Chapter #54: Roots in the Shadows
Colonel Olivier Mira Armstrong advanced down the stone corridor with measured steps, while the distant echo of explosions thundered through the walls of Briggs. Drachma's assault roared outside in all its fury, but inside, the silence was different—more dangerous. This was not the quiet of battle's chaos, but the cold stillness of calculation, the mark of someone who had already set their pieces in motion.
She tightened her grip on her weapon. Every muscle in her body was tense, ready. The man who had forced open the armory using botanical alchemy stood with his back to her, surveying the room as if inspecting territory already claimed.
Olivier took another step forward.
"Stop," she ordered, her voice firm.
The man turned with a calm that deeply irritated her. There was no surprise on his face, no fear—only a faint, almost polite smile.
"Colonel," he said. "What are you doing here? You should be outside with your men, defending the wall."
The condescending tone was the last straw.
"How do you know who I am?" Olivier snarled, aiming her weapon squarely at his chest.
The man tilted his head, as though examining an interesting specimen.
"I know who is in this base," he replied. "Who comes in, who goes out… and who gives the orders. I am no one, Colonel. But I know everything."
Olivier stepped closer, closing the distance between them.
"If you know that much," she said coldly, "then you know you're already dead."
The man smiled faintly.
"You should be more careful, Colonel."
In one swift, precise motion, Olivier pressed the barrel of her weapon against his back.
"Hands on the ground. Now."
There was no time for a reply.
A brutal impact struck her from behind—something heavy, metallic. A gas canister. It slammed into her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs. Pain detonated through her body like an internal explosion. Olivier dropped to her knees and then collapsed to the floor, gasping, her vision blurring.
"Gh—!"
"Well done, Armd," a deep voice said.
Half-conscious, Olivier lifted her gaze just enough to make out a massive, muscular man with dark skin. His build was imposing, disturbingly similar to Falken's. His eyes were cold and calculating.
"Move, Jum," Armd continued. "Hurry up, Serpent."
The man who had used botanical alchemy nodded and moved swiftly toward the inner door of the armory. Alchemical symbols flared again in his hands as he opened the mechanisms with unnatural precision.
The two men entered.
The inside of the armory… was empty.
"What?" Armd muttered, frowning. "That's impossible."
Serpent scanned the room, analyzing every corner.
"Strange," he said. "But it makes sense. The weapons must have been sent to Central for mass production and redistribution."
Armd growled.
"Damn it."
Serpent crouched and pulled several small pouches from inside his coat.
"It doesn't matter," he said calmly. "We'll leave sprouts here."
He opened the bags and began scattering tiny seeds at strategic points—cracks in the floor, corners, behind empty shelves.
"They'll be useful to us later," he added, wearing a dangerous smile.
Meanwhile, outside, hell was breaking loose.
Explosions battered the frozen walls of Briggs. Drachman soldiers tried to scale them with hooks and ropes, using smoke and darkness as cover.
"Open fire!" Falken roared from the battlements. "Everything you've got!"
Briggs' defensive batteries answered. Alchemical bombs and specialized shells detonated against snow and ice, forcing the enemy soldiers back. The assault began to collapse.
Serpent lifted his head, attentive to the sound of the detonations.
"It's time," he said.
Armd nodded. Both men exited the armory, passing by Olivier's motionless body. Armd paused for a moment and looked down at her.
"She's strong," he remarked. "She didn't die."
"She wasn't the objective," Serpent replied. "Not yet."
Without a sound, they disappeared into a side corridor, blending into the chaos of the retreat. Outside, Drachma's soldiers were already fleeing under Briggs' relentless fire. Among them, Serpent and Armd withdrew quietly, without drawing suspicion.
On the armory floor, Olivier Armstrong lay unconscious. Her breathing was heavy, uneven. Yet even defeated, even fallen, there was something indomitable in her expression.
The fortress of Briggs had withstood the attack.
But the roots had already been planted.
(End of Chapter)