Gary Lin was running out of margin—mentally more than physically.
The system's mission notification still echoed in the back of his mind like a bad joke taken too far. Hell level. For once, it wasn't exaggerating. The Federation had walked straight into A Baoa Qu without a real answer to the Solar System or the layered fortress-defense network. No contingency. No doctrine. Just confidence carried over from Solomon—and confidence, Gary was learning fast, did not stop mega-structure beam weapons.
He had almost died already.
If not for Amuro's sudden, inexplicable insistence to halt earlier—if not for that strange Newtype intuition—his Strike would have been erased in the first ambush wave. And yet, Gary still didn't fully understand it. He was a Newtype too. Not as sharp as Amuro Ray, not as overwhelming as Samus Aran, but he was one. He could feel the battlefield, anticipate motion, sense danger.
So why did Amuro feel things before they happened?
He shook his head, forcing the thought aside.
"Focus on the battle," the system said flatly, almost impatient.
"For once, we agree," Gary muttered.
There was no going back now. Retreat was a luxury they had already spent. Even if every instinct screamed that this battle was wrong, unfinished, rigged from the start—he still had to fight. Survival first. Understanding later.
Energy refilled. Systems green.
The Strike Gundam launched again.
Almost immediately, Lockon's voice cut across the White Base communication channel.
"Buster firing—confirmed hits. Multiple Zeon units down."
Gary watched the feed as Lockon's beam cannon scythed through a cluster of Zakus and Gelgoogs. They broke apart far more easily than before. Sloppy formations. Hesitation. Panic.
"…These guys are weaker," Lockon continued. "Way weaker than the ambush unit that hit us earlier."
"I see it too," Shirogane Miyuki replied from his flagship. His tone was calm, analytical. "Reaction time is poor. Coordination is inconsistent."
That didn't reassure Gary. It disturbed him.
Because Oreki Houtarou chose that moment to speak.
"Bright," Oreki said, voice level. "You should disperse the Gundam units."
There was a pause.
"Explain," Bright Noa said immediately.
Oreki didn't hesitate. "Assign each Gundam to a different fleet. Let them take over command locally. Minovsky interference is breaking centralized control. Gundams can act as mobile command cores."
Miyuki frowned. "That's a drastic shift."
"And necessary," Oreki replied. "These Zeon pilots—most of them are new. Cadets. Volunteers. The veterans were burned at Solomon."
That landed hard.
Gary clenched his jaw. It matched what he was seeing. Bravery without polish. Numbers without depth. Zeon wasn't holding back because they were confident—they were bleeding.
Bright exhaled slowly.
"…All Gundam units," he ordered, "reassign to nearby fleets. Assume tactical command. Stabilize the lines and push back."
Acknowledgements flooded the channel.
"And Samus," Bright added, turning to another screen, "get eyes on General Tianem's position. We need to know if his fleet is still intact."
"Understood," Samus replied, launching moments later.
Gary glanced through external sensors just in time to see another Federation ship vanish—cut cleanly in half by a distant, invisible beam from the fortress.
The Solar System fired again.
Even now.
"We're fighting rookies," Gary said quietly, more to himself than anyone else, "and still losing ships."
This wasn't just a battle.
It was a lesson Zeon was teaching with blood and light: technology, preparation, and cruelty beat morale every time.
Gary tightened his grip on the controls.
Fine, he thought. If this is hell… then I'll survive it.
And then—after—he would make sure the Federation never walked into something like this unprepared again.
At Tianem flagship.
Tianem understood it the moment the army disarray.
Arrogance.
Not Zeon's—his.
He had assumed Solomon was the breaking point. He had assumed the enemy was finished, exhausted, incapable of innovation under pressure. That assumption had cost him ships, pilots, and time he no longer had.
There was no space to dwell on it.
Minovsky jamming still strangled long-range coordination, fragmenting the fleet into isolated pockets. Orders traveled slowly, if they traveled at all. Tianem clenched his jaw, eyes moving across the tactical display, watching icons vanish under impossible beam trajectories.
Then a new signal appeared.
A mobile suit emerging from White Base's sector—distinct, heavily armored.
"Armored Gundam establishing relay," the comm officer reported. "Signal stabilizing."
Samus Aran's voice cut through moments later, clear and precise.
"Oreki Houtarou advised dispersal. All Gundam pilots have been assigned to nearby fleets to assume local command. Engagement effectiveness improving."
Tianem closed his eyes briefly. Good. At least someone had adapted faster than he had.
Samus continued. "Enemy pilot profile analysis confirms—majority are cadets and volunteers. Veteran Zeon pilots are largely absent from this battle."
That sealed it.
Tianem's expression hardened, not with relief, but with grim clarity.
"They're bait," he said quietly.
The officers around him looked up.
"These pilots are cannon fodder," Tianem continued. "They're here to occupy us. To bleed us. To keep our attention off the real threat."
He turned the display, highlighting the firing vector.
"The satellite laser. The Solar System and A Baoa Qu's defense network."
Understanding spread through the command room like a cold wave. Zeon wasn't trying to win through attrition—they were buying time, forcing the Federation to fight ghosts while the fortress weapon dismantled them at range.
Tianem straightened.
"All units that can hear this transmission," he ordered, voice sharp and absolute, "disengage from local mobile suit engagements where possible. Break through the enemy MS screen."
An officer hesitated. "Sir, that will expose our flanks—"
"Those flanks are expendable," Tianem cut in. "That weapon is not."
He pointed to the target coordinates.
"Primary objective: destroy the satellite laser and associated defense systems. All available firepower is to converge on the Solar System and A Baoa Qu's external emitters."
The order went out—fragmented, delayed, imperfect—but enough ships received it.
Across the battlefield, Federation vessels surged forward, punching through waves of inexperienced Zeon pilots who fought bravely, desperately, and died buying seconds they did not understand the value of.
Tianem watched the fleet move.
"This is our window," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "If we fail here, we lose everything."
On the A Baoa Qu.
Gihren Zabi watched the tactical plot in silence as Tianem's formation finally broke away from the main engagement and surged toward the satellite weapon.
A thin smile crept across his face.
"So slow," he murmured. "Even now, you only react."
He raised a hand, not in anger, but in quiet satisfaction.
"Deploy the Hounds."
The order did not go through the general command net. It went through a narrow, encrypted channel that only a handful of officers even knew existed.
Deep within A Baoa Qu's inner hangars, twenty mobile suits stood ready—motionless, immaculate, and lethal. Gelgoog Jägers, stripped of insignia except for a single Zeon crest, their frames tuned for acceleration and close-range kills. Every pilot inside them was a veteran. Not aces who chased fame. Not heroes. Men and women who had survived long enough to learn one truth.
Obedience was survival.
They were loyal to Gihren alone. Raised, promoted, and protected by him. His hounds.
"Objective," Gihren said coldly. "Intercept the approaching Federation flagship. Priority target: General Tianem. If possible, capture him alive. If not—break his fleet and let the satellite finish the rest."
Acknowledgment lights flashed one by one.
The hangar doors opened.
Twenty Gelgoog Jägers launched as a single organism, engines flaring hard enough to distort the surrounding Minovsky fog. They did not spread out. They did not posture. They drove forward like a spear, cutting a narrow, lethal path straight toward Tianem's flagship.
On the Federation side, alarms screamed across multiple bridges.
"High-speed contacts!"
"Vector converging on General Tianem!"
"Heat signatures—elite-grade mobile suits!"
At the same moment, inside White Base's hangar, Gary Lin froze as the system interface snapped open in front of his vision.
MISSION UPDATE
Priority Override: EMERGENCY
Objective: Protect General Tianem
Threat Level: Hard
Enemy Unit: Zeon Elite Assault Squadron
Failure Condition: Tianem neutralized
Success Condition: Tianem survives engagement
Reward: Conditional survival bonus
Gary sucked in a sharp breath.
"So that's it," he muttered. "This is the knife."
The system did not bother with sarcasm this time.
Advisory: These units are not cannon fodder. Direct engagement recommended only with support. Retreat probability unacceptable.
Gary clenched his fists.
"Yeah. Figures."
The Strike Gundam's cockpit sealed shut as power surged back into the frame. Damaged armor was still rough, temporary patches welded in place, but the machine responded.
He opened a channe in range to white base.
"White Base, this is Gary Lin. Zeon elite unit is heading straight for Tianem. I'm intercepting."
Bright's voice came back instantly. "You'll be outnumbered."
Gary didn't hesitate. "I know."
Across the battlespace, the elite Gelgoogs punched through outer Federation screens with brutal efficiency. GM units died in seconds—not because they were weak, but because the pilots facing them never missed, never overextended, never hesitated. These were professionals hunting targets, not soldiers fighting a war.
Inside Tianem's flagship, the situation was deteriorating rapidly.
"They're ignoring our escorts!"
"They're cutting straight through!"
Tianem watched the tactical display, calm returning in the face of danger.
"So Gihren finally bares his teeth," he said quietly.
Then new signals appeared.
One—fast, aggressive, burning straight toward the intercept point.
"Mobile suit ID… Strike Gundam."
Gary Lin accelerated hard, thrusters screaming as he placed himself between the incoming elite squad and Tianem's fleet. He could feel it now—the pressure in his chest, the crawling awareness at the edge of his mind.
Newtype intuition.
Twenty enemies.
No room to run.
He steadied his breathing.
"All right," he said softly, locking weapons. "Come on, you loyal dogs."
Across the void, the elite Gelgoog squad adjusted formation—not to surround him, not to overwhelm him.
They tightened.
They were going to break him and keep going.
And for the first time since A Baoa Qu began, the battle pivoted not on fleets or superweapons—but on whether one pilot could hold a line that was never meant to exist.