-Somewhere in the eastern reaches of Organization territory, August 10, 2292-
Over a century had passed since the 0th Legion laid the first brick to forge the national alliance on this western edge of the old continent. As autumn gradually unfurled across the land near the border, a scene of stark stillness and solitude fully emerged. Winds whistled through the fortifications, biting cold, carrying scattered golden leaves across the barren ground. Trees stood silent in the breeze while their branches lay bare from the autumn chill. The air carried scents of damp earth and decaying leaves, mingled with faint smoke from some dying campfire. Though not utterly desolate, the landscape evoked a profound loneliness, as if the heavens themselves held their breath, awaiting something on the horizon. Nestled in this secretive terrain stood the 4th Legion, a key strategic spearhead of the Organization. At present, the legion occupied a rugged highland plateau where scars from a past war still etched deep into every rock and mound, wounds no amount of technology could heal over.
The base was encircled by layers of pitch-black t-carbon defensive walls, pocked with bullet marks. Nothing beatsreusing old gear that still holds up in the post-war era. Just inside those defenses lay watchtowers, spinning radars, and automated gun emplacements densely arrayed, ensuring no blind spots remained. Military trucks, cargo drones, and troopers in combat armor rumbled ceaselessly, the ground trembling under roaring engines.
The command center, the base's beating heart, was a hulking architectural mass planted dead center, resembling both a nuclear bunker and a living machine. Its outer shell gleamed with high-tech alloy under the sunset sky. Inside, the command hub sprawled across multiple levels like a colossal anthill, linking every department seamlessly so no intel ever lagged. High ceilings bristled with ventilation ducts and thick power cables snaking overhead, pulsing with deep blue nuclear energy flows. Beyond premium lighting, glows emanated from tactical screens, hologram consoles, and server banks humming at peak capacity in every section.
Officers in dark uniforms over lightweight nano-fiber anti-ballistic liners hustled between zones. No need for full combat suits inside the base yet, with no immediate battle looming. Streaming data accompanied them across displays: heat maps, 3D terrain analyses, enemy force layouts, supply line details fetched by nimble scouts.
At the far end of the complex, the air grew heavier with gravity and tension. There stood Lunamaria Whieblod, young commander of the 4th Legion, her white hair neatly bound. Before her loomed a massive curved screen forming a wall of light, simulating and computing the upcoming battlefield in real time. Flickering blue hues danced across the commander's sharp features on her poised, stern face. From those violet eyes poured all data, all life. No, all fates of the legion's soldiers, parsed coldly like chess pieces awaiting the opening move. In a fleeting instant, her lashes lifted, a reflex without a trace of hesitation. Her arm rose, index finger sweeping the display to zoom on the border clash zone, the frailest segment of the Nation's defensive line ripe for shattering.
Scout reports flashed past her peripheral vision: troop deployments, trap coordinates, ambush prep zones. She absorbed it all without pause. For this commander, excess intel beat scarcity every time; better neutralize every suspect spot than miss one. Beneath her uniform's armored layers burned a fierce flame, not from fear of defeat but hunger for victory. A drive to prove once more that she, Lunamaria Whieblod, the Organization's youngest commander in history, would crush all foes. Under her orders, blue dots on the tactical overlay kept purging or hunting prey in suspect areas, like wolves stalking the evening's main course.
"Swift strike operation ready to launch. Shock units have received directives. All assigned forces await final confirmation. Awaiting your command, Commander Whieblod." The room's emotionless virtual assistant intoned from the center.
Lunamaria swept the tactical screens once more for final checks, every motion precise, no breath wasted. After seconds of charged silence, she gave the barest nod.
"Status report." She commanded.
"Strike Team 3 has secured the rally point. Eastern flank nuclear artillery in support position. Powered infantry at alert level one. All assault vectors primed per your plan. All set for 36-hour countdown." The AI replied, data streams racing across the strategic display.
Lunamaria nodded and turned. Donning her commander war-armor, familiar rifle, and customized spear tuned to her combat style, she exited control and strode toward the ranks. Her footfalls echoed coldly through steel-lined corridors to the plaza, where troops formed up in terrifying precision. Drums thundered, stirring and relentless, as legions in standard armor stamped in unison, rigid and synchronized like cogs in a vast engine.
No need for bellows or empty rhetoric. Her presence alone, in a silver commander plate with deep blue nuclear energy bands and the embossed winged IV on her left chest, drew every eye. In that moment, every officer's heart beat as one. Obey and conquer. Lunamaria halted before the picked units for the legion-wide op. No raised voice or forced bass; her words carved straight into souls.
"Swift strike. Fire in 36 hours. No mercy. No retreat. You will tread over enemy corpses. You will plant the Organization's mark on every inch of their soil. That is the order."
"Glory to us! Glory to the Organization!" Lunamaria roared.
The base fell silent. Then the ranks slammed heels down, a thunderous "BOOM" shaking the grounds, stirring even the war-buried bones beneath the mud. In Lunamaria's eyes, the battlefire blazed not alone; something else stirred within, a primal force of power, faith, and unseen drive. Yes, it lived, it breathed, it screamed oaths of radiant triumph and total annihilation of defeat. Meaning she would accept no other end.
That same day, far off in the border buffer splitting the two national alliances, a fort stood defiant amid the highland chill at the Nation's edge. Poised to face the lurking Western continent assault. Just shy of five hundred meters out gleamed a crimson particle magic energy shield. Born from deep-buried pre-Third World War generators, it ran near flawlessly after over a century. But for how long? Unlike stout anti-bomb steel walls, this shield resembled a harmless red mist cloaking vast terrain. Ordinary folk could stroll through effortlessly. Yet few knew that fragile veil could make any weaponsmith weep, even those who birthed the apocalypse dropped on the island nation's cities long ago.
Within that shield, the fort formed part of a mid-sized Nation military outpost. A blend of ancient legend and modern magic tech: faux-stone walls etched with soaring dragon and phoenix motifs from historic sites, interwoven with glossy alloy panels shimmering under ceiling light clusters.
At every outer corner, curved red-tile roofs sheltered automated turrets. Those seemingly archaic guns swiveled steel barrels in all directions, primed to roar at any foolhardy intruder. Long granite-floored corridors echoed with patrolling soldiers' boots. They moved in perfect rhythm, magic rifles gripped tight, eyes sweeping every shadow.
Hologram screens along corridor walls flickered with area maps and shield stats. Thick cable bundles snaked walls, black-insulated and tucked into stone grooves. They channeled magic reactor power to every nook. Thanks to it, wall screens glowed, turrets fired, and the outer mist endured, safeguarding the national alliance's life. As long as the strictly guarded reactor spun, the alliance's safety held firm.
At a corridor balcony, two soldiers stood on night watch. Silvery moonlight filtered through skylights, casting ethereal glows that sharpened the faux-stone concrete angles around them and highlighted their spruce-green uniforms clinging taut. Wrinkle-free, light-absorbing high-tech fabric dulled any gleam. Ranks stowed for events or ops, yet they exuded soldierly gravitas. In their ranks' place, each chest bore the border force emblem: golden wheat sheaves framing a sturdy shield and crimson star, flanked by the national flag's embroidery. From afar, they melted into the night, tension radiating from calm poise. Each clutched an auto-rifle: matte-black e-carbon frame, sleek modern lines. No bulky old magazines; compact energy clips hugged the stock, emitting faint red glows along the contours. One shifted grip; metal clicked in the quiet. They exchanged glances, then broke the watch's first words.
"Shilong, word is you really turned it down?" One spoke, keeping distance.
"Turned what down? Nation Guard? Yeah." Shilong turned, nodding.
"Why? Thought you liked roaming."
"My wife's given birth, Kongsang. Time to put family first. Here, I'm close." Shilong gazed at the shimmering moon, gripping his rifle tighter, fingers trembling at the mention of the newborn.
"What? Kid arrives and no heads-up to the boys? Spill: boy or girl?" His buddy abandoned post, lunged over, and slung an arm around.
"Anyway, Guard promo means better pay, right?" He pressed.
"Girl. Spitting image of her mom. But you wouldn't get it without a wife, Kongsang. Guard means leaving this place. If trouble hits home, how could I cope?" Shilong mused.
"Why worry? Bros got your back. Promo like that, think it over. You're our sharpshooter." Kongsang grinned, squeezing his neck.
Mid-chuckle on watch, distant footfalls sounded. Instantly, they snapped alert, rifles ready, eyes scanning. Air thickened with strain.
"Easy! Shilong, Kongsang, it's us." A familiar voice echoed from the corridor head.
Before them strode two more soldiers. Uniforms matched local cuts, stitching, gear, and weapons. Yet differences showed: black hues over spruce green. Instead of border emblems, their chests bore shields with crossed swords under a black crown, bold I or W inside, embossed N.A.T.I.O.N Guard lettering. Like the others, national flags are embroidered beside. All four hailed from one nation.
"Wang and Zhong? Thought some rat was prowling, turns out you two." Shilong called.
"You ghosts popping up like this, Li Wang and Yun Zhong, gonna catch stray rounds someday." Kongsang laughed, lowering his weapon.
"Occupational hazard." Wang chuckled.
"But the moon's high. What brings you up here? Don't say inspecting us."
"Wouldn't mind. If I were, you'd be toast already." Zhong advanced, slung his rifle back, and hooked arms around both.
"Urk, easy on the choke. So what's the play?" Shilong wrenched free, sidestepped.
"Old man's new orders. We're taking your watch tonight. You two get off early."
"For real? No word reached us." Kongsang broke loose, eyed Wang, the announcer.
"Old man's fresh directive. Check the channel." Zhong re-hooked arms, explained.
Kongsang tapped his left ear; a disguised comm bud materialized. He queried, confirmed, then beamed at his friends. Face lit; looked like extra shut-eye tonight.
"Confirmed. You beat Nation Abyss intel here. Sometimes wonder why you picked Guard over those monkeys." Kongsang laughed, nudged Zhong's gut.
"Didn't want orphan kid rep. Anyway, bounce while you can. Word is old man's dropping new orders tomorrow." Zhong released, stepped back, and straightened gear.
"Right, handing over. We're crashing." They tapped watches, logging the shift.
"Hey, Shilong." Wang fished a fresh smoke pack from his pocket, tossed it over.
"Baby's naming day, holler us."
"You bet." He caught it smoothly, tobacco scent fresh, and nodded thanks.
They traded warm wishes to the holdouts, waved lightly. They vanished silently into the deep corridor shadows. Behind, quiet reigned anew, autumn gales whispering through wall slits. The passage sank back to peace, two homeland sons prepping the relief watch.
The soldier methodically adjusted his uniform flap, motions crisp, silent, blending into the hush. He paced to the balcony, firm hands gripping icy railing, eyes fixed on the distant buffer zone. Moon hung full and high, bathing the low plateau in fragile silver, cloudless. Peaceful? He couldn't say, just stood letting moonbeams caress his pensive face. Behind, his partner tinkered gear, soft clinks blending into the void.
"Done. Strap it on." Zhong called to his brooding buddy after tweaking a suspicious device.
The soldier glanced back, nodded faintly. Under moonlight, he approached, crouched low as silver light swept his dignified uniform. With deft fingers, he inventoried the dubious gadgets. Quick scan confirmed, then he strode the corridor, shadow merging with night. At each pillar's shadowed base, he planted one. Tiny, half a palm, gooey like doughy paste.
At first glance, harmless as kids' play clay, a kindergarten delight of color and creation. But no such charm. Pitch black, like overmixed paints gone wrong, the sort that sends tots wailing over ruined toys turned sludge. He halted at the corridor's end, final count. All set.
On cue, his partner tapped his watch, fingers dancing glass for the covert ploy. Abruptly, the devices blinked red LEDs before going dark. Fleeting grins crossed their lips, swallowed by shadows. Hopefully, night devoured their secrets.
"Report: Team 32 mission complete." Wang tapped his comm, relayed.
Task done, they nodded, eyed each other, resumed posts. Moon still gleamed tonight, and would till dawn.
Time, if anything could pass both cruelly and swiftly, was exactly that. Less than thirty hours after the shift change, the shield of the fortification in this border buffer zone was already glowing under strain. Not because of its own internal power, but because of the enemy's barrage of artillery.
Dawn was only just breaking, the whole area still soaking in the peaceful scent of a quiet night under a sky full of stars, when the first shell went off. The entire fort was jolted awake by the overwhelming force from the enemy's nuclear artillery barrels. Stretching roughly a kilometer along the red mist, hundreds of sickly green nuclear-energy shells from Organization artillery pounded the position without pause. They came from almost every direction, and it did not look like that was all. Outside, the guardian shield shuddered under the pressure of the incoming fire and was visibly fading with every passing second.
Inside the fort, the atmosphere was no better. Alarm sirens screamed madly, drowning out all other sounds, while red emergency lights flooded every corridor, turning the base into a literal furnace. Soldiers in combat under-suits rushed in and out of the armories. Each step was firm, each breath held in, as they darted through departments to grab what they needed. One soldier walked in, and a suit of power armor walked out. High-tech combat war-armors chimed as they booted up, visors flaring to life when the warriors confirmed their identity. Glittering red-particle magic magazines were slammed into weapons. Everything was ready for the prelude to begin. The defensive guns on the high towers started to grind, rotating their barrels and spewing brilliant streams of magic rounds into the suspicious darkness ahead. Nation had begun to answer.
Along the corridors where the fortification was completely engulfed in smoke and flashes, dozens of troopers in high-tech armor kept pouring fire toward the front. Streams of radiant energy rounds wove through the air, only to vanish uselessly against the brutal curtain of enemy fire. In return, each enemy shell was proving its effectiveness as it started to punch through the first protective shield layer of the national alliance, leaving cracks and tiny holes across the blazing red barrier.
"Get down!" Zhong shoved the man next to him to the floor. A shell streaked over both their heads before detonating just behind them.
"Damn it! It's breached already?" Wang yelled as he slammed a fresh magazine home.
"How long to recharge?" Shilong shouted, one hand still locked on his sniper rifle as he aimed at the distant guns.
"Good question, but I'm not a tech officer!" Kongsang snapped back, finger tight on the trigger.
Both sides kept trading blow for blow: as one side's energy artillery detonated, the other side's shields filled with fresh bullet holes. The situation tipped completely when that solid shield finally collapsed altogether.
"Hold the line!" Shilong ducked behind the corridor wall to avoid fire, glancing at the others, who were also shooting back while scrambling for cover.
"Got any other options?" Wang shot back with a bitter edge as he reloaded.
"Looks like those bastards are starting to advance," Zhong reported while checking updates over the comms channel.
"How about we make a little salad out of them? Like the old days!" Shilong called his friends.
"Four hundred out? Not too far?" Kongsang asked.
"A bit close. Make it seven hundred. The prize is their screams." Wang chuckled as he adjusted his scope.
"Alright, seven hundred it is." Shilong folded the front section of his sniper rifle, switching it into a specialized assault configuration.
"Just another day on the wall. No one ever lets me sit one out, huh?" Zhong sighed, then laughed, and adjusted his own tactical scope.
Then all of them popped up over the parapet, raising their magic rifles. Shilong fired first, savoring that old feeling from the days when hitting a target depended purely on the shooter's skill, not some advanced targeting optic. The very first bullet streaked out and struck a perfect gap in an enemy's armor. The first one to cross the seven-hundred-meter line from their wall crumpled, his flight rig still whirring on his armor.
"For the National alliance, for the Emperor!" Wang roared, squeezing off a shot at another target.
"And for Nation!" they all cried out in unison as they opened fire.
No formal order was needed, just a single cue, and every member understood. Fire.
Magic rifles began to roar. Razor-sharp crimson beams scattered along every corridor of the fort and across the defensive bunkers on the wall face. The first shots found their marks. Each round only thinned the enemy's defensive energy fields and was far from enough to kill outright, but the front of the incoming tide slowed immediately. Bodies in powered armor were forced to halt under the unrelenting storm from the fortifications, while others toppled backward, tripping over those behind. At once, they also sought cover and started shooting back. Even with the shield down, neither side had truly seized a decisive advantage yet.
The enemy's answering fire arrived. It came all at once and utterly wild. They fired even as they surged through the shattered shield line on their back-mounted flight rigs. Each nuclear round slammed into the wall face, the parapets, and any shield plate on the defenders' armor. Once they closed to effective range, the Organization's more accurate, more powerful shots drilled straight into the border garrison. Their weapons clearly packed some kind of motion-stabilizing system.
In the nearby corridors, several brothers-in-arms were flung backward from the wall, heads blown off or chests torn open as searing green energy obliterated the last of their personal shields. Soldiers swapped magazines nonstop, unease growing as their own anti-ballistic particle shields thinned with every spent reserve. The enemy's front ranks were being shredded, but the main host kept surging out of the dust cloud. There were more of them than anyone had imagined. And probably more still behind.
"Get ready, boys!" Wang ducked under the parapet, reloading as he powered up his magic shortblade.
"Yeah, let's go carve a few!" Kongsang laughed loudly, activating both his back-mounted flight system and his magic saw.
But Zhong cut across them at once, announcing that retreat orders had come in.
"Retreat? From the old man?" Shilong asked, still sighting down his weapon.
"No. From Commander Stratos." Zhong replied.
"He sent the order? Then that's that." Wang nodded.
Wang immediately relayed the retreat command to all troopers in the corridor sector. No one really understood, but everyone obeyed at once.
"Hey, Wang, Zhong, what is this? We can't pull out from here." Shilong started to push back.
"Orders from command. This isn't your playground anymore." Zhong said as he confirmed the retreat directive on his wrist console.
"You say pull out, and we just pull out? Do you have any idea how important this place is?" Shilong shouted into the squad leader's face. Wang did not react, only reloaded and fired up the flight system on his back. Rally points were already transmitted, and soldiers in the neighboring corridors had begun moving toward the designated coordinates.
"Hey, you owe me an expla—" Shilong did not finish. Kongsang grabbed him by the collar of his armor and yanked him away from the sector.
Under Wang's lead, they all powered up their flight packs in unison and withdrew from the position they had just fought so hard to hold.
Outside the fort, Organization assault artillery units kept pounding relentlessly at the remaining shields in nearby sectors, while vanguard troops gradually infiltrated the central zone. Each war-armor skimmed low, rifles snapping back fire at the diehards clinging to the corridors. Unlike the enemy's wild sprays, every trigger pull dropped a foe up top, forcing them to duck as armor pinged. Individuals adjusted flight paths on the fly, dodging incoming rounds while countering from unexpected angles. Even with comrades hit or losing lift, retreating now was something no coward, no matter how craven, would stomach.
"Press the flanks harder! Breach the center! Focus fire on residual zones! Maintain formation and advance!" The female commander's orders rang out steadily over internal comms.
Squads slammed into key areas with near-perfect precision, sticking tight to the playbook. Thanks to prior scouts, the 4th Legion had mapped every gap in the Nation's lines. That intel let commands dictate exact moves, the entire border buffer etched in their palms. Artillery shells kept thundering toward enemy holdouts, no longer just weakening energy barriers or outer defenses, but guaranteeing overloads where it counted. Though the border guard fought fiercely, the Organization's firepower forced their retreat, abandoning forts under the onslaught. Pressing the advantage, war-armor troopers surged inward, seizing control bit by bit.
Along inner corridors and dead ends, firefights blazed. Even while withdrawing, national guardsmen shot back despite blaring retreat orders. Energy rounds zipped everywhere, sometimes embedding in faux-stone walls, others rupturing particle conduits, spilling Thema particles that stained paths red. Like resilient roaches, rearguards kept firing at legion war-armors. But the 4th Legion ignored it. Engines hummed, muzzles glowed, pressure mounted.
"Secure command sector, own the shields! Control all their guns!" Similar directives kept crackling through every trooper's helmet comms.
The enemy's last pustules were scoured from the fort. They crumbled and fled like craven crickets under theOrganization's unyielding warriors. Mere thirty minutes after vanguards pierced the red mist, defense alerts winked out across the line, darkness itself bowing to justice and resolve. Command posts, once enemy nerve centers, stood empty, echoing only with pioneer tech officers' clattering keys as deft fingers flew over consoles, recoding defenses for takeover.
Corridors fell quiet, firefights' pockmarks the sole trace. Victorious footfalls and vanguard flight packs' roars filled the void, proclaiming Western Old Continent might. The Nation's fort now belonged to the Organization, to them all. Another gleaming triumph carved in annals, avenging predecessors' fall. No mere win, this was heroes' bold manifesto in a new age, vowing to smash scum clinging to foul magic. With undying chestfire, the 4th Legion would etch its name here, primed for glories ahead. But was that all?
"Two hours, forty-seven minutes, twenty-one seconds. Faster by two hours, twelve minutes, thirty-nine seconds. Congratulations, Commander."
On a high ridge overlooking the border buffer between national alliances, an energy spear plunged deep into the soil. Nearly two meters long, its grip ergonomically tuned for fluidity, blade fusing tough t-carbon with glowing beam from its power cell. Silhouetted along the shaft loomed a warrior in a silver commander plate. Matte finish swallowed light, but blue veins blazed under the sun. Its owner: none other than Lunamaria Whieblod, architect of the carnage underfoot. She stood sentinel atop the rise, arms crossed, eyes tracking below to ensure her bold men followed script. Beloved spear's blue nuclear bursts still erupted afar. Glory neared, but was it true? Lashes narrowed behind the visor glass as the AI chimed victory. This swift strike, the legion's gamble, had paid off, and she knew it.
Yet inside the war goddess's chest, chill slithered up her spine, biting the heart. That simple? The question haunted her mind, enough to halt any battlefield veteran in grim reflection. Under the sun god's gaze, triumph rang absolute. But those violet eyes darkened with abyssal shadow.
She murmured, tapped air, fingers sweeping hologram to dispatch urgent orders. In that cosmic hush, the universe bent, gifting fate's smirk to this commander. Lunamaria stood not victorious, but inches from glory. A cruel title to ponder victory's edge.
Under five minutes after the retreat call, rear sectors unleashed crimson energy volleys on fixed targets, old prey. Though reentry was barred, mid-vanguard or lucky escapees grasped the truth: stragglers wouldn't last. Tech officers had timely recalibrated magic shields. Barrier snapped up, halting inner border strikes. Certain?
Shield's rise triggered gooey toys along corridor pillars to detonate in unison. Instantly, zones collapsed as domino columns buckled under explosives. Command lost anchor, crumbling with trapped lives. Shield winked off again, magic barrages raining down.
"Pull back from the front line now! Ambush!" She yanked the spear free, rocketed to fray. Retreat executed, some still lost reunion chances.
Other blasts erupted before she closed. They covered the surrounding earth. Yes, inner radius mined with magic, aimed to bury vanguard. Explosions wove: shells, charges, traps. Forts tumbled, entombing unfortunates. Armor shrugged many weapons, but was fragile against crashing megastructures.
"Damn it! Did that bitch booby-trap her own house?" Lunamaria cursed, landing beyond the fort under an energy shield.
"All units, shift to B36 protocol. Engage the enemy!" Voice hardened, spear ignited, mindset welcoming death-seekers.
War-armors fired thrusters on command. Forearm shields flared, blue flickers cloaking forms. Melee tools like plasma saws and energy blades whirred shrilly, thirsting for armor. Trailing commander, they skimmed ravaged terrain, shields weathering barrages. Some swept mounds, rubble walls, ruined bunkers for high ground to recharge barriers and press tactics.
Artillery paused as hundreds of magic rounds burst from the border, slamming the legion. Lunamaria adjusted flight, silver suit tilting gracefully, weaving death's dance past beams. Rounds whistled helmet-close, embedding rearward in blinding blasts. Not everyone flew so deftly.
Ahead loomed war-armor ranks, ferocious as starved beasts. Equipped like 4th Legion: sharp energy blades for close, plasma rifles for range. But no mere e-carbon or green nuclear; crimson magic particles gleamed.
Spear leading, she impaled a foe's chest. Twirled shaft blocked distant strikes. Swept blade, a head rolled. She pressed, feeling each one upfront. Each "whoosh" dropped scum. Dead or not, pain etched eternal. Life is rarely so tidy.
"Twelve o'clock, high!" AI blared urgent, auto-jinking suit backward.
Instantly, a madman cleaved down, sword biting earth. AI saved her skin. Commanders seized chances. Spear thrust air, homing on reckless fool. He sidestepped, hilt-punched her plate. Caught off-guard, she reeled but regained poise. Stepped back, sized the bold bastard.
His kit: commander-grade, deep blue-black with gold accents, red particle streams along frame, rear thrusters. Left shoulder cloak and emblem she knew well: forward shield, rear crossed swords, black crown. Bold W inside, embossed N.A.T.I.O.N Guard. Most startling: twin blades, jeweled grips.
"Twin blades? Another kid playing Commander?" Lunamaria snorted, mocking via system.
Years campaigning west to east, south to north, from seventeen to legion command at twenty-three, she knew this combo's folly. Flashy, sure, but combat zero. Single-hand longsword plus katana? Cultural mashup or edgy poseur? She scoffed, reset stance. Time to toy with the brat. Spear high, she challenged.
But reality veered. He lunged, slashed down. Spear parried both in nick-of-time, knee buckled her steps back.
"Bastard! You little shit!" She snarled.
He pressed, swords high, tracing red arcs on magic particles. Wrist flicked, spear blazed, tip void-right. No retreat, mere tilt, perfect arc parried each blade. Metal screeched. He spun relentlessly, strikes from angles. The right blade shouldered, the left stabbed the chest. Lunamaria danced, feet gliding, spear whirling light-circle, repelling both amid grating "clangs." Timed strike, tip speared weakest neck-chest gap. He head-tilted, left blade flicked up, halting point inches shy, sparks flying.
"Organization scum fielding women now?" His suit boomed, auto-translated.
Pride stung, teeth ground fury. Spear gripped white-knuckled, killer gaze scanned data overlays, reading his breath. She charged blindingly fast. Spear arced blue, stabbing the brute's chest. Each thrust precise, fueled by will and insult's rage.
Foe raised a left sword, red steel quivering block. Sparks flew, illuminating his masked face. He angled, left swept arc,shoving spear aside, gap for riposte. No waste: right sword up-slashed diagonal to the shoulder. Swift, brutal finisher.
Lunamaria half-stepped, swept tip horizontal, halting blade hairsbreadth. Clang blended with surrounding battle cries. Breathe steady, eyes locked. Post-clash, she read his rhythm. Brat defended left, attacked right. Dumb combo, yet seamless guard-assault weave. Staring at his plate, instinct said he sensed her finesse too. Every thrust, sweep: economical, no waste.
Suddenly, he backpedaled, drew hip pistols. Split-seconds, magic barrage forced spear-parries. She veered right, slung rear rifle, burst-fired. Singles missed. His pistols spat flawless counters. Rounds nullified her every try. Rifle flashed, instant reprisal. Bullet-on-bullet midair poetry.
"What the hell? How's the brat...?" Lunamaria gaped at the impossibility.
No breather: he adjusted, unleashed a bullet storm. She jinked, silver suit skimming soil, dodging whiskers-close while spear-blocking rest. Impacts bloomed white smoke clouds. Not done. He burst through the haze. Twin blades rematerialized from the rom cloak, red magic steel swung melee anew. "Failure" is absent from her lexicon. Millisecond pivot, rifle butt swept blocking left blade. Thrusters yanked the gap, counterprimed.
That agility pressured the enemy commander to hold. They swapped ranges fluidly, neither dominating. Gradually, she saw that blitz tactics failed. Foe wasn't brute strong alone; adaptive battlefield fox, leagues beyond past vanquished.
Fatal flaw emerged. Minutes in, she slipped into his tempo. Surprise low-up thrust gutward. System yanked her back. Post-near-miss, she vowed not to follow his beat, but the frontline hold was untenable. Decision crystallized.
She leaped back to, safe distance, smoke grenade to earth. White veil bloomed, blinding cover. Comms blared retreat, bitter pill. Flare rocketed skyward, white streak piercing haze: pullback signal, squads to fallback formation.
Amid fog, pistols lowered warily, tracking fading shadow. Confirming enemy peel-off, blue-black suit ordered no pursuit. Thrusters fired, back to the fort. Surveying, helmet off, collar adjusted.
"Hey Stratos, plans for gasping POWs down there?" Another trooper skimmed up, one hand forward, the other unmasking.
"Patch 'em and border-drop! Let Legion I handle rest, Wang!"
Wang boomed in laughter, Chainin traits beaming: flared nose, blocky U40 face. Saluted crisp, jetted to rubble.
He nodded faintly, eyes to buffer. Pensive silence let the sun dance with sharp features, a balanced nose. No one guessed this unscratched warless face had booted transborder foes homeward. Funnier: none pegged U30 origins North or Southeast Western; both fused in his lines. Nor cared for such trivia.
"All units, prep withdraw!" Stratos commed, tweaking earpiece translator.
"Next time, no easy out!" He muttered post-adjust, turned to the troops, and was ready for threats.