"It's been three days already, old man!" The man leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the veteran before him, fingers playing with a lock of black hair as he stressed the nickname everyone in the unit used.
"Managing the magic core is the responsibility of the national forces! That's not your concern, Stratos. You have no right to interfere with the operation of the core!" The old general, well past sixty, replied, but barely paid any attention to the man across from him.
"So, how do you explain the shield collapsing in less than three hours?" Stratos leaned forward, staring straight into his rival's pupils.
"As I said, we have no obligation to report to a kid like you. I have no idea how you managed to sit in that chair. But as your senior, let me remind you, this is Chainin, not Urasus." The furrows on his forehead slowly uncreased as his old lips sipped at a mug of coffee.
"And let me remind you, kid! Your demolition of the fortification has already been reported to headquarters. So I hope you know how to keep that general's chair for yourself." The man continued, bushy, silver brows arching as he sent a mocking smile Stratos's way.
Under the cold glow from the ceiling's cluster of magic lamps, the young general simply gave a slight nod and a fleeting smile. Then he let his back relax into the chair, scanning the room with unhurried eyes; nothing had changed in three days. The hurried steps of communications officers kept time with the constant rhythm of updates about military units moving across the battlefield, sometimes broken by reports from engineers repairing damaged structures. Everything moved in an orderly, repetitive cycle, like a scene from a film on endless repeat.
He tilted his head, gaze drifting right. In that spot, the three-dimensional terrain board glowed, every detail needed to form a masterpiece of war revealed. Enemy reds blinked over the carved, winding terrain that seemed hewn from sacred earth, while the blue insignias of subordinate units dominated the outlying zones. Every shrinking centimeter became a thread of faith in absolute victory. Yet the commander only watched in silence, and apathy was all the other officers ever saw in his dark irises. Perfect strategy, flawless plan? No, none of these had ever been his true desire. Beneath the calm exterior, a single doubt remained, and waiting was the wisest action anyone could choose. But after over seventy-two hours, it had finally come. The storm was here, right on the border.
"Commander, report! We've found the location of the magic core!" An officer in Nation Guard uniform rushed in to report.
"What? How…?" The old general sprang to his feet, wrinkled hands slamming down on the table, eyes wide behind thick glasses, unable to believe what he heard.
"Don't get so agitated, we're all on the same side, right, old man?" Stratos stood, stretched, yawned, and signaled to the reporting officer.
"In that case, please lead the way."
"Yes, sir!" The officer left the command room, Stratos followed, and the gaunt, aging general had to trail behind, dissatisfaction marked on every line and muscle of his face.
Throughout the base's halls, the footsteps of busy soldiers echoed everywhere. Unlike the frontline fortifications, the tentacles and shells of those pale-skinned enemies across the border had yet to touch this place. Still, the image of the national shield once defending the homeland appeared vivid here. Sunlight from wide skylights poured into the corridors, sparkling off the polished stone floor, reflecting the determined stride of each marching soldier. Along the faux-stone walls, energy cables snaked through carved grooves, crimson glimmers marking the circulatory system that pulsed life into every device in the base. Between cables, hologram screens hovered, blinking streams of tactical data: terrain, defensive state, signals and reports from the fortifications. These were the eyes of the base, always watching and evaluating the fate of the land.
The thud of armored boots echoed occasionally as high-ranking officers walked across granite, steps beating out a steady cadence. His companions were officers of Company I, the old general and his bodyguards. Everyone's gaze seemed focused on the figure ahead, but under the surface, motives diverged. He didn't need to mind to know what each person was feeling. He walked on, sunlight streaming through skylights to glint off jet-black hair, his crisp shadow drawn sharp on the polished stone. It was nearly noon, that shadow must have stretched nearly six feet.
Bathed in the sun god's radiance, his jet-black uniform highlighted a powerful frame, detailed with fading gold and deep red piping. Not a crease, not a stray stitch, never shining as the high-tech cloth swallowed all light except at the frayed edges. On his right shoulder, the unit insignia was worn by the noon sun, yet the bold W and golden crown stood out, a detail that separated him from any officer whose insignia bore a bold I. On his right chest, neither flag nor ornament, just a tiny steel rank badge and the polished Nation insignia: a testament to his oath of responsibility and discipline to the bloc. Down the left, a thick cloak's hem brushed the floor, hiding his entire arm and swaying with every step.
After a while, the group halted before a massive steel door hidden in a cold, secluded cave outside the base. This was not the bustling heart of any fortress, but a dark, damp, silent vault. The perfect hiding place for the nation bloc's greatest secrets. Stratos stepped forward, black cloak billowing in another updraft, when two door guards immediately shot out blocking all three. To them, what lay beyond was forbidden, accessible only with a special directive or the old man's approval. No one crossed without that.
"Now you're still going to resist?" Stratos glared at the senior at his side.
"I'm not resisting you, Stratos, but as I said, this is Chainin, not Urasus. We have the right to protect national secrets while still obeying the bloc. Remember, Nation Guard is forbidden to interfere in internal affairs," the general folded his arms and smirked, sure of his victory.
Tension thickened the air. The general stood tall, radiating confidence. Stratos's subordinates could only wait in silence. The law he invoked was steel now, written at the bloc's founding to ensure that except for the Emperor, no one could override collective rules. The commander could only bow his head, sigh, and shake it in frustration. The world seemed frozen, this could be the end of today's act.
"Red code!" Stratos drew his badge and held it before the guards. Instantly, a digital command came over internal comms, confirming his highest authority.
"Yes, sir!" The guards snapped to attention, saluting but never quite meeting his gaze, stepping aside with equal parts respect and fear.
Stratos walked forward, did not look back, letting his figure shine on the stone threshold. The old general behind him gaped, all self-satisfaction shattered into shock at the younger man's reversal. At the door, Stratos pressed his badge to the lock. A "beep" sounded, followed by the AI's cold greeting, and a heavy steel door slowly opened to reveal a mysterious, red-lit world within.
He entered the chamber, a nuclear core management station supplying magic energy to the base just a few hundred meters away. Beside the entrance, a wide monitor flooded the room with feeds from every surveillance camera. Soot-darkened skylights above let in the full force of noon's sun, lighting a bustling control hub where humans and machines calculated and guarded the defensive power of the red mist at the front. Following the hall, the room wrapped almost completely around the Thema reactor, the magic core, top secret to the nation bloc, encased and defended by thick, transparent f-carbon, set at the room's center. But the commander cared for none of that.
"You're the first to force me to use red code, old man."
He stepped up to the control desk. Here, a young tech officer sat monitoring the reactor to insure nothing went wrong. In the corner, a half-finished ceramic coffee mug seemed almost magical itself, remaining untouched for weeks or months, waiting for a last sip. As Stratos arrived, the officer snapped to attention and saluted.
"Report: No issues since Organization's incursion!"
"What's the particle density?" Stratos swept the room with his gaze.
"Report, always maintained at level nine!" The officer stiffened, a pallid color chasing away his natural flush, beads of sweat running down his cheek.
"Always maintained?" Stratos cocked his head, staring him down.
"Report, always maintained!" The officer, now ghostly white, knees visibly shaking.
"Are you sure, soldier?" Stratos narrowed his eyes, stressing 'soldier' as he quietly unlocked his holster.
"Report, sure, always at level nine!"
"Good, well done." Stratos's tone shifted, a smile lighting his face. But then,
"Check the particle density adjustment history!" The smile vanished into a cold, sharp command.
"Sir, this, without special order—"
"Do you want me to repeat myself? Check the particle density adjustment history!" Stratos barked, cutting him off.
"That's enough, kid! Even with red code, you're not allowed to interfere in operations. Your dogs have no such right!" The general roared from behind, cursing both the young commander and everyone with an I on their insignia.
Stratos ignored him. Instead, he stepped up and firmly moved the officer aside. He worked the controls directly after slotting in a suspicious device. Each click brought up a new window, each command a new graph. Gradually, every graph appeared on the command screen. If minutes earlier all the displays showed routine reactor status updates, at this moment they filled with technical data, graphs, timed entries, and a bold "Compiling" message.
When the "complete" message flashed, it coincided with the shot. Crimson magic streaked past the commander's hair and smashed right into the front screen, exploding the computer system. Stratos, spinning reflexively, drew his gun and aimed at the attacker, but it was too late.
The second shot rang out, launching a compressed pulse of Thema directly into the hand of the insolent interloper. The magic pistol fell from Stratos's hand, blood dripping onto the floor as he grabbed his hand, sinking low.
At that moment, the W commander's lost gun triggered a reaction in every national guard officer. No shouts or orders needed, just one sound, and all targets were designated. In a heartbeat, every border and technical soldier's rifle and pistol were lifted, muzzles aligned with the threat to their "old man." Under the soft, sooty daylight, each reflected its prey, deep red energy ribbons distorting reality as Thema and the present twisted together. Fingers tensed on triggers, awaiting only the signal for a killing volley.
Across the way, Company I's bodyguards yielded nothing. Head counts meant nothing, and all responded as if one system. Their refined magic rifles snapped up, sighted on the national guard officers. Determination crashed directly against opposing barrels, making the air thick, each breath misting before vanishing into the crimson shimmer running through every magazine. Rounds chambered, prey ever in the sights.
"You've got nerves poking into my business, haven't you Stratos? Looks like a brat's about to meet the MPs for opening fire in the base!" The general sneered, a mocking lilt as he took comfort in the muzzle levelled at him. It seemed he figured this youngster was nothing but a puppet promoted for appearances.
"Old man,"
Before the words finished, what greeted his smug face was a boot to the chin. The snap echoed as the guards stared, but a single thump on the floor from the just-upended commander was enough to freeze the lines in place.
"If you surrender, maybe I won't file this with the MPs. You don't want to go down for damaging bloc property."
Bang.
A magic shot sliced by, grazing the arrogant general's ear. With that, both lines reacted very differently. National guards opened up, an unwise answer, only to see after the smoke that Company I had thrown a particle shield. But this was not the end.
"You hunting dogs don't have any right to shoot!" A national guard barked, and their comrades took up the cry.
Their words meant nothing as piping-hot rations cooled, replaced by the harshest sort of grudge match. No matter the cramped surroundings, the hazy sunlight, or the beeping machines, what remained were the battle cries and the endless epic of buzz saws and swords.
Moments earlier, the tension had given way to bloodlust. Green-armored warriors fired up chain saws and magic blades, pouncing for new targets in this suffocating place. Red-hot swords crackled with Thema, like wolves slavering to rip flesh from bone. They stormed the Company I guards, every stroke drawing a dazzling wound through the air.
Company I was pressed to the limit, forced to hold their line with only their shields as the front and the two commanders battled in the rear. Shields shimmered with red, a last line before their brethren's fury. The clang and crash, the sparks as magic saws crashed against shields, rang out so loud the cables hummed. Behind his helmet, a guard gritted his teeth, blocking a downstroke, just barely holding his stance as his foot slid backward. In such a restricted space, every motion had to be controlled, and every inch fiercely contested.
The national guards pressed the attack, magic swords flashing in fierce arcs. One swung low for his enemy's flank, but the defender twisted, angling his shield to deflect the blade, sending sparks across a nearby hologram that exploded. Seizing the moment, the guard drew a magic dagger and stabbed for a gap in the opponent's armor, but these soldiers were well-trained for exactly this. A sidestep sent the attacking blade in a diagonal swipe, forcing the foe to turtle up defensively.
Still, that advantage couldn't last. With a shout from behind Company I's armored line, mobile gun bits suddenly appeared overhead, and gunfire broke out.
National guard armor was instantly overwhelmed by the barrage. Their shields overloaded, then went dark, unable to cope; jetpacks ran dry and were immediately destroyed as other detonations shook the line. The energy packs exploded, their armor ruined in under two minutes since that last desperate shout. When the smoke cleared, the sons of Chainin stood in stunned silence, and what greeted them was a barrel pointed straight at their heads.
The worst for every border guard and engineer wasn't their lives hanging by a thread, but that their revered general, the fort's commander, now knelt before the crimson blade of his opponent, one severed hand still clutching a pistol.
"You bastard, you just—"
Another shot from behind pierced straight through the officer's shield, embedding itself in his helmet. He collapsed, limp on the ground, brain and lungs stilled forever.
"Particle density must always remain around six, raised to nine when ordered. Seems you love resistance more than cooperation." Stratos, gaze still sharp, stared down at the cowering general cradling his lost hand, magic pistol trained on the recent complainer.
He tapped the air after sheathing his sword, immediately the suspicious device in the ruined console blinked incessantly, and a virtual display portrayed the entire history of particle density over a long period.
"Level two for four years, never raised after the order. Makes me wonder if you care more about skimming off the top than your subordinates' lives." He went on.
As Company I's shields faded, Stratos stood tall, eyes sweeping the border guards cowering before lethal weapons. Unmoved, he nodded and summoned another virtual screen, which now hovered before the visors of every soldier. There, bitter truths flashed, truths any mediocre intellect could grasp.
"Sons of Nation. Do you still pledge loyalty to someone like this?" Once again, he fixed the muzzle on the kneeling, humiliated general.
"Remember three days ago, when the pale apes stormed the border, trampled on your comrades' blood and bones. Remember the moment the wall collapsed and each brother fell because of this bastard!" he called out, so every soldier would know what it meant to have loyalty trampled.
"Think carefully! If the defensive field had been raised to nine as it should have been, would your brothers lie dead out there? Or is it all because of that cursed damned number on the display?"
"Stratos, you—"
The magic pistol barked again cutting off the curse. The bullet tore through the general's leg, leaving him writhing on the ground as blood pooled across the floor.
"You bastard…" He hissed clutching both injuries, rage still unyielding.
One by one, the national guards reconsidered. Rifles and gleaming swords that had once been raised to defend the revered general now sank. Slowly, as if reality itself pressed on their arms. Inside each Chainin son, loyalty crumbled, giving way to something unnameable, something unfit for the harshest military ranks, something impossible to define. A few refused to believe, but the numbers on the screen never lied. Eyes glued to the evidence, they wondered why the density was two instead of nine. These questions and new disappointments burrowed deep. Eventually, all realized one truth, if the revered general truly put their interests first, if he cared about their families and lives, why had that number never changed?
In the end, that so-called revered general was escorted away by his own men. The body of the unlucky soldier was efficiently dealt with. Even so, the general spat the vilest curses he could muster, words a real commander should never say. Stratos paid him no heed, hurrying back to the command room; there were problems to solve, especially the pale-skinned enemy and their nuclear technology waiting across the border.
No sooner had he entered the command room than his eyes locked on the three-dimensional simulation, the sharp signals flickering aggressively. Over the terrain's virtual model, icons representing Legion 4 of Organization blazed and blinked, moving with a speed and discipline that would make any soldier wary. Every red dot on the map was no longer just a blip. Now they pulsed and leaped to a deadly rhythm, a single moment's distraction could mean destruction.
Stratos stood tall, arms crossed, eyes sweeping every detail on the screen. The room's atmosphere thickened, choked absolutely by the concentration not just of the commander but of every soldier of Company I and the national deputy commander. Even as the enemy's strongholds flipped to blue as our forces advanced, the remaining red dots never faded. They gathered, reorganized, maneuvered with terrifying precision, like a wounded beast snarling for a counterstrike.
"We took their major positions, but they're regrouping even faster than expected?" Stratos wondered aloud, tapping the desk as his gaze never left the map, where the enemy's shifting deployment was now clear. This was the mark of a new, more cunning plan.
As he wrestled with likely scenarios, Wang entered, tossing a thick file onto the table. "Everything you need's here. If you want more, ask Kaslava."
"Oh Wang, if you can, check the logistics for the border troops. We need extra evidence to drag that bastard to court, and add the kid who was shot to the list of fallen in the last mission."
Wang signaled his understanding, leaving the fortification's temporary command to a man who'd once guarded this border with a rifle. When Wang left, Stratos exhaled deeply, staring down at the hand shot earlier, now miraculously without a scratch. He eased out another long breath and turned the file's heavy pages.
Lunamaria Whieblod, female, graduate of Deutland's senior officer academy. His pupils slid paragraph by paragraph, volunteered for service at sixteen, brows rising, became commander of Legion 4 one year post-graduation thanks to celebrated heroics, tongue clicking with respect. Even lacking details, these records easily painted the picture of a formidable young female commander. Resounding victories against rival nations, the ability to coordinate troops with near-perfect precision, a fearless direct approach that put herself at risk to grasp the frontline's reality. What most amused his mind was that all this intel was openly filed in Organization's own database, as if the enemy wanted to dare every foe, know your opposing commander as you will, defeat is still inevitable. Yet even then, he knew the truly vital information must still be hidden, making her a dangerous unknown. Resting his gaze on the display, he watched as Legion 4's units continued moving like chess pieces on her board.
Refocusing on the simulation, he let out a breathless sigh, unconsciously gripping the rune-engraved sword pair at his hip. Though inanimate, maybe spirit lingered there, carvings on the blade shimmered scarlet, the gemstone tips scattering tiny bright Thema. Those swords, too, perhaps relived the moment steel clashed amid the dust of battle, both weapons dancing for a purpose dear only to their wielders. In a moment, he rose and quietly made for the exit. In the distance, reconstruction work on the fortification began again, but it no longer mattered. He looked instead to a horizon far beyond.
"Going to the front yourself, huh? Interesting,"
Excitement shone from his Asian features. Was that a rare expression or a fleeting, indescribable thrill? Narrowed lashes signaled old memories, the spiraling thrust of a spear at impossible speed, parrying every blow, the sudden switch to a rifle when close combat brought no edge. These were not simply skills but the instincts of a strategist who seizes every split second on the field.
"Five outposts lost but they still reorganize, impressive."
He smiled faintly, though no one could tell whether from pride and satisfaction or the joy of finding a worthy rival in battle. Could this be the harmony of an exchange across two warring fronts? He found himself intrigued, maybe a little thrilled, thinking of a woman who could unsettle even the Nation Guard's generals. Still, admiration faded as quickly as it came, replaced by the constant vigilance of a commander who never lets down his guard. He drew a slow, deep breath, focusing on his mission, defend the bloc no matter the cost. And Lunamaria, for all her brilliance, was still a threat that would need eliminating.
"Prepare for every situation. That woman will not stop and neither will we," He turned, giving direct orders to the others in the room, hand resting on his sword while warm energy from the engraved runes reminded him of the battle still to come.