"That's three days, old man!" The man leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the general before him. His fingers toyed with a lock of black hair as he emphasized the nickname everyone in the unit called him.
"Managing the magic core is the national force's job! Not yours, Stratos! You have no right to interfere with its operations!" The sixty-something general replied, but his focus drifted away from the man opposite.
"So how do you explain the shield collapsing in under three hours?" Stratos leaned forward, staring straight into the man's eyes.
"As I said, we have no duty to report to a kid like you. I don't know how you climbed to that seat. But as your senior, I hope you understand this is Chainin, not Urasarus." Wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out slowly before the aged mouth took a light sip of coffee.
"Also, let me remind you of this, kid! Your fort demolition has been reported to HQ. So I hope you know how to keep that general's chair." He continued, silver eyebrows arching as he looked at Stratos with a mocking smile.
Under the light from the magic ceiling lamps, he responded only with a faint nod and a fleeting smile on his lips. Then the young general relaxed his spine before settling back against the chair. His gaze swept slowly around the room, unchanged these past three days. Still, the hurried footfalls of intel officers blended with the rhythm of constant updates on units crisscrossing the battlefield, occasionally interspersed by engineer reports on repairing damaged structures. All rhythmic, steady, like a film loop repeating over the days.
He tilted his head slightly, letting his gaze settle to the right. There, the 3D terrain board glowed brightly, displaying all necessary intel to paint a masterpiece of war. While enemy reds blinked nonstop on sharp, winding landforms sculpted from Mother Earth, blue unit emblems under his command dominated nearby zones completely. Each centimeter closing signaled faith in absolute victory. But the commander watched silently, and indifference was all the other officers saw in their superior's deep black eyes. Perfect strategy, smooth plan? No! None of it was what he craved now. Beneath that calm lay one sole doubt, and waiting was the best any could do. But after over 72 hours, it had truly arrived. Yes, that storm had officially taken shape right at this border.
"Report, Commander! Magic core location found!" A Nation Guard officer in uniform burst in, breathless with the report.
"What? How in the...?" The general shot to his feet, slamming wrinkled hands on the table. Eyes widened behind his bifocals, as even he couldn't believe what he'd heard.
"Easy there, we're all on the same side anyway. Right, old man?" Stratos stood, stretched his arms, yawned long, then glanced at the officer and signaled.
"Lead the way then!"
"Yes, sir!" The officer bolted from the command room; Stratos followed, while the gaunt old general was forced to trail. Displeasure showed plainly in the man's facial muscles and wrinkles.
Along the base corridors, trooper footfalls bustled nearly everywhere. Unlike the fort sector, the white devils' tentacles and shells from across the border hadn't reached here yet. Even so, the image of the old national shield lingered vividly in this area. Sunlight poured from wide-open skylights, bathing the halls, making granite floor tiles sparkle and reflect the shadows of resolute soldiers striding with determination. On faux-stone walls, energy cables snaked through grooves, flickering deep red, the lifeblood of the base pumping vitality into every device. Interspersed, hologram screens hovered, flashing tactical data streams: terrain maps, defense statuses, fort signals, and reports. They were the base's eyes, ceaselessly watching and assessing the land's fate.
War-armor boot clanks echoed occasionally as high brass strode the granite floors, each step striking a rhythmic tune. Flanking him were Legion I subordinates, the old general, and guards. Though eyes casually forward, deeper motives varied. No need to scrutinize to read their moods. He kept walking, sunlight piercing skylights onto his raven-black hair, casting sharp shadows on glittering granite—near noon, shadow roughly 1.9 meters.
Under the sun god's glow, the jet-black uniform stood out sharply, hugging his toned frame, accented with gold edges interwoven with deep red, faded in spots. Straight as an arrow, no wrinkles, no loose seams, no crooked stitches, no shine as high-tech fabric absorbed all light, but faintly frayed at edges. The collar bore a small gold rank bar with a lone bright star. Right shoulder: sun-faded unit emblem, bold W under gold crown—distinct from I-emblazoned officers. Right chest: no flag, no baubles, just stamped steel nameplate and polished Nation symbol, testament to oath of duty and discipline to the national alliance. Left side: thick cloak frayed at hem, draping the arm and swaying with its owner's steps.
Moments later, the group halted before a massive steel door hidden outside the base. This spot hid fully in a cold stone cavern, cut off from the outside world. Unlike the fort's bustle, dim, damp, and silent. Perfect to stash the national alliance's deepest secrets. Stratos stepped forward, black uniform cloak billowing in the draft. Instantly, two door guards lunged out, hands raised to bar all three. To them, inside was forbidden ground; no special order or old man's approval crossed that threshold.
"This far along, still resisting?" Stratos shot a glare aside.
"Not resisting you, Stratos! But as I said, Chainin, not Urasarus. We guard national secrets while following alliance directives. Remember: Nation Guard doesn't meddle in national force internals." The general crossed his arms, smirking as victory seemed in his grasp.
Air grew heavy. The general stood tall, triumph gleaming. Beside him, subordinates are silent, waiting. He was right. The cited law was a steel barrier now. A founding code ensuring no individual, bar the Emperor, overrode collective rules, no matter the power. The commander could only bow his head, sigh, and shake wearily. Space froze; perhaps today's show's end.
"Red code!" Stratos decisively drew his sector card from his pocket, flashing it at the guards. Instantly, a digital command lit the internal comm, confirming red code supreme authority.
"Understood, sir!" Guards snapped to attention, saluting rigidly but eyes averted. They stepped aside, yielding with awe-tinged fear.
Stratos advanced without a backward glance, shadow etching the stone threshold. Behind, the general gaped, smugness shattered, stunned by the young commander's reversal. At the door, a card to lock. A beep sounded, followed by the AI's cold welcome voice. Then the heavy steel door slowly parted, revealing a mysterious world within, red lights pulsing like a tempting invitation.
He stepped into the room, a nuclear core management station coordinating magic energy supply to the base mere hundreds of meters away. Beside the entry, a vast observation screen overflowed with feeds from surrounding camera systems. Overhead, a wide skylight is sooty at the edges. Noon sun flooded fully, illuminating the bustling control where humans and machines collaborated to compute and sustain the red mist defenses at the fort. Further along the corridor, the room nearly encircled the Thema reactor—or magic core—the national alliance's ultimate secret. Encased in thick transparent f-carbon at the dead center. But that wasn't the commander's concern.
"You're the first to force me to use red code, old timer!"
With that, he stepped to the control console. A young tech officer sat monitoring the reactor's operations, ensuring no issues arose. In one corner of the console, a half-empty ceramic coffee mug sat miraculously untouched in its spot, placed there weeks or months ago. Today, it rested mid-sip, awaiting resumption. As he approached, the officer shot to his feet and saluted crisply.
"Report: no issues since the Organization clash!"
"Particle density?" He swept his eyes around, then asked.
"Report: steady at level 9!" The officer stiffened rigidly. Though poised, his healthy flush drained to pallor, sweat beads trailing slowly down his cheek.
"Steady?" Stratos cocked his head slightly, eyes boring into the soldier.
"Report: steady!" The face went fully ashen, legs starting to quiver.
"Sure about that, soldier?" He narrowed his eyes, stressing "soldier," while casually flicking open his hip holster.
"Report: sure... steady at... nine!"
"Good! Fine work!" Stratos softened his tone, flashed a smile at the man before him. But...
"Pull particle density adjustment history!" The smile vanished instantly, followed by a dry, crystal-clear order down to every character.
"Sir... this... no order—"
"Want me to repeat? History!" He cut the officer short, voice hardening.
"Kid, enough! Red code doesn't mean you meddle in operations. You Guard dogs have no rights!" The old general bellowed from behind, not just cursing the young commander but all with I-emblems on their chests.
Stratos ignored the rear general entirely. Instead, he advanced, nudged the officer aside gently. Rather than let the man continue, he keyed commands directly after plugging in a suspicious device. Each mouse click summoned a new screen, and each line entered a new graph. Soon, charts flooded the command display. Minutes ago, mere status updates; now specs, timelines, notes, with "Compiling" bolded across the main screen.
And when "Complete" appeared...
Bang!
The shot rang out. A deep crimson magic bolt streaked, grazing the commander's hair before slamming the screen dead ahead. A small blast wrecked the system. Stratos reacted instantly, spinning to draw his rear pistol, aiming straight at the bastard who fired. But too late.
Bang!
Second shot cracked. Compressed Thema particles left the barrel, nailing the nosy intruder's hand. The magic pistol flew from the commander's grip as blood dripped freely to the floor. Stratos clutched his hand, buckling slightly.
Sector W commander's miss triggered crystal-clear national force reflexes. No orders, no shouts; a single "click" locked targets. In a heartbeat, every tech and border soldier's magic rifles and pistols were ready. Barrels rose, zeroed on their old man's threatener. Under dim light from black clouds and soot, muzzles mirrored prey images. Red particle streams along guns warped frames into grotesque illusions where Thema bled into reality. Still, fingers hovered over triggers, awaiting the cue for killshots.
Across the room, Legion I guards refused to yield an inch. Numbers meant nothing to them. Synced like a single machine, they reacted in perfect unison. Tuned magic rifles snapped up as one zeroed on the nationals facing them. Resolve crashed against hostile muzzles, turning every breath labored and thick. Mid-autumn chill from the northern Chainin highlands turned exhales to faint mist mingling with tiny red glows racing along magic clips. Rounds chambered prey locked in sights.
"Stratos, you've got balls poking my business. Looks like a kid faces MPs for unauthorized base shooting." The old general crowed a mocking lilt, spotting his man's hot barrel on the foe. He figured the boy was just some propped-up punk handed the rank.
"Old fuck-"
Boot cracked that pretty jaw before words landed. Sharp snap stunned the guards. But a downed commander's floor-tap froze ranks solid.
"Surrender and maybe no MP report. You don't want national alliance property destruction on your sheet-"
Bang!
Magic round streaked grazing the arrogant general's ear. Two forces erupted in opposite ways. The Nationals lost an unwise volley. Smoke thinned, revealing Legion I particle shields flared high. Not done.
"Guard dogs got no shoot rights." A national roar, others echoed the cry.
Words fell as hot meals cooled, yielding a grand cold feast. Cramped core station, forgotten-pale sun, clawing sooty vents and skylights, leftover console beeps drowned. Now war cries wove an endless saw-sword saga.
Tension shattered into bloodlust. Spruce-green war-armor hummed chainsaws and magic blades aglow, hungry for guests in the stifling vault. Crimson edges spat, Thema flecks like wolves coiled to rend. They surged guards, each slash blinding rift, carving air, hellbent on room-shred.
Legion I pinned tight, formed a desperate line against roaring war-armor ahead, brawling commanders behind. Energy shields their sole desperate stand. Red shields gleamed final bulwark against kin-fury. Clangs thundered, sparks erupted, each magic tooth gnashed, shocks buckled consoles, cables thrummed, harp-strings. One guard, teeth-gritted behind a visor, shoved a shield, catching overhead cleave. Impact reeled him half-step, boot skidded floor. Cramped hell contracted under battle crush every twitch measured no inch squandered.
Nationals hammered unyielding blades that whirled searing arcs. Horizontal hip-slash foe tilted shield deflection sparks showered nearby hologram exploding in shards. Gap seized for dagger-thrusted armor seam. Nationals drilled for exactly this-sidestep prior blade diagonal sweep forced crouch defense.
Dominance brief. Legion I rear scream mobile guns materialized overhead every border soldier. Weapons barked fury.
National war-armor drowned in a magic gun deluge. Shields overloaded winked black. Rear flight packs bled dry,wrecked instantly. Blasts ripped through soldier batteries, burst armor shredded under two minutes, and that shriek. Smoke dissolved, Chainin sons stilled. Barrels kissed their skulls.
But the worst sight searing every border trooper and tech's eyes wasn't lives dangling by threads. It was their revered old man, the fort's commanding general, crumpled on his knees before a crimson blade tip, severed hand still clutching a pistol to the dirt.
"You bastard, what did you-"
Bang!
A rear shot pierced the guard shield and nailed the helmet dead center. Foe flipped backward, sprawled limp. Lungs stilled, brains reduced to pulped mess.
"Particle density holds steady six ramps to nine on order. But you preferred defiance over cooperation?" Stratos stared down the cowering general, cradling his stump magic pistol, trained on the earlier motormouth.
He air-tapped the resheathing blade. A wedged wreck-device blinked frantic hologram bloomed before him, spilling long-term density logs.
"Locked at two, four straight years ignored every order. Wonder if underlings' lives weighed less than your cut?" He pressed.
Legion I shields faded. Stratos stood unbowed, sweeping cowed nationals under mobile gun maws. Unshaken, he head-tilted air-tapped again. Holograms ghosted every soldier's visor, damning numbers blinking bitter truth any midwit grasped.
"Nation's sons! Loyalty to this?" Barrel jammed, kneeling general's shame-warped face.
"Recall three days past, white monkeys stormed the border, trampling brothers' blood and bone. The wall crumbled,comrades fell for this bastard." He roared, imprinting loyalty's boot-heel feel.
"Ponder it. Density nine as should've brothers left rotting outside? Or just that damned cursed screen number?"
"Stratos, you-"
Bang! Magic roared, silencing the curse bullet that tore the thigh. He collapsed in agony, wrist blood pooling floor-wide.
"Bast... fuck..." Curled, he rasped free hand, clawing wounds. Pain raged, hatred burned.
Nationals, one by one, pondered. Rifles blades meant shielding the old man, lowered reality slowly crushing their grips. Chainin sons' loyalty cracked, yielded nameless rift army's harshest voids forbid. Some clung to denial screens, lied not. Stated why two, not nine. Doubts, disappointment burrowed minds. All grasped that if the revered old man truly prized their families' lives, why unchanged?
In the end, that "revered" general was hauled by his own pupils. The dead soldier tidied neatly. Still, he spat filth unfit general's lips at the exiting commander. Stratos ignored. Legs hastened base command; more threats loomed, especially transborder whites' nuclear tech.
Boot heels barely crossed the command threshold before eyes locked onto the 3D sim screen signals blazing ferocious. Terrain blocks crawled with Organization 4th Legion icons pulsing alive, coordinated, dreadfully precise, any soldier dreaded. Map reds no mere pings now-they breathed danced lethal rhythm laxity equaled doom.
Stratos stood rigid, arms crossed, chest scouring every detail. Room air thickened, choked, absolute focus not his alone but Legion I warriors national deputy commander, too. Enemy outposts greened ours, dominant yet lingering reds sharpened unyielding. Clustered, reformed prowled ghostly accurate wounded beast snarling counterstrike.
"Lost key points yet regroup faster than planned?" Finger drummed the table, eyes glued map for formations,clarifying. Textbook new cunning scheme brewing.
Mid commander's scenarios, Wang strode in dossier slapped the desk.
"All you need right here. More ask Kaslava!" Wang clipped and turned to exit.
"Wang, if possible, check border logistics. Need evidence court-martial that bastard. Dead kid listed as op casualty."
Wang hand-signaled left. Fort craved an interim boss who was better than Frontier gun-hand? Alone, Stratos deep-breathed, shot hand unscratched. Exhaled, slow dossier pages flew.
Lunamaria Whieblod, female, graduated from Deutland Officer Academy, grad eyes that tracked lines. Volunteered for duty at age sixteen, brows arched. 4th Legion command post-grad year feats piled tsks escaped. An incomplete, ample portrait young, potent commander. Glaring rival wins pinpoint coordination, frontline style, risking death-grip intel. Funniest Organization database public taunt, know the commander still loses inevitably. Neurons knew the keys hidden danger, wildcard. Dossier down eyes sim 4th Legion pieces her board.
Focus sim lips murmured hand brushed rune-etched twin blades hip. Lifeless souls dwelled in engravings, flared crimson gem flared red Thema. Revived clash battlefield smoke steels danced owners' hearts. Feet rose, glided exit. The distant rebuilding fort faded. Horizon beckoned beyond.
"Field command? Intriguing."
Western face lit thrill rare fleeting lashes narrowed memories flooded spear whirl blocked assaults rifle swap melee failed. Not skill strategist's instinct seizing instants.
"Five outposts still reform impressively."
Faint smile arrogance triumph warrior's joy worthy foe? Battlefield sync foes? Thrilled, excited girl meriting Nation Guard general caution. Admiration flashed, vigilance ruled. Deep breath, mission crystal guard, national alliance cost damned. Lunamaria able threat to eliminate.
"Prep all scenarios. She won't stop, neither will we." Wheeled ordered remnants hand hilt rune warmth battle reminder ahead.
That same day, across the border, joy proved far scarcer. On vast steppes hundreds of miles west of Chainin's frontier, scorching sun beat down on the 4th Legion's field base, gilding tents and comms gear in gold. Command tent Lunamaria Whieblod sat frozen at the tactical table, a helpless sigh escaping as battlefield truth crushed her. Before violet eyes, one screen held a 3D buffer terrain model, hills, valleys,enemy outposts unyielding, stark. Bitter reminder of this mission's failure.
Reports flooded the nonstop crimsoning auxiliary display. Three days since the swift strike shattered in fury. Side screens are maps unchanged, no green op reports. Pure red alerts as sim blues stalled millimeter shy of foe soil. Occasional deep blue dots peeled from posts veered terrain advances only for red counters to slam progress dead. Commander drowned in days' intel baffled why every calculated thrust met enemy ripostes shredding plans. How some nameless pawn read her setups near-perfect.
Screen stats boiled blood 4th Legion commander clenched fists nails bit palms faint red welts before fist crashed table venting three days' pent rage. She couldn't grasp or refused to understand why sudden strikes at the Nation's weak points all crumbled.
Sim table piled strategies casualty logs. Sole mercy, no fresh "KIA" stacks added. Still, dossiers fueled hatred swept clear, startling any subs present. What use papers when every squad raid reeled back by unforetold counters. Hours bled, intel screamed her name, sim blues winked out. Foe's plan breaks not just an effective insulting declaration,Lunamaria Whieblod Organization elite has nothing for this enemy. Disappointment fury blazed chest eyes flashed hate.
"Not first clash with them but that one-" Lunamaria growled, quelling inner unrest.
"Utterly different." Self-interrupted fist hammered the table.
Rustle yanked the eye tent flap. Scout youth entered a pale, taut-faced commander. Strained lids hid turmoil, yet soldier poise held rigid, fearing her gaze devoured him alive.
"As requested, Commander." Clipped report dossier dropped hasty exit.
"Wait!" Voice halted his stride.
Youth wheeled awaited orders. But her gaze ignored him, fixed auxiliary screen, squad vitals flatlined. War-armor trashed, she mused, or worse.
"Squad 68 overdue?" Eyes pierced him.
"Report overdue, commander."
"Notify on return." Nodded and resumed his seat.
"Yes, ma'am!" Rigid salute, fist chest retreated, leaving her AI solitude.
Sim table, she slumped, pen twirled, stared, stalled, cursed terrain. Forehead dropped, fingers drummed, hologram bloomed, soldier names bold green notes. The day before gray tombstones.
Memory pulled her back to that day in the 4th Legion's med tent buffer fringe, hidden. Air crushed under antiseptic reek mingled failure groans. Isolated camp corner, faint wound, whimpers, metal clinks, med tools, frantic doc, nurse steps. Dim strips hurled white rays, fragile life-death war's knife-edge. Beds jammed patriot tales, young bandaged some, still others grimaced upright.
Lunamaria entered shadow shadow-devoured, cramped void. Deep blue uniform black-trim moss cravat. Unlike daily steel warmth bled now. Wounded, strained, she waved womanly, gently halt. Rest, heal, paramount calm voice,soothed, commanded obey.
"Casualty report." Youthful commander eyed the med chief violet scan room, bandaged troops bustling nurses gear checks. Masked emotion deep care shone none overlooked.
"No raid losses luck. Twenty-two wounded, four major medevac. Heavy cases are timely stabilized." Chief reported.
"Prior border survivors mending. Combat-ready seven days guaranteed." Continued.
Nod shifted bedridden. Mission rout yet eyes burned no fear despair iron faith national alliance her Alpha Legion white-skinned absolute triumph. Relief sighed lest they breathed. Tiny gesture, chief caught subs' worth.
"They gave their homeland all. Organization owes everything we hold." Ordered.
Battlefield commander paced beds, steady boot earth thuds. Passed silent forms, paused, young trooper left arm swathed pallid face, faint eye-spark.
Leaned whispered. Youth masked frailty grinned fine days rifle-ready. Sigh, silent nod, hand on shoulder, brief thousand pep-talks heavy. Rest, heal, front craves you.
She pressed on, weaving through ranks, chatting with each soldier from battle-hardened vets to green rookies. One leg wound, she quizzed, assured top medevac gear awaited. Another pain's endurance scars proved homeland loyalty badges. Her presence cool breeze in stifling air, easing groans and fatigue. Nurses' heads lifted, awe-struck troops felt rare genuine care amid war's grind.
Lids fluttered open over thirty hours past. Straightened spied sub's dossier throne-center. Air sagged. Deep sigh, pages flipped. God's grace prayed reality brutal. Single printed sheet rest blank voids. Pored letters ambiguity clung. Torchless basement depths her hunt. No images, terse words deepened chest churn. No feats nameless scraps voids endless. Portrait boiled down to one word. Nichts!
"Stratos, one three Nation Guard high commanders. Recent op intel suggests frontline fighter." AI droned flat.
"And?" No glance.
"That's the haul commander."
Lunamaria scowled. Irk festered, outpost alerts blared. High command field-rat unnerved her. Eye corner-room spear questioned years first blade-wary foe.
Queried low timbre doubt naked. Why head risk frontlines? AI even-toned front command gripped turf, real-time outfoxed rear orders. Front-rear sync benefits shone in her blitz wins, eerie mirror.
Slumped chair fingers drummed slowly. For unlike past cowards, bunker-bound. Conventional cracks are useless. Recent field ghost clear warning. Clashes ahead, army grind mind-duel decisions, fate-shaping.
Head lolled, hand forehead eyes shut, mind adrift. Shadow loomed tall, blue-black war-armor, twin blades aglow, visor crimson pierced schemes. Brat poseur propped chair thought. Three days retracted. Deadly tactician intel-net shredder her pride. Ghost name past fog flaws phantom battlefield-wide nameless specter.
Sig, how did he outpace every ploy? Mind-read prediction impossible truth screamed otherwise. Failures etched pride-punches.
"He knows us better than we know ourselves." Murmured defeat.
Quietly shattered minutes later, klaxons wailed, sim crimson-flood E34 4th Legion stronghold erased icon blinked void black-hole devouring efforts. Lunamaria bolted violet eyes, wide breath snared invisible vise. Stared willed revival futile cruel fact outpost lost faith's ice-bucket.
"Five outposts, three days." Stared words choked.
Initial reports comm-chatter all safe no KIAs console gloom unsoothed. Two years in the helm from the predecessor,never seen this churn. Today different. Lunamaria Whieblod, border-carver "heretic," scar-brander stared, taunting reds shoulders slumped war war-war-crushed or worse, unspoken.
Fist clenched, fury-roar desk bore wrath, quake toppled neat stacks. Fist-pain dwarfed mind's lava devouring calm she prized. Hologram lit face, twisting delicate beauty lips, bloodless hate-despair blaze.
"That bastard, what the hell?" Roared fury echoed.
"Recent clashes show dispersal cuts fake comms max space-time exploit." AI calm, infuriating screen-parsed.
Rage ebbed, muscles eased, slumped chair, sub-command worry, phantom. Silence bloomed, lids steadied, breath evened. Three five seven minutes deep eyes reignited blacks burned resolve steel. Rose taut, unbowed, scanned terrain,barked AI full-legion tactic shift. Foe's tempo lost Legion 4 momentum, morale, invisible blade, and deadlier forts.
Stretched strode tent flap sun-fixed. Wrist-tap new sim bloomed. Stood, watched neurons fired fingers air-danced flared clenched chin-tapped terrain-traced new scheme brewing? Nod assessed paced strategy table sync complete fresh model rose.
"Long haul plays his game." First vowed self.
Strategy beamed subs faint smile lips deputies pored adjusted tablets. She stood silent, watched, admired foe's field grip flawless chess-moves. Admission fueled fire, ghost or not. Organization light exposed, dragged from a hole.
Minutes later, troops gathered mess tent. Field camp far from base, these moments are best for calm shared field-kitchen craft. Truth strong, weak alike food food-fueled fight. Noon sun soft east buffer fringe national alliance lit field mess amid bustle orderly core. Dark-green canvas under energy shield, taut steel poles, fluttered highland breeze,housed roug,h clean wood tables, parade-straight pre-battle ranks. Roast meat, savory hot soup fresh bread wafted familiar amid war dust.
Lunamaria uniform-clad entered. Commander's presence blended troops seamlessly lively "dining hall." She eased the wooden bench tray secured. No rank trays equal 4th Legion fair. Tender stew, rich tangy gravy, homeland-true. Besidessteaming soup, fat sausage slices, clear broth, and green herb flecks. Thick dark rye slice dusted with flour logistics care. Deutland tradition is today's menu.
Spoon dipped soup steam steam-kissed face, homeland whiff. Simple tradition pure. Troops shoveled spoons, clinked laughs swelled humble symphony. Plates are hearty, fresh beyond looks. Legion, choice-wise wise no fighter starved. Peace fleeting.
"Hey, brother, check this." Nearby, a youth of seventeen slid a metal ration box across.
"See familiar? New logistics design." Pressed.
Peer age snatched tin-eyed long.
"Familiar, yeah..."
"Damn right. 40k Warhammer Corpse Powder vibes." Pointed lid, dark-green paint, dusty corner-scrap.
"Spot on. Are they filming us? No hair chunks inside, right?" Counter-lad guffawed.
"Exactly. Missing 'your buddy' label." Fingered rigid-font "Stamppot ready-meal" novel-stiff.
"Stamppot? Mashed potatoes, kale dubbed 'codex.'" The tapped box is dead silent.
"Design pure space-marine pre-drop heavier chainsaw." Table erupted, chuckles, eyes glued to tin. Logistics "genius" absurd grand useless elegant.
"Your buddy? Fits 'beloved Steve Frank.'" Ice-female voice rear froze lads bar victims.
"Easy, we're just-" Youth grinned, words choked, gaze met unnamed terror. Air crushed the commander's void.
Lunamaria loomed with sunlit lit deep violet eyes, white hair blazing. Silence absolute. Gentle tray down snatched Stamppot tin. Fingered, clinks knuckles, rapped shell.
"Mocking logistics product?"
Focus tin souls stripped. A minute later tin reclaimed slid precisely home, silent warning.
"Commander, we didn't mean-"
"Ten minutes to eat. Parade ground war-armors." Simple order iced vicinity solid.
"Yes, commander." Snapped a rigid salute.
Nod tray reclaimed strode. Each step crushed duo's dread sweat beaded brows. Afternoon drill, her wrath war-field dreaded. Medics needed post.