The grand hall stretched wide and high, its vast dimensions swallowing the weak light until the ceiling vanished into a void of impenetrable darkness.
Sconces lined the damp walls, holding torches that sputtered with low, uneven flames. A thin, acrid smoke curled through the air, carrying the heavy scent of heated metal and the faint, unsettling stench of something rotten lingering in the corners.
The floor beneath was a patchwork of ancient, cracked stone, stained darker in uneven patches where filth had long since settled into the grain, unwashed and forgotten.
Before the raised stage, rows of figures stood shoulder to shoulder—hundreds of them, a silent, golden tide.
Heavy robes of rich gold fabric draped over their frames, whispering against the grit of the stone floor whenever they shifted. On their backs, the brilliant white symbol of a spreading sun was emblazoned across the cloth, stark and defiant.
Their faces were erased by flat black masks—void of features, void of expression, offering nothing to the world but thin, cold slits for eyes.
No one spoke.
The only sound in the massive chamber was the rhythmic, collective rustle of heavy fabric and the low, synchronized thrum of slow, steady breathing.
At the far end of the hall, a raised stage sat beneath a pool of harsh, artificial light. Metal frames suspended a cluster of industrial lamps that buzzed with a faint, electrical drone, casting a pale, sickly glow onto the wood below.
A man stepped up into the light.
His robes were identical to the hundreds below him, but as he turned, the marking on his back caught the glare.
It wasn't white.
It was gold—a shimmering, metallic sun that held the gaze of everyone in the room. He walked to the center of the stage, his boots producing a low, hollow thud against the wood.
His mask, too, bore the mark of his station: the same flat, featureless black, but traced with a faint, elegant golden outline around the edges.
He stopped. He looked out over the sea of gold and black. Then, he raised his head slightly, his voice cutting through the hum of the lamps.
"Hear me… my fellow brethren."
The words carried without effort, bouncing off the distant stone walls with a resonant echo. Below him, a few heads lifted in unison.
"Humanity wants us gone," he continued, his tone deepening.
"They want us erased. Silenced. Because we know what they don't. We are supposed to oppose the king. We are supposed to follow him."
A ripple of motion moved through the crowd—shoulders squared, and the heavy robes brushed against the floor as the air in the room grew tight.
"We do not bow."
His voice sharpened, cutting like a blade.
"We do not kneel."
He paused, letting the silence hang heavy.
"We take what is ours."
A low, guttural murmur began to build, vibrating through the stone floor. Beneath their robes, hands tightened into white-knuckled fists.
"We will tear through their forces," he said, his voice now a steady, unrelenting force, "and what remains of them will serve as proof."
He lowered his chin, his golden-rimmed mask catching the flickering torchlight.
"Proof… and sacrifice… to our lord."
For half a second, the silence was absolute. Then, it shattered.
"King—!"
A single voice cried out, followed immediately by another, and then a hundred more.
"King! King! King!"
The chant ignited, voices stacking and crashing into one another like a rising tide.
"King of Remnants!"
"King of Remnants!"
"Our lord!"
"Our savior!"
The sound swelled into a roar, filling every inch of the hall until the sheer volume became a physical pressure against the ears.
Some followers stepped forward, drawn toward the stage by an invisible tether. Others tilted their heads back, their voices cracking under the strain of their fervor, but they did not stop.
"King! King! King!"
"King of Remnants!"
"Our lord!"
"Our savior!"
The man on stage raised one hand—slow, deliberate, and perfectly controlled.
The noise didn't vanish instantly, but it fell away in crashing waves, voice after voice dropping off until the hall was plunged back into a heavy, expectant silence. He lowered his hand.
"This battle…" he said, his voice dropping to a low, chilling rumble, "won't be easy."
A few heads dipped in somber acknowledgment.
"But."
He turned his head to the side.
A second figure emerged from the shadows at the edge of the stage, straining under the weight of a long metal case held with both hands. Their arms were taut beneath the gold fabric as they set the heavy container down carefully before the leader.
The latch gave a sharp, metallic click. The lid lifted.
Inside, a blade rested in the velvet dark.
A pulse of blue light leaked from its edge—not a blinding flash, but a steady, rhythmic glow, like heat trapped beneath cooling metal.
The handle was a masterpiece of cold utility: solid, metallic, and built for a death-grip, with precise, deliberate grooves etched along its length. The cerulean glow reflected faintly against the black mask of the man standing over it.
The crowd leaned in, a collective inhalation of breath.
"These…"
He let the word hang in the air.
"…are not ordinary weapons."
He reached down, his fingers closing around the handle without a hint of hesitation. He hoisted the blade, and a faint, high-pitched hum followed the movement—constant and hungry.
"These are used by the elite soldiers of Obsidian Fang."
A violent ripple of shock moved through the hall. Postures straightened; the air itself seemed to sharpen as their attention reached a fever pitch.
"Even the Iron Halo," he continued, raising the humming blue steel higher, "doesn't have the permission to carry these on planetary ground."
He turned the blade slightly, the blue edge cutting a shimmering arc through the smoky air.
"If we fight with these…"
He paused, his voice filled with a dark, burgeoning hope.
"…our chances change."
The silence held for a heartbeat—and then it broke with a fury far greater than before.
"King!"
"King!"
"King of Remnants!"
"Our lord!"
"Our savior!"
The voices slammed together, a wall of sound that shook the very foundations of the hall. Some began to stomp their feet against the stone, adding a dull, thunderous rhythm to the shouting.
"King! King! King!"
"King of Remnants!"
"Our lord!"
"Our savior!"
The sound didn't fade. It kept rising, a deafening crescendo of zeal and steel.
The polished doors of Supreme Commander Gilgamesh's office swung open with a sharp click.
A scout stepped into the room, his posture rigid.
Gilgamesh didn't look up from the sprawling tactical map projected onto his desk; he simply uttered a single, dry command.
"Report."
"We have successfully attacked and neutralized seven more Apollo bases, Sir," the man stated, his voice steady despite the weight of the news.
Gilgamesh finally looked up, his eyes sharp and calculating.
"How many does that make in total?"
"Eighty-four, Sir."
Gilgamesh leaned back, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.
"They are like pests. The more we seem to kill, the more they seem to crawl out of the walls."
The man nodded in agreement.
"However, we have located their primary stronghold. Nearly all of their remaining forces are concentrated there. According to our latest intelligence, they are mobilizing for a large-scale offensive against our borders."
Gilgamesh rose from his chair, a cold confidence radiating from his frame.
"That works in our favor. Consolidating their forces only makes the harvest easier. What are their numbers?"
The scout shook his head slightly.
"We don't have an exact count, but estimates place them somewhere between a hundred thousand and two hundred thousand."
"And their strength?" Gilgamesh asked. "Do they have any Awakened among them?"
"The chances are extremely low, Sir. They rely on sheer volume and fanatical devotion."
"Good," Gilgamesh said, turning to look out the panoramic window at the city below.
"Prepare our forces. Ensure we overpower them in numbers. I want no room for error. Additionally, summon all council members for an urgent briefing tomorrow morning."
The man nodded sharply and beat a quick retreat.
As the door closed, a holographic screen shimmered into existence before Gilgamesh. After a moment of static, the image of Supreme Commander Rhyes appeared.
Rhyes looked bored, leaning back in his executive chair with his fingers laced.
"What do you want, Gilgamesh?" Rhyes asked.
"Supreme Commander Rhyes," Gilgamesh began, his tone formal. "I am requesting an immediate shipment of Grade 1 weapons for my front-line units."
Rhyes's eyes narrowed.
"Why is that?"
"There is a cult known as Apollo. They are planning a full-scale assault against us; we've estimated their strength at nearly two hundred thousand. I believe it would be prudent for us to be equipped with Grade 1 armaments to ensure a swift conclusion."
Rhyes's expression turned stern, his voice dropping into a serious register.
"Grade 1 weapons are reserved exclusively for the soldiers of Obsidian Fang. I cannot permit their distribution to your ranks."
Gilgamesh crossed his fingers, his voice tightening.
"Is that so?"
"Secondly," Rhyes continued, "what you're describing isn't some skirmish. It's a full-scale war. Should I remind you that your mandate is to maintain order? For wars of this magnitude, it is our job—the Obsidian Fang—to handle the heavy lifting."
Gilgamesh leaned closer to the camera, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger.
"So, what are you saying? That all the blood we've spilled and the hard work we've done until now is in vain? You want us to hand over the coordinates just as we're about to finish them so you can reap the glory for yourselves?"
"Perhaps that is what you think," Rhyes replied calmly. "However, your forces are not seasoned for a meat-grinder of this scale. They lack the experience."
"Are you saying we would lose?" Gilgamesh's voice was dangerously low.
"I'm saying you would suffer unnecessary losses," Rhyes countered.
"But we would win," Gilgamesh insisted.
Rhyes went quiet for a long moment, the hum of the electronics filling the silence.
Finally, he spoke.
"Do as you must. But if you find yourselves failing, retreat immediately and let us handle it."
Gilgamesh clicked his tongue, a sneer touching his lips.
"I thought I'd be able to get Grade 1 weapons, but you're being cheap, Rhyes."
"Your forces are not trained to handle the output of those weapons," Rhyes said firmly. "The gear you currently possess is already superior to anything Apollo has. It will be enough."
"Of course it will," Gilgamesh snapped. "I'll be on the field myself. Everything will be handled."
He cut the transmission instantly.
---
The scene shifted to Rhyes's office.
He turned his head away from the dead screen, looking toward the sofa where Zazm sat in the shadows.
Zazm was leaning back, his face a portrait of cold, hollow emotionlessness. He was staring up at the overhead lights, but strangely, the brightness didn't reflect in his eyes; his black pupils remained dark, like two ink-blots that swallowed the light.
"Is this what you wanted?" Rhyes asked.
Zazm shifted his gaze slowly, his voice flat.
"Perhaps."
"It's a good plan," Rhyes admitted.
Zazm looked at him with a subtle side-eye.
"Aren't you going to stop me?"
Rhyes looked back at him, his expression unreadable.
"What reason do I have for that? You're effectively getting rid of two hurdles at once."
"A lot of people will die," Zazm said, his voice devoid of any pity. "Including innocents caught in the crossfire. In my drive to purge these corrupt officials, I am also killing all those who had no choice but to follow them."
"Then they are not innocent," Rhyes said, his voice turning cold. "They are accomplices. If they knew what was happening and chose to remain silent, then their circumstances don't make them any different. They are part of the machine."
Rhyes looked down at his own fingers, adjusting a ring.
"Besides, sacrifices are a necessity. Nothing of value can be achieved in this world without sacrificing something."
Zazm looked at him for a second.
"That's a rather cold judgment."
Rhyes smirked—a dry, mocking grin.
"You weren't born with the right to say that to me, Zazm."
"I suppose not," Zazm replied.
Rhyes leaned forward, his smirk widening into something more complex.
"You could teleport there and erase every enemy in seconds with your power. But instead, you've crafted a bloody plan that costs thousands of lives. Even if it is to remove the rot, it's still wrong."
"It is," Zazm agreed.
Rhyes smiled to himself this time.
"But then again, I'm no different. Because I also think this is the correct step to take."
He paused, his expression shifting into something more inquisitive.
"Zazm, do you ever feel guilty?"
Zazm looked at him.
"For what?"
"I'm not talking about Gilgamesh," Rhyes clarified. "I'm talking about the Remnants we fight and kill every day. They are humans, too—just with different goals and different ideals. Do you ever feel guilty for taking so many lives so mercilessly?"
"Isn't that how it's supposed to be?" Zazm asked. "If we let them be, they'll make us their slaves or destroy the entire multiverse."
"How do you know that?" Rhyes challenged.
"That's what the people say. That's what the books say," Zazm said. "That's all I've heard since I arrived here."
Rhyes's smirk returned.
"History can be manipulated, Zazm. What if all this time we have only been fighting Remnants because that's the narrative we were fed? What if, in reality, there is no need for this endless bloodbath? How do we know what their true goal is? The False King could wipe out humanity by himself if he wished, yet in thousands of years, he has never moved. I don't understand why."
Zazm looked away.
"Remnants train their children from birth to kill, to be brutal. They are taught that we are their enemies—that we are inferior."
He took a short pause.
"At least, that's what I've heard or read."
Rhyes nodded.
"But have you seen it for yourself? Have you ever actually gone to their civilizations?"
Zazm shook his head.
"I feel like I'm getting old," Rhyes said, his smile turning wistful. "But I truly wonder who is wrong. Is it us, or is it them? We never even tried to reach for peace, so we stand as their equals in this conflict."
Zazm remained quiet for a long moment before answering.
"I feel no guilt."
Rhyes's smile widened.
"Why is that? Perhaps some soldier's wife is still waiting for them to return. Perhaps a mother is standing on her doorstep, waiting for a son who never will. Perhaps children are looking at old pictures, wondering where their father went."
Zazm nodded slowly.
"Isn't it the same on our side? And what if they simply call it honor and coldly accept it? From what I've seen, I don't think they care much for comrades or anything of the sort."
"But you haven't seen them fully," Rhyes countered. "Even we don't care that much in the heat of battle."
"Regardless," Zazm continued, his voice as cold as ice, "I'm not a noble enough person to care about that. I'm just desperate to survive. And if that means trampling on others to do it, then that is what I will do."
Rhyes's eyes widened slightly in surprise before he gave a slow, acknowledging nod.
"Perhaps if I'd heard you say that a century ago, I would have stripped you of your position. But now, I wonder if you're even wrong."
Zazm looked back at him.
"What about you?"
"I feel guilty," Rhyes admitted. "I accept that what I'm doing is wrong. I wish there was another way. However..."
He tightened his fists until his knuckles turned white.
"I can only wish for that. I must continue moving forward."
Zazm rose from the sofa.
"I was planning to visit the Remnant civilizations—far away from here—once Nova and Miwa get a little more used to handling things."
Rhyes looked at him, genuinely shocked.
"You would do that? Walk into the heart of the enemy?"
Zazm gave a slight nod. He turned his back and began walking toward the door.
"Why would you do this?" Rhyes called out after him.
Zazm kept moving, his voice trailing back, cold and devoid of any discernible emotion.
"No reason."
He took a few more steps, his hand reaching for the door handle. He paused for a fraction of a second.
"Or perhaps... somewhere deep inside me, I'm also curious."
Rhyes leaned back in his chair, watching the door.
"I'll wait, then."
---
The man with the golden sun emblazoned on his back stepped into a separate, secluded chamber.
The heavy iron door groaned on its hinges before he slammed it shut, the click of the lock echoing sharply against the stone.
The room was ancient, the walls crumbling with the weight of centuries, yet it was meticulously well-kept—a hidden sanctuary buried deep underground where the damp smell of earth mingled with the scent of old parchment.
With a heavy exhale, the man reached for his collar.
He unfastened the golden-stitched robe and tossed it carelessly onto the rumpled bedsheets. The flat black mask followed, clattering onto the mattress.
It was Dennis.
He peeled off his shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to his skin, and moved toward the small washroom.
The mirror was cracked, reflecting a fractured image of a man weary of his own charade. He stared at his reflection, his lip curling in disgust.
"Fuck," he muttered, his voice raspy and devoid of the "King's" theatrical projection. "Saying all that was so repulsive... so goddamn cringe."
He turned slightly, examining the map of his own history etched into his skin.
His body was a tapestry of violence. A jagged, white line of a blade-scar ran diagonally from his left shoulder down to his ribs; several circular puncture marks, reminiscent of bullet wounds or spear tips, dotted his lower back; and a faint, mottled chemical burn stretched across his right flank.
He cupped his hands under the faucet, splashing cold, stinging water onto his face.
He held his head down for a moment, letting the droplets fall into the basin before taking a deep, shuddering sigh.
He ran his fingers through his hair, disheveling the neat style he had maintained for the crowd, letting the strands fall wildly over his forehead.
Dennis walked back into the main room.
Next to the bed sat a worn leather sofa. He sank into it, the springs creaking under his weight, and kicked his legs up onto the edge of the bed.
Reaching into his trouser pocket, he fished out a crumpled box of cigarettes and a silver lighter.
With practiced, fluid motions, he tapped the box against his palm until a single cigarette popped out. He caught it with his lips, flicking the lighter in one smooth motion.
The flame danced in his eyes for a second before he lit the tip.
He tossed the lighter and the box onto the bed, the objects bouncing softly on the duvet.
He leaned his head back against the sofa, his throat exposed as he took a deep drag. His hair fell back, revealing the sharp line of his jaw.
For a long moment, he held the smoke in his lungs, savoring the quiet, before exhaling a thick, gray stream that swirled toward the dark ceiling.
Gilgamesh would attack with sheer numbers to overpower us, he thought, watching the embers of his cigarette glow.
With the Grade 1 weapons, my men will be able to penetrate their armors easily. It'll be difficult for them to pierce ours... but they still have the numerical advantage.
He pulled the cigarette from his lips, flicking the ash onto the floor as another stream of smoke escaped his mouth.
He lowered his legs, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. The glowing tip of the cigarette was the only vibrant thing in the room.
But what if Apollo loses?
He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the armrest, the sound dull and steady. He took another drag, the smoke veiling his face.
"No," he spoke aloud to the empty room, his voice barely a whisper.
"They won't. They mustn't. They are terrorists with far more field experience than those laid-back, pampered nobles. As long as I take on Gilgamesh personally, it's doable. But what if Apollo wins and they still have too many survivors?"
He reached up to take another puff, but realized the cigarette had burned down to the filter.
He stared at the stub for a second before crushing it out in a tray and immediately reaching for the box on the bed.
He lit a second one, the spark illuminating his face in the gloom.
He leaned back again, folding his hands behind his head to act as a cushion, his legs returning to their perch on the bed.
He watched the smoke rise in a lazy, aesthetic spiral.
"No worries then," he murmured, a cold pragmatism settling over him. "I can just let Obsidian Fang handle the cleanup."
---
Gilgamesh walked out onto a wide obsidian balcony, his boots clicking with rhythmic arrogance.
Below him, rows of soldiers stood in perfect, terrifying formation.
They were encased in black, skin-tight tactical armors that shimmered like oil slicks. They carried an array of high-tech weaponry—heavy blades, serrated spears, and sleek, matte-black rifles.
Gilgamesh looked down at his army, his eyes brimming with a cold, predatory light.
"Listen carefully," he projected, his voice booming over the courtyard.
"The plan is simple. We will teleport directly to the coordinates and surround their base from all cardinal points. The gunmen will rain down energy rounds first, saturating the area and destroying their primary defenses. Once the dust settles, the vanguard—led by me—will charge forward to slaughter the remnants."
A sharp, confident smirk played on Gilgamesh's lips.
The energy bullets are more than enough for peasants with no vana and archaic armor, he thought.
He reached down and tapped a sleek metallic bracelet on his right wrist.
With a soft hum of machinery, a black, liquid-like fiber began to crawl up his legs and torso, knitting itself together into a skin-tight combat suit.
It surged upward, covering his body perfectly from his feet to the very top of his neck.
Gilgamesh raised a gauntleted hand toward the sky, his silhouette standing tall against the horizon.
"Glory to Humanity!"
"GLORY TO HUMANITY!" the soldiers roared in a singular, deafening union, hoisting their weapons into the air as the air began to hum with the build-up of teleportation energy.
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