FDR raised his hands. The air inside the Convention's boundary grew thick with absolute authority. "Forgotten Scripts, and Forgotten Tongues," he commanded. The words carried a heavy, resonating weight that vibrated right through the floorboards of reality. "Grand Conjuration... Phantoms of the Industry."
Lynder grabbed the sides of his own head. His eyes widened to a manic degree as his mind violently rejected the magic taking shape in front of him. "He is using both? You cannot use both!" The ancient elf practically vibrated with academic outrage. "It defies every fundamental law of arcane structure. Utilizing both systems simultaneously equates to being wet and dry at the exact same moment. The paradox alone should be tearing his physical form into ribbons!"
FDR completely ignored the elf's existential breakdown as his raw mana and golden light tore into the dirt beyond the boundary, coercing spectral iron and phantom chrome into existence. The ground screamed as the fundamental laws of physics were overwritten by industrial will.
"This disorganized horde does not warrant the full deployment of my assets," FDR announced.
He manifested echelons of half-scale armored tanks, heavy half-tracks, and utility trucks. The WWII-era machines rolled forward on grinding treads, composed entirely of solid phantom light and the terrifying, relentless logic of wartime production.
The leading armored half-scale tanks slammed headlong against an approaching mass of hybrid monsters. Phantom iron forged an industrial blockade that pressed brutal biology firmly down flat into wet turf. Driven by the singular logic of grand victory, the spectral treads ground forward at a relentless pace, turning the dense killing arena into vast pools of organic sludge.
Trailing the core ranks, support half-tracks maintained a tight pace, unleashing disciplined drum-snare fire that mimicked a grand victory processional across the muddy terrain. Enormous clusters of monsters were scorched as brilliant bursts of dark violet light repeatedly fractured the horizon.
A monstrous general, posturing loudly near the main ranks, was struck directly by a tank shell. The impact collapsed his massive chest cavity, dissipating his gargantuan presence into the scattering light rain.
The dust settled over a field of rapidly dissolving bodies. Nothing remained of the vast army except a single elite general standing near the center of the devastation. The creature stood tall, wearing heavy, ornate plating, and crossed its arms to posture.
"You have trespassed on sovereign ground," the general declared. The voice boomed across the flattened grass, perfectly enunciated and clear.
Lynder dropped his hands from his head and stared. His jaw hung slack. "He is speaking High Tongue. A dungeon monster is utilizing the civilized language of the surface."
Roy tilted his head, genuinely confused by the outrage. "What is High Tongue?"
Lynder snapped his attention back to Roy, looking deeply offended. "It is the language you are speaking right now, Captain. How can you not know the name of the tongue sitting in your own mouth?"
Roy paused. He looked around the group, considering the implication, and then decided to test his newly formed theory. "Hola. Bonjour. Konnichiwa. Ciao."
Lynder scowled, his irritation returning. "Why are you just repeating the word hello?"
A massive grin broke across Roy's face. He spun toward Takara and gestured wildly at the open air. "Takara! Are you hearing this? We are being auto-translated!"
Takara crossed her arms and gave him a completely deadpan look. "Yes, Roy. Evarran figured that out ages ago."
Roy deflated instantly. His arms dropped to his sides. "You could have just played along," he muttered to himself. "Let me have a discovery for once."
Bam.
A solid weight dropped directly onto Roy's shoulders, forcing a sharp grunt out of his chest. Orden wrapped his small arms around Roy's neck, giggling with genuine delight.
"Cheer up, Roy!" Orden cheered, resting his chin heavily on top of Roy's head.
Roy reached up, grabbing the kid's legs to steady him. "I would probably be able to cheer up if cosmic entities stopped dropping a dozen feet out of the sky onto my spine. My discs are fighting for their lives down here."
Out on the field, a surviving general threw his arms wide. He launched into a boisterous, theatrical challenge. "I promise there will be endless torment and a brutal death to the interlopers who dared disrupt the great nation of the—"
Eryndra vanished and the air popped where she had been standing. She reappeared directly behind the general before his next syllable formed and drove a bare fist into the base of his skull with enough raw kinetic force to fold his body entirely in half. The general crumpled to the dirt in a heap of shattered armor and broken bone, unconscious before he even realized the speech was over.
Roy took a moment to consider the situation while shifting Orden's weight on his shoulders. "Don't finish him off... just drag him inside," he directed.
"I am not touching that thing again, the stench is unbearable," Eryndra remarked, backing away from the limp form.
Lutrian and Warrex moved carefully beyond the radiant perimeter to retrieve the captive. Each took an arm, pulling the massive, unresponsive body into the Convention of the Patriots. As they crossed into the domain, the territory's sovereign weight bore down on the general. His remaining mana was instantly stifled, snuffed out by the overarching legalities of the Presidroid zone.
Approaching the prisoner, JFK raised a hand, flicking a shimmering thread of forgotten script onto the creature's brow. "I believe a supplementary injunction is in order to keep him in recess," JFK remarked with nonchalance as the seal merged with the general's flesh, securing his restraint.
With the area secured and the danger gone, the mood within the Convention changed. The thick tension dissipated, replaced by an unusual stillness in the heart of the underground battleground. Roy finally took the time to look around properly. He tipped his head back, taking in the towering pillars inscribed with dense legal text, the floating scrolls turning lazily in the ambient magic, and the glowing asphalt roads cutting clean lines through the domain.
"This is so cool!" Roy said, a genuine note of awe creeping into his voice. "I am walking through an entire government building made of magic!"
Lutrian dusted off his hands after dropping the general. He stood a little taller, looking around with a satisfied expression, almost as if he finally felt useful.
Truman strolled up beside FDR, kicking a loose pebble across the paved ground. "A tank rush. Efficient, sure, but exceptionally boring. You didn't even bring out the big boys. You starved them of a proper light show."
FDR smoothed the front of his jacket, maintaining his perfect posture. "As the Captain says, 'spectacle serves a purpose when dealing with peers'".
As he approached the two Presidroids, Roy tilted his head in confusion."I have quite literally never said that," he whispered to himself.
"That horde was merely a logistical hurdle. Wasteful expenditure is bad governance, Truman," FDR finished.
"I'll remember that next time you want to try to level a mountain," Truman shot back.
Tranquility's voice manifested in Roy's comm. "Captain, I am logging the recent expenditure. The simultaneous use of dual forgotten magic systems by FDR resulted in a notable, though currently manageable, draw on your reserves. You remain at optimal fighting capacity. I am simply updating the ledger."
Roy tapped his earpiece. "Thanks for the warning, Tranquility."
He looked out at the empty field beyond the Convention's borders, then down at the unconscious general bound on the floor. They had a captive, a quiet room, and a massive dungeon floor waiting to be broken open.