BATTLE FOR VALOR AND HONOR.
It was dawn.
The first rays of sunlight crept slowly over the horizon, bathing the vast Symarrian savanna in a radiant golden glow. Darkness gradually surrendered to the rising sun as its warm light spread across the endless grasslands, revealing the dry, arid terrain beneath it. The morning breeze swept gently through the tall grass, carrying with it the faint scent of dust and earth.
But there was little peace in the beauty of the morning.
Two of the strongest nations in the world were preparing to go head-on against one another in what promised to become one of the most consequential battles of the war.
By joining forces, Company November and Company Tango had effectively doubled the size of the Lucianan expeditionary force.
Infantry and Enforcers stood ready for deployment, their equipment secured, weapons inspected, and uniforms bearing the proud Crown emblem.
Yet, despite possessing Gifters of extraordinary ability, the Lucianan military had deliberately chosen another approach. This operation would rely primarily on conventional tactical assault.
The decision was deliberate. Luciana wanted to test the strength of its conventional forces and demonstrate that its military power did not depend entirely upon supernatural abilities.
Rows of soldiers stood before Major Adams as he began to explain the finer details of the operation. His voice carried across the formation while officers and enlisted personnel listened in complete silence.
Major Adams finally stepped forward.
"Alright, soldiers!" Major Adams began, his voice carrying cleanly over the still morning air. He barked, initiating his pre-battle address as his voice claimed the quiet plain.
"Today you have the chance to prove yourselves! Today, you get to make your country proud! There is no other nation worth dying for aside from Luciana—the greatest country in the world!"
Hands clasped firmly behind his back, he began to pace back and forth along the front line. Every soldier present, man and woman alike, wore a hardened, battle-ready expression, their eyes fixed straight ahead while the Crown emblem gleamed upon their uniforms with fierce, unyielding pride.
Each one carrying the weight of Luciana upon their shoulders.
"Today, you make your family proud, today, you make your friends proud, and today, you make the Crown proud."
His voice became firmer.
More serious.
"It will be a lie and an insult to your dignity if I tell you that everyone will make it back. Instead, I'm here to tell you the truth."
He stopped.
For several seconds, Major Adams simply looked across the formation. Thousands of eyes remained fixed forward. The pause was long enough for the weight of that truth to settle, then went on.
"For the sons and daughters who would not make it back, your name will be immortalized in the Roll of Honor."
The words settled over the soldiers like a heavy blanket.
There were no cheers. No laughter.
No movement. Only silence.
WEIGHT OF THE CROWN.
As the speech lengthened, the flag of Luciana and the Crown was drawn gently upward behind him and fixed at half-staff—an acknowledgment of the men and women prepared to give their souls and their strength for the kingdom.
Major Adams turned toward the flag for a moment. Then he faced the army once more.
"Today, we raise the banner of valor, the shield of gallantry, and the spear of heroism!"
The major halted his pacing, snapping into a rigid, commanding posture.
Then his voice rang across the formation.
"To whom was the covenant promised?" he called.
The reply came instantly as the entire army answered as one voice:
"To us, the sons and daughters of Luciana. One kingdom, one nation under The One in All, Our Father."
"ATTTTENTION!" His voice cut across the ranks like a command wire.
In perfect synchrony, as though the entire army were a single organism, every soldier snapped into attention.
Arms hung straight down, thumbs aligned precisely with the seams of their trousers. Heads remained upright and eyes stared directly forward. Faces remained expressionless.
Not a single soldier moved. Not a single voice was heard.
For one brief moment, the entire battlefield staging area seemed frozen in time.
Then—Ting!
A small ceremonial bell rang.
The sound was delicate compared to the enormous force standing before it, yet somehow it carried through the silence.
Major Adams raised his voice.
"SALUTE!" His command swept across the multitude like an electric signal.
In perfect synchrony, every soldier extended their right arm forward, their forearms tilted slightly to the left, their palms wide open before being placed firmly against their chests.
Their left hands remained at their sides. It was the formal Lucianan salute—a sacred gesture of loyalty to the Crown and the realm.
Major Adams finally lowered his hand.
"That is all for now," Major Adams finished. "See you at the front line, my comrades. Dismissed."
The formation broke, and the soldiers scattered back to their assigned duties, securing equipment, checking rifles, and loading what would need loading. The day that would be written into history had begun.
CRIMINAL FROM UNDERWORLD.
Meanwhile, far from the pristine military discipline of the frontline, a very different reality gripped the Undercity District back in Crownpoint. Der Sand and Morrison sat in a coffee shop, waiting for an intermediary who ran the narcotics and contraband networks.
Luciana might have been regarded as one of the greatest nations in the world, but its reputation had been repeatedly stained by a problem that existed beneath the polished surface of its civilization.
Illicit drugs, contraband, and organized crime.
New Jackson, Middleton, Greenwich, and Los Amarillo—each province frayed by the trafficking of illicit drugs and pure narcotics—yet Crownpoint reigned supreme, the kingdom's own epicenter of vice.
Yet, the central government routinely turned a blind eye to the poisonous trade, far more preoccupied with foreign wars and geopolitical posturing on distant battlefields.
Der Sand and Morrison sat inside a small coffee shop, waiting for the unknown frontman who was supposed to lead them to the people they needed to meet. The coffee shop appeared ordinary.
Too ordinary.
People came and went. Cups clinked against saucers. Conversations filled the background. The smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air. Yet neither man was there for coffee. They were there for business.
Several minutes passed.
Then a bearded man sitting some distance away suddenly raised his hand, and his fingers moved through a series of subtle gestures. Morrison noticed him immediately. He studied the man for a moment before turning toward Der Sand.
"Guess that would be our frontman," Morrison said, trusting his street instincts. "Time to move."
Morrison flashed a discreet hand signal back in affirmation. However, the bearded man remained seated, calmly sipping his drink and showing no immediate sign of moving.
The delay scraped sharply against Der Sand's frayed patience. "If he's our go-to guy, why the hell is he still sitting there stalling?" Der Sand asked in a low, measured voice, trying to suppress his rising frustration.
"Situational awareness and information gathering," Morrison replied casually.
Der Sand blinked, visibly perplexed. "What?"
Morrison leaned slightly closer. "His team is doing their own background check on us," he explained. "That's why our frontman is stalling."
"His team?" Der Sand asked calmly, confusion beginning to settle across his face. "That's just his ass sitting across from us eating a sandwich."
"Trust me, Sandy," Morrison assured him, leaning in slightly. "His people are lurking somewhere nearby in the shadows, watching our every move."
Right on cue, the frontman finished his bite, stood up, and motioned for them to follow as he casually exited the shop. Der Sand and Morrison stepped outside and trailed a short distance behind as the man took a sharp right at the next alleyway. Der Sand's hand hovered instinctively near his side, fully locked in and prepared for a lethal ambush should the meet turn hostile.
As it turned out, his killer instincts had misread the room. It wasn't a setup; the frontman was simply leading them to a darkened, idling transport van parked along the curb. He slid the side door open, jumped into the interior, and motioned for the two men to board.
The moment they did, however—
Two intimidating, masked guards stepped into position. One blocked the exit on one side; the other blocked it from the opposite direction. Both men looked like warriors carved from stone.
Their faces were concealed behind masks, while their imposing physiques made it immediately clear that they were not ordinary bodyguards. The frontman reached beneath his coat and pulled out what appeared to be a headbag.
He held it toward them. "Kindly put this on," he said. "It's for security and counterintelligence purposes."
"These gentlemen right here are Gifters," the frontman introduced smoothly, gesturing toward the masked guards. "They specialize in high-level sensory techniques. They'll be actively monitoring your pneuma flow, just in case either of you decides to get clever."
THE FEAR OF MERINTHOPHOBIA.
Der Sand raised a hand in what he meant to be a calm objection. "Look, I'm absolutely fine with your sensory guys doing their job," he said, keeping his voice carefully level.
He looked at the head bag and then back at the frontman. "But is the blindfolding necessary?" He hesitated. "I'm merinthophobic."
The frontman paused, his expression blank with utter confusion. "Merin... what?" he stammered, stumbling over the syllables.
"Me-rin-tho-phobic," he said, carefully breaking the word down syllable by syllable for easier pronunciation. "It's a medical word that isn't in the everyday Lucianan dictionary."
"If it's not in the dictionary, then how the hell is it a word?" The frontman scowled, visibly annoyed by Der Sand's sudden lexical detour. "Are you fucking with me, or do you just enjoy pissing people off during a first meeting?"
"I'm sorry, I never meant to make you angry," Der Sand stated plainly, remaining entirely composed. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up that my stress levels are about to spike." He spoke sincerely. "I don't want you seeing me as a wimp."
For a moment, the frontman simply stared at him.
Upon hearing this, the frontman suddenly burst into a loud, booming laugh. Given the formidable reputation and street credibility Der Sand had earned across the district, discovering that the notorious operative was terrified of being tied up was a hysterical revelation.
"I once heard whispers about people being deathly afraid of tight spaces," the frontman said, snapping his fingers as he tried to retrieve the lost term from his memory. "I know there's a specific word for it…"
"Claustrophobic, sir," one of the hulking guards chimed in.
The frontman snapped his fingers again—Snap!
He burst into laughter.
"Cluster the phobia shit," he joked, deliberately butchering the pronunciation. He pointed toward Der Sand. "You're one funny guy, Mr. Der Sand. I think I'm going to like you."
He turned to his men. "Cover them up. We're burning daylight." Then, to Der Sand: "About that stress level—I believe you'll manage just fine once we're moving."
He gave Der Sand a reassuring nod, then he waved his hand.
"Chop, chop, boys," he added.
Without further delay, the thick cloth hoods were pulled down tightly over their heads, and their hands were securely bound behind their backs. Up front, the van's heavy engine roared to life with a deep rumble—Vrrrmmm—and the vehicle pulled away smoothly, carrying them deep into the murky heart of the city.
PNEUMA, CHOCOLATES, AND CHAOS.
The news of Princess Victoria's victory over the Guildmaster in a three-against-one duel spread through Luciana like wildfire, racing across dry summer fields.
It was the kind of story that seemed too outrageous to be true, yet everyone had heard it from someone who had heard it from someone else. Within hours, the tale had travelled through military barracks, royal households, taverns, marketplaces, noble estates, and every corner of Crownpoint.
No one could fathom the possibility.
The strongest Gifter in the kingdom—perhaps in the entire world—had lost to a sixth-generation princess. The fact that she had not fought alone mattered to no one, and regardless of it being a three-against-one battle.
A defeat was a defeat, and the story only grew larger with every retelling.
Among Victoria's own entourage, the tale lifted her name to sudden heights as her reputation skyrocketed. Unfortunately, every coin has two sides.
The same reports reached the palace and the ears of her father, King Lucious. He was furious. The so-called duel had landed his daughter in a hospital bed for the second time since her arrival in Crownpoint, and the king's displeasure burned hotter than any forge.
Receiving this news alone, is enough to drive his blood pressure through the palace roof.
A soldier suddenly came sprinting through the hospital corridor as though the hounds of hell were chasing him.
He practically flew past nurses, doctors, and startled patients before finally reaching the princess's private suite. He was panting like an athlete who had just completed a marathon, one hand clutching a Royal Picturephone.
Standing guard were the elite Kingsguards—still visibly nursing bruised ribs and shattered pride from when the Guildmaster had casually kicked their asses hours earlier.
The soldier stopped in front of the door as he knocked in desperation.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"Come in," Victoria permitted as her voice echoed from within.
The soldier hurried inside.
"Your Grace," he said, struggling to catch his breath. "His Royal Majesty wishes to speak with you."
"He is... extraordinarily furious," he added.
Victoria's expression immediately changed when she saw the picturephone in his hands.
"A picturephone?!" She stared at the device, a flash of genuine panic piercing her calm demeanor.
Her father never used one for anything less than a matter of the highest importance.
"Can we please have some privacy?" she demanded.
She straightened herself against the hospital bed, adopted her most innocent voice, and put on her sweetest smile.
"Hellooo, my sweet daddy," she said gently, her voice dripping with affection. "Did you take your morning stroll today?"
"Hellooo, my sweet daddy," she said gently, her voice dripping with affection. "Are you actively trying to send me six feet under with a heart attack?"
Victoria smiled.
"Oh, come on. You're stronger than an oak tree to be taken down by a mere heart attack." She replied, a gentle compliment threaded with an attempt to soothe.
"Luciana, mighty warrior and wisest king. The sole proprietor that holds all realms together." She added mockingly.
Lucious stared at her through the screen. He was not impressed.
"Save it!" the king bellowed, his voice vibrating through the phone speaker. "What is this madness I hear about you going toe-to-toe with that unhinged lunatic of a Guildmaster? Don't tell me he inflicted those injuries on you!"
"Father, language," Victoria protested. "He is not a madman. He's the coolest master ever."
She paused.
"Diana would not agree with you, though."
"You're visiting Crownpoint for the first time, and you've already visited the hospital twice," Lucious stated, deliberately emphasizing every word. "Do you have a death wish, asking that unstable maniac for a duel?"
He narrowed his eyes.
"Knowing fully well it was a losing hand from the beginning."
BURGER KING AND THE MOUNTAIN GOAT.
Unbeknownst to both of them, the flamboyant, utterly shameless, and ego-driven Guildmaster was approaching the VIP wing with all the theatricality—and he was bringing gifts.
Norris was making his way through the hospital with a bouquet of flowers in one hand, animal-shaped balloons floating above his head, and enough chocolate to feed a small army.
He laughed loudly as he walked, occasionally stomping his feet against the floor as though the floor itself needed reminding of his presence like an overexcited child.
From a distance the security guards, military personnel, and kingsguards spotted him and froze as one.
They looked at one another and back at Norris.
Like a military unit operating with a single mind, they collectively shouted in panic—
"This is bad!"
Their panic spread like dominoes. With the king and his daughter still mid-conversation via picturephone, there was no immediate authority to deny Norris entry.
They knew they could not stop him. Not after everything that had happened and without the possibility of getting their asses kicked.
Norris was making so much noise that hospital staff were practically begging him to lower his voice.
Hordes of nurses fluttered around him in a frantic swarm.
"Please, sir!" one nurse pleaded. "This is a hospital. We would appreciate some calmness."
Another nurse followed.
"Other patients are trying to recover."
But their pleas fell upon deaf ears. Norris simply continued stomping his way towards Victoria's private room.
He pushed on, entertaining and disruptive in equal measure.
"He's getting closer. What do we do, sir?" one soldier asked his superior, voice tight in desperation.
The superior officer clenched his jaw. "I would be lying if I told you that I have a clue."
He slowly ground his teeth. "Heaven help us."
There was another problem.
In Luciana's culture, interrupting the king during a private conversation without an immediate sense of urgency or a state of emergency was considered deeply disrespectful.
No soldier wanted to be the man who interrupted King Lucious. But nobody wanted to be the man who tried to stop Norris either.
The guards froze, trapped between protocol and the mustering circus at their threshold.
"Sir, didn't you join Her Majesty in battling with him?" another enforcer asked, desperate for the Kingsguards to intervene.
Wang and Bradley exchanged a helpless glance. The situation had already gone far beyond them.
Their own commander had already sent a letter of query demanding an explanation for their conduct once they returned to the Royal Capital. That thought made their faces blank as their hands were tied.
"Sorry, friend," Wang murmured with solemn sincerity. "Our hands are tied. We're already on thin ice."
"How can we stop the Guildmaster without getting our asses kicked and avoiding trouble with our superior?" the other Enforcers muttered.
As if answering the question, a cold whisper brushed their shoulders. "Looks like I'm the gossip of town now. What is it that you're saying about me?"
The guards froze, their blood turning to ice. They turned slowly to find Norris looming over their shoulders, his face twisted into a grotesquely exaggerated cartoon villain grin. "What's this little gossip session about, hmm?"
Fear locked every muscle.
"Nothing, sir!" they answered together.
"We were just... just saying how unbelievably awesome you are, Guildmaster!" one soldier chittered, his knees knocking.
"Lies!" Norris bellowed dramatically, pointing an accusing finger. "You were plotting to jump me!"
"HELL NO!" the cry rose at once. "We will never even dream of it, Guildmaster!"
Amidst the chaos, a lone, unfortunate soldier happened to be standing directly in front of the suite's heavy double doors. Norris turned his gaze upon the poor soul. The goofy caricature faded, replaced by cold, terrifying authority.
"Move," Norris commanded.
In a fraction of a second, the soldier's soul practically left his physical body under the weight of that crushing aura. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed like a sack of flour. His comrades instantly grabbed his boots and dragged his unconscious body out of the path like a ragdoll.
A FAILED MAGICIAN'S TA-DAH.
Without an ounce of courtesy or royal protocol—KICK-BAM!—Norris kicked the door open while Victoria remained on the picturephone with her father.
"TA-DAH!" he thundered, striking a dramatic pose like a failed magician who still expected applause. He paid no mind to the glowing screen.
"How's my little peanut of a princess doing?" Norris slid across the polished floor on both knees, skidding to a halt right at her bedside. He thrust the bouquet, balloons, and chocolates into her lap—every cliché of courtly affection. "Look what I brought! All your favorites!"
King Lucious's voice erupted from the picturephone like a broken sound system, pure rage given form. From any third-party view, it was clear the king wished he could reach through the device and strangle the Guildmaster with his bare hands.
"YOU NITWIT!" The king's voice exploded through the picturephone. It was so loud that the guards outside could hear him clearly.
"How could you honor such a request?" Lucious roared. "I thought you were supposed to be the all-wise and all-powerful Guildmaster!"
Norris stared at the picturephone; Victoria stared at Norris.
Everyone waited.
Surely, an apology was coming, perhaps some remorse and maybe an explanation. He has always possessed an infinite capacity to disappoint expectations. Expecting an apology from Norris was like expecting the sun to rise in the west.
Just when you thought he might display a shred of remorse, he subverted reality entirely.
Norris, predictably unpredictable, did not offer the contrition the king expected. Instead, he dragged the movable table that held the picturephone toward himself and grinned into the screen. "Yo! How's it going, Sage?" he waved, a peace sign plastered to his face.
"Yo?" King Lucious froze for a beat, flummoxed by the informality. "Did you just say 'Yo'?"
"YOU UNMITIGATED NINCOMPOOP!" Lucious shrieked, exploding at the top of his lungs. "Yo—is all you have to say after placing Vicky in mortal peril?! She is a princess, not a warrior, you foolish brute!"
Norris, however, remained completely unbothered. The ever-unserious and unflappable warrior decided to complicate the situation even further.
"You're getting old, Sage." He tilted his head. "Are you drinking enough water?"
Lucious's expression became one of utter disbelief.
"Yelling and screaming isn't good for your health," Norris continued. "The royal physicians say stress makes you wrinkle."
Victoria covered her mouth, trying desperately not to laugh.
King Lucious squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He realized in that moment that yelling at Norris was like trying to beat a dead horse into a gallop. He needed to speak the only language this idiot understood: leverage.
"How is your novel coming along, Norris?" the king asked, his tone suddenly dripping with false pleasantness. "And how is your Grand Pneuma Academy faring?"
Lucious leaned back. "500.99 beta is way too cheap for a four-hour class?" His tone suggested he was suddenly offering expert business advice. "Don't you think so?"
"Right?!" Norris nodded as though the two of them were merely discussing business. "People are getting way too economical and stingy," he continued, nodding in intense agreement. "Utter cheapskates!"
"YOU FOOL!" The king's exasperation burst again, dropping the civilized facade instantly. "You wonder why no one is signing up?! You're asking for three to four days of a commoner's wages just to teach them how to balance and walk on water!"
"Hey, King Sage." With an unshakable confidence. "It worked out. Victoria just kicked my butt in a three-against-one duel." Norris claimed the credit as though he had been the proud mentor all along.
"Will you stop with the nicknames?!" Lucious barked. "Show some respect to your king!"
"Will you two QUIT IT!" Victoria cut in sharply, unable to sit through another round of their endless bickering. She reached and pulled the table back to her side. "You two still haven't dropped your quarrelsome old habit. Good heavens, you're grown-ups for Our Father's sake."
AN OLD FRIENDSHIP'S SHIELD.
"This old mountain goat fought you in open combat, Victoria!" Lucious snapped, pointing a finger at Norris through the screen. "Fighting a child, knowing well that it was a futile action. No ounce of shame."
Norris yanked the table toward himself again. "Zip it, Burger King. The whole duel was her idea—for your information, she won."
"Won?!" Lucious's voice cracked. "Did you just say 'won,' Noodlehead?! She is currently lying in a hospital bed, battered black and blue!"
"You're just jealous because she did what you could not do in thirty-four years, Your Royal Hot Mess." Norris flung the insult like a gauntlet, mockery wrapped in blunt truth.
Victoria's jaw dropped. The sheer gravity of the casual revelation struck her like a thunderbolt. The revelation hit her like a thunderclap.
Her hand shot out. She yanked the table back, eyes wide. "WHAAAT?!" she cried. "Dad, you never kicked his ass in a brawl? I knew he was absurdly strong, but... not even once?!"
Lucious cleared his throat awkwardly, crossing his arms. "Aside from your little stunt today—which I know for a fact he threw away, allowing your victory over him," he said, carefully choosing his words.
"Do you know of anyone else who has ever brought him down to his knees?"
"Why are you even calling anyway, Burger King?" Norris interjected, sticking his nose into the frame. "Nobody invited you to the party."
"I was glad to hear you attended her banquet uninvited," the king continued, ignoring the insult. "I thought she was in safe hands. Instead, you began the danger by accepting her request for a duel."
"What kind of idiot puts their pet daughter in danger?" Lucious demanded, wrath making his phrasing harsh. "A single full-power punch from you could send her into a coma!"
"I would never do such a thing," Norris scoffed defensively. "Her kingsguards took the brunt of the kinetic force! She's just beat from exhausting her pneuma."
"You did attempt to punch me, though," Victoria immediately corrected him, "before I evaded the strike and dived deep into the depths."
"Shhh." Norris tried to shush her, but it was too late. King Lucious had heard every word.
"YOU ABSOLUTE FRAUD!" the king bellowed so loudly that the guards standing out in the hallway winced, clutching their ears. "I thought you said you never made such an attempt!"
Norris reached out and lightly flicked Victoria's temple with a massive forefinger. "Big mouth," he muttered under his breath.
"Ouch!" Victoria winced, rubbing her forehead and glaring at him. "I was merely being truthful!"
The conversation rolled on. Outside, the remaining guards and hospital staff had no choice but to wait. One thing became certain as the minutes passed: the king's fury had cooled. His voice no longer carried the edge of pure rage. For the moment, at least, the men standing beyond the door felt their necks were safe—thanks to an old friendship that, even after all these years, could still turn anger into something almost like banter.
THE UNINVITED GUEST.
That same morning, Klause's mercenaries got a visit from an uninvited guest. Luckily, he wasn't the hostile type of visitor, nor had he come seeking trouble.
At least, not openly.
Yet in a place like this, where enemies were rarely foolish enough to announce themselves before striking, an unfamiliar presence was reason enough for caution.
However, Klause wasn't around, nor was Marvick present. Unknowingly to the visitor, he had chosen the perfect moment to arrive.
As he made his way toward the training grounds, the rhythmic sound of his footsteps carried across the area.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A few of the Enforcers stationed around the site possessed hypersensitive hearing. The moment those unfamiliar footsteps entered their range, their attention sharpened.
One of the mercenaries immediately turned toward the direction of the sound.
"An unfamiliar set of footsteps is approaching us, sir." He quickly raised the alarm.
That was all it took—in an instant, the atmosphere changed.
The men who had been training moments earlier abandoned whatever they were doing. Conversations died. Bodies straightened.
Immediately, they all locked in battle mode for the approaching stranger.
Then, from behind the distant shadow, a voice emerged before the man himself stepped fully into view.
"Greetings, my fellow countrymen of Luciana. There's no need for hostility." The stranger finally stepped into the light.
"Rest assured," he continued calmly, "I come in peace."
A MESSENGER FROM THE PAST.
Before them stood a man dressed like a desert settler, a thick scarf looped around his neck. Both of his hands were raised in the air, an obvious gesture meant to signal that he had come for a peaceful engagement.
At least, that was what he wanted them to believe.
For a brief moment, no one said anything.
Then—
"Look who came crawling out of his cage," a familiar voice cut through the tension at the sight of him. "If it isn't the two-faced bastard, Kazeem."
Kazeem maintained his calm expression.
"You must have got so much nerve to show your bounty-wanted face here," the scarred man added, stepping forward. "Give me one good reason that would make us let you leave here alive."
"Ahem—" Kazeem cleared his throat with deliberate slowness. "Ironically, I have two reasons." He held up two fingers in emphasis.
While the confrontation unfolded, Nyx could not help but watch. Boredom had long since smothered whatever small joy remained to him.
Being imprisoned inside a steel cage while other people trained, argued, and went about their business was hardly his idea of entertainment.
Still, the arrival of an unexpected stranger had finally given him something worth paying attention to.
Kazeem's gaze shifted toward the scarred man.
"First reason," Kazeem asks casually as if he were asking after an old friend's family. "How is your seven-month-pregnant wife doing?"
The effect was immediate, and the scarred man's expression changed.
Whatever murderous intent had been building within him froze in place.
His confidence faltered—not because he feared Kazeem physically, but because the man standing before him had just demonstrated something far more unsettling.
Knowledge.
Private knowledge.
The kind no ordinary resident of Undercity should possess. The air drained from his chest.
His morality, his anger, and his readiness to kill all seemed to die at once as the implication settled into his mind.
He knew the man asking after his family's welfare was no ordinary resident of the Undercity.
Then he raised his second finger.
"My second reason—how would you feel if you suddenly lost every memory you had of the people you love?"
A vile grin slowly spread across his face. "I wouldn't mind poking around inside that brain of yours, Russ—if you really want us to take it there."
The atmosphere grew cold and heavier.
"What do you want, freak?" another voice interjected from the flank. "Don Klause isn't around for whatever nonsense you came here to spill."
"Easy there, virgin boy." Kazeem finally lowered his hands, letting them fall back to his sides.
"No need for all the resentment. I don't intend to stay long." His eyes shifted toward the speaker.
"Though, I can already tell I'm getting under your skin, Nakamura."
"What do you want, Kazeem?" Raw frustration was written all over Russ's face.
"You're not the type to walk into an unwelcome environment just to stand around and chit-chat."
"Ay, ay, ay... this is your second time asking me that." Kazeem shook his head in mock disappointment. "You guys combined would make a fine questionnaire."
"Because you look like someone who's stalling," Russ interjected. His patience was beginning to wear thin.
"And like you were told earlier, Klause isn't around—"
"Good," Kazeem cut in cleanly. "That makes you the most reliable and sensible person to talk to. Klause is a bit too obstinate and close-minded for what I need."
Russ narrowed his eyes, skeptical. "And you thought it best to pick me? When I'm in no position to grant you anything meaningful?"
He questions Kazeem's approach.
"Yes, you are." Kazeem's expression became slightly more serious.
"Because you're going to patch me through to Charles." He looked past Russ and toward the steel cage standing nearby.
"I'm here for Benzo's boy."
For a second, Russ simply stared at him, but the silence lasted only a fraction of a second before—
"Pfft—!"
He burst into laughter; the disbelief was almost too much for him to process. The sheer absurdity of the demand echoed across the training yard.
"You?"
He pointed toward Nyx's steel cage.
"You came all the way here for Charles and Klause's valuable little linchpin?"
Russ broke into another fit of dry laughter. "Are you high on some kind of cheap narcotics?"
Inside the cage, Nyx's expression slowly changed.
Until that moment, the entire confrontation had been nothing more than entertainment—something to distract him from the suffocating boredom of imprisonment.
Hearing his father's name. He froze as a stranger, with whom he had no connection, mentioned his father's name.
At least, none that he knew of.
Yet this stranger had walked directly into hostile territory and openly declared that he had come for him.
For the first time since Kazeem's arrival, Nyx felt something apart from boredom.
Confusion and suspicion. He entered a state of conflict, knowing he was now a person of interest. And somehow, that realization made the steel cage surrounding him feel smaller.
THREATS AND BARGAINS.
"When you're done laughing," Kazeem said calmly, "patch me through."
Russ's laughter gradually subsided.
"So we can have a meaningful negotiation." Kazeem tilted his head slightly. "Or, if you prefer, you can explain to both of your friends how you somehow lost their linchpin without having any memory of how it happened."
The laughter disappeared completely, and his expression hardened. "Is that a threat?" Russ demanded, taking a few deliberate steps forward.
"Please don't do this. I already gave you the benefit of the doubt," Kazeem said, spreading his arms wide in an open, theatrical gesture. "Please, have a little pride, will you?"
He slowly brought his arms down. "I'm trusting your judgment here." He stated clearly.
For several tense seconds, Russ simply stared at him. Then, with visible reluctance, he turned away.
"Fine." He motioned for Kazeem to follow. "Follow me, and don't try anything stupid."
Kazeem immediately began walking. Russ glanced back at him.
"Make sure whatever you have to say is worth it, or else I will have your head as my sin offering."
"Sure thing, Cowboy." Kazeem replied as he followed behind him without the slightest concern. "Whatever floats your boat."
But before leaving the training grounds, Kazeem stopped.
Slowly, he turned his head toward Nyx.
The young man remained behind the steel bars, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
Kazeem gave him a casual wave. "Your old man says 'hi.'"
Then, without offering any further explanation, he turned around and continued after Russ toward the communication center.
WAR IN SYMARRIA.
For miles in every direction, the unforgiving land lay stretched beneath an ochre-gold sun. The arid savanna seemed endless—a vast, desolate wilderness of dry grass, cracked earth, dust, and stone. Yet the land no longer belonged entirely to nature.
The scars of war were already etched across the landscape—deep tank tracks gouged through the soil, abandoned trenches split open like wounds, shattered ridges, and the blackened remains of campsites swallowed by sand and wind.
This is the unmistakable evidence of man and machine carving the terrain with rage, blood, fire, and iron.
For reasons known only to the higher-ups, the Lucianan military had chosen the conventional mode of attack.
There had to be a reason for attacking this way, especially after the brutal successes of their night operations.
The attack relied solely on infantry, artillery, reconnaissance, and disciplined coordination—elements of the old-fashioned machinery of modern warfare. But whatever that reason was, it remained known only to the commanders and the higher-ranking officers who had drafted the plan.
THE IMPERIAL SCOUT TOWER.
Several miles ahead, atop a rocky ridge overlooking the surrounding savanna, an Imperial observation tower stood as Rey Santana's first pair of eyes—like lonely watchmen against the pale morning sky.
Back at one of those towers, soldiers went about their dull and repetitive morning of surveillance.
One scout leaned lazily against the wooden railing, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as the midmorning sunlight washed across his worn face.
They had spent the entire night awake, watching the darkness with strained eyes and loaded weapons, expecting an enemy attack that never came. Now, with the midmorning sun bearing down on their worn faces, exhaustion settled over them like a second uniform.
Another shifted his rifle from one shoulder to the other, his eyes half-lidded beneath the harsh glare of the sun.
The silence of the night had slowly convinced many of them that perhaps the danger had passed.
To them, it was simply another Tuesday.
Another day of surveillance and reconnaissance.
Another day of staring at nothing but heat, dust, and distant grass. They had no idea that this Tuesday would be anything but ordinary.
Near the ledge, a solitary sentry whistled a low tune, trying to distract himself from the nightmares that still clung to his mind.
The horrors of war had a way of returning in silence—faces lost in fire, screams heard through smoke, the terrible stillness that followed artillery strikes. So he whistled, allowing the tune to fill the surrounding emptiness.
The scout gave a long yawn.
"Haah…"
He lifted his field glasses toward the horizon and began his routine sweep from the elevated observation post, missing the silent death creeping beneath his gaze.
A soft whistle escaped his lips.
Fweee... fwee-fwee...
Nothing to worry about. All he could see was heat, dust, and sand.
"Another boring morning…" he muttered beneath his breath.
Unfortunately for the poor soul, Luciana's infantry were already approaching, blending perfectly with the surrounding savanna grass as camouflage.
Their approach was slow, deliberate, and almost invisible beneath the glare of daylight. Each soldier knew that a careless movement, a glint from a rifle barrel, or a raised silhouette against the sky could expose the entire assault.
Among them were heavily trained sniper teams, each occupying carefully selected firing positions across the uneven terrain.
They rose above the horizon like dark scars against the golden plains.
Those structures represented Rey Santana's first defensive warning system. From there, scouts monitored the surrounding savanna and immediately alerted the main defensive line of any enemy movement.
The morning was still young, but the soldiers stationed there looked worn down. They had been awake all night because the Imperial Army of Rey Santana expected Luciana to exploit the darkness. Reports had reached Rey Santana's camp about the devastating night assault on another Imperial position—how Lucianan forces had descended upon it under cover of darkness and left only destruction behind.
Reports of Lucianan soldiers descending silently beneath darkness had reached every senior officer. As a result, the entire Imperial Army remained alert throughout the night.
Their reasoning was simple.
If Luciana had failed to attack under the cover of darkness, then daylight would be suicide.
No sane commander would deliberately expose infantry beneath the open savanna with nowhere to hide.
Luciana was about to capitalize on that exact arrogance, turning the scouts' sleepless night into a fatal miscalculation.
THE HIDDEN MARKSMEN.
Several hundred meters away, Lucianan infantry had already spread across the dry desolated terrain.
Snipers lay motionless among the brittle grass while their spotters and a forward observer coordinated every movement with absolute precision.
The forward observer remained almost completely concealed behind a shallow depression in the earth. He kept his body low, his uniform covered in dust and fragments of brittle vegetation.
Slowly, he raised his Simrad LP-7 binoculars to his eyes.
The lenses settled upon the two enemy positions. He pressed the radio transmitter.
Comm frequency chatter sparked:
"Contact, two outposts, 2 o'clock and 10 o'clock, 520 meters," the forward observer radioed, his Simrad LP-7 binoculars still fixed to his eyes.
Hiss! "Roger that," a voice crackled through the radio. "Infantry is in position."
"Copy that." The forward observer shifted his attention toward the western outpost. "Cash Cow, to your 10 o'clock, 3 Tangos. Eyes on targets."
"Roger that. Cash Cow's ready on your command," the Cash Cow team leader responded.
The team leader raised a clenched fist, signaling the snipers around him. One after another, they settled their rifles into the dirt. Stocks pressed against shoulders. Bipods dug into the dry earth. Their scopes aligned with the distant enemy positions.
The forward observer spoke again.
Hiss! "Pick your Tinas."
"Flank Tina," one sniper chimed in, selecting the soldier positioned at the edge of the outpost.
"The Eye Tina is mine," another sniper said, claiming the scout with the field glasses.
"That leaves me with Shooter Tina," the final sniper added as all three marksmen settled into position.
Hiss! "Copy that. Hold for my signal." The observer turned his lens toward the eastern post. "Come in, Wolfgang. Do you copy?"
"Loud and clear, Eyes," Team Lead Wolfgang answered through static.
The observer continued.
Hiss! "Four Tangos, 2 o'clock. Eyes on targets. Pick your Tinas and wait for a signal."
Across the dry terrain, Team Wolfgang's snipers selected their targets in silence. Their breathing slowed. Their fingers rested lightly beside their triggers. Spotters positioned near them studied the wind, the distance, the angle of the sun, and the slightest distortions caused by rising heat.
The Imperial sentries above the outposts continued their ordinary routine, completely unaware that seven Lucianan rifles were already staring directly into their lives.
The forward observer inhaled quietly before transmitting to both teams simultaneously.
"Cash Cow, Wolfgang... on my signal."
He slowly raised one hand above the grass, holding up three fingers.
Both team leaders mirrored the gesture immediately. Their spotters gave the shooters their final wind readings and range corrections.
"Gun up," came the quiet command from their spotters.
The snipers settled deeper behind their scopes.
Three.
Two.
One.
The observer dropped his hand.
CRACK!
Seven high-velocity rounds cracked through the desert air in a single, unified strike. The bullet speed was so immense that the sentries didn't even have time to register the sound before they dropped—Thud!
Bodies collapsed from both observation towers almost instantly.
One soldier spun backward over the railing before crashing into the wooden platform.
Another slumped lifelessly beside the warning siren.
For several seconds, absolute stillness returned.
The forward observer immediately lifted his binoculars again, carefully scanning both outposts for movement. Smoke from splintered wood drifted lazily through the air.
But for a moment there was no movement as he scanned through the second time. The observer scanned carefully for any sign of life.
It was bad at the office for the Imperial scout.
Then he saw one—a surviving Imperial soldier dragged himself across the dirt, panic twisting across his face. Blood stained his uniform as he crawled desperately toward the alarm buzzer mounted near the interior wall of the outpost.
His hand was inches away when the observer calmly spoke into the radio.
Hiss! "One crawler."
A sniper adjusted slightly.
CRACK!
The dying Imperial soldier never made it. The sniper executed a double-tap before he could touch the alarm.
Thud!
A clean headshot. The second shot struck with terrifying precision.
A high-caliber bullet shattered his skull, collapsing his body instantly. The observer swept the area one last time. There were no survivors.
Hiss! "Targets neutralized," the radio operator reported softly.
THE ABBOT RESPONDS.
The Lucianan military had no intention of pausing. The forward observer immediately initiated the next phase of the assault as he lowered his binoculars.
Hiss! "Stand by," he radioed.
Far behind the advancing infantry, artillery batteries of Abbot FV433 self-propelled howitzers sat partially concealed behind natural rock formations and ridge lines, waiting for their coordinates. Dust covered the armored vehicles, helping them blend into the harsh terrain.
The armored vehicles hummed in place until the tactical radio crackled to life.
Hiss! "Muscle fire."
The crews sprang into action.
Hydraulic systems groaned. Shells were loaded. The two FV433 howitzers adjusted their guns toward the recently silenced Imperial outposts.
"Target: Outpost One, ready on your command," the first artillery crew radioed.
"Target: Outpost Two is also ready on your command," the second artillery crew confirmed.
The coordinates were repeated carefully.
Each crew checked and rechecked the figures against their maps, instruments, and the surrounding landscape to eliminate any margin of error. Not even a slight mistake.
He checked the landscape again through his binoculars.
Then spoke once more.
Hiss! "Correction—"
He gave the necessary adjustment. The artillery crews immediately altered their elevation and traverse. Hydraulic systems groaned softly as changes were made. Targets locked. Ready to engage.
For one heartbeat, the battlefield held its breath. A moment later—
BOOOM!
The Abbot's main guns erupted with a force that shook the earth like a mining detonation.
The recoil rocked the entire armored vehicle backward as smoke burst violently from the barrel. The shell vanished into the sky almost instantly.
The first shell screamed through the air, invisible against the burning sky and heartbeat later, the horizon flashed.
WHUMM!
Outpost Two disappeared beneath a towering eruption of earth, shattered timber, and flying debris. Before the dust could even settle—
BOOM!
The second Abbot fired.
Another shell screamed across the battlefield.
WHUMM!!
Outpost One vanished beneath another devastating explosion.
Both defensive positions vanished beneath rolling smoke and flying earth. Walls splintered. Wooden platforms shattered. Sandbags burst apart, spilling their contents across the scarred ground. The outposts that had stood watch over the savanna moments earlier became nothing more than broken shapes swallowed by dust.
The Lucianan infantrymen instinctively lowered themselves as the distant barrage thundered across the savanna like the wrath of an angry god. Shockwaves trembled beneath their boots.
"Cease fire!"
The artillery went silent. For several agonizing seconds, nothing moved except the swirling cloud of smoke drifting over the cratered ground. The observer raised his binoculars once more, scanning the obliterated ruins. Both outposts were leveled to ash and stone. Zero signs of life.
He switched frequencies to the main company commander, Major Adams.
"Two outposts destroyed," he confirmed, sweeping the charred wreckage. "No visible survivors."
On the receiving end, Major Adams listened to the transmission, his face grim. He lowered his hand and issued the order to advance:
"Move," he commanded.
The Lucianan soldiers rose from the grass. Hundreds of boots began to march forward.
Their advance was steady, controlled, and relentless. Rifles were raised. Formations spread out across the terrain. Medics, ammunition carriers, radio operators, machine-gun teams, and infantry squads moved together beneath the burning sun.
The first phase of the open battle had lasted only minutes. Luciana had executed it cleanly.
The two outposts had been the warning system protecting the front. Now they were gone—wiped clean.
Yet, the primary line of Rey Santana's defense still lay ahead.
The Imperial Army of Rey Santana is about to discover that the enemy was already inside their perimeter.