyrexian menace, Mark once again turned his focus to the task at hand: scrying for signs of permanent damage in the nations beyond Nabata. The planeswalker turned his attention towards Ilia and ran a quick scan of Elibe's northernmost territory. Much to his dismay, Mark found the home of the fabled Pegasus knights in a state of sorry disrepair. For one thing, there were no longer any Pegasus knights. Apparently, the noble Pegasus had gone extinct 300 years ago in this alternate-reality Elibe. Deprived of the very foundation of its economy, Ilia had quickly succumbed to anarchy and destitution. The queen of Ilia had been assassinated shortly after the last of the pegasi died off. Since then, Ilia had gone from a nation of poor mercenaries to a country of thugs, cutthroats, and prostitutes.

To the south, Etruria was in a state of political upheaval. A mighty warlord from the Western Isles had overthrown the ruling houses of Etruria and declared himself god and divine emperor of the state. His first order as divine emperor had banned the teachings of St. Elimine and authorized a grand inquisition throughout his imperial domain. Spreading the Saints teachings was now an offense punishable by death. Every day agents of the inquisition executed dozens of monks for failing to comply with the order and paraded their desecrated corpses through the streets of Etruria like grim trophies. Armed rebellions frequently erupted in villages still loyal to Etruria's exiled government. The new emperor, brutal and efficient as he was, was nevertheless hard-pressed to silence the masses. The end result was a perpetual state of civil war and genocide in Elibe's former capital of learning and enlightenment.

Worst of all was Lycia. The confederation of city-states had been ravaged by three centuries of plague and famine. The citizens of Lycia lived in the most sordid conditions imaginable—refugee camps, leper colonies, abandoned cellars, back-alley taverns, etc.— while the opulent nobles of the ruling houses consumed what little remained of the broken nation's resources to feed their extravagant lifestyle. If they had been able to afford armor and weapons, surely the people of Lycia would have risen up in collective outrage and punished their neglectful patrons. As it was, the citizenry could barely afford the food and medicine they needed to survive in this age of pestilence. Everyday, more corpses were thrown into the mass graves. Proper burial was a luxury no longer afforded to the Lycian people. The dead had to be burned immediately after the wake; every corpse was a potential carrier for the dreaded plague. Besides, why waste perfectly good farmland on funeral plots? Food was all too scarce these days.

Bern had long ago contracted whatever contagion was plaguing Lycia. The only thing that prevented Bern from collapsing as completely and pitifully as its neighbor to the west was the mighty wyvern. When all else failed, a citizen of Bern could still count on strength of arms and mastery of wyverns to earn a comfortable living as a mercenary.

Mark sighed. By most definitions of the word, the world was now officially fucked.

However, all was not lost. A single beacon of hope remained, its light restored from the flames of the Dread Isle and scattered across the continent by the rising tides of chaos.

Mark had found them while he was scrying. The soldiers of Eliwood's Elite soldiers were alive and well.

For the first time in many days, Mark smiled. His greatest blunder had been undone. Whatever else was wrong with the world, He could fix it. This time he would not make the same careless mistakes that had led Eliwood's Elite to its doom. He would assemble a mighty coalition, humans and dragons alike. He would restore Elibe to its former glory, one nation at a time.

Heh heh, you didn't honestly think I was going to kill of everyone except Mark in the first chapter did you? That's right my friends: Eliwood's Elite is back in business! And yes, they will be shedding Phyrexian blood. Eventually…