On that same day, on the other side of the border, things were far from cheerful. On the endless steppe, hundreds of miles west of Chainin's frontier, the sun blazed down harshly onto Legion 4's forward base, painting tents and communication gear gold. In the command tent, Lunamaria Whieblod sat motionless at the tactical table, her sigh heavy with the sting of witnessing a brutal truth on this battlefield. Before those deep violet eyes, only a single screen showed the three-dimensional map of the border buffer, where hills, valleys, and enemy strongholds still stood firm. Now, each one served as a bitter reminder of the latest mission's failure.
Reports kept pouring in, turning a secondary screen red with their volume. Three days had passed since the quick-strike campaign ended in frustrated defeat. On the surrounding monitors, maps never changed, not a single operation report in green. Every notification stayed blood red as the blue dots on the simulation map failed to move even a millimeter deeper into enemy ground. Sometimes, a blue squad marker would break from its designated spot and shift across the 3D terrain, but almost immediately a red mark appeared, halting that unit's advance. The commander sat amid piles of reports and data, buried in news for days on end. She couldn't grasp how, no matter how carefully planned, every offensive was countered and broken by enemy ripostes. How could such a no-name figure always read her moves so well?
The longer she studied the screens, the fiercer her blood boiled, until the Legion 4 commander clenched her fists so tightly her nails drew red marks on her palms, before slamming her fist on the table to unleash three days' worth of bottled anger. She couldn't comprehend, or perhaps refused to, why wave after wave of surprise assaults, targeting vulnerabilities in Nation's lines, still failed.
Stacked around the simulation table were strategy folders and casualty reports. Perhaps the only comfort was that no new file labeled "casualties" had found its place among them. But even then, watching all those thick files piled up only fueled her resentment. It would take but a single swipe to scatter them, and if any subordinate were present, they'd be left speechless by her fury. In the end, what did all these sheets matter, when every time her squads hit, they were pushed back by counter-tactics she hadn't foreseen? Hours passed, information kept coming, her name sounded over and over. Worse still, the blue unit dots on the map slowly faded out. The enemy broke her plans not only effectively, but with an air of humiliation, as if declaring that she, Lunamaria Whieblod, among Organization's finest, was nothing to them. Disappointment and rage burned in her chest, anger flashing in her eyes.
"This isn't my first time facing them, but that one," Lunamaria growled, sounding out the uncertainty that had gnawed at her.
"This one is completely different," She cut herself off, then pounded the table hard.
A quiet rustle made her glance toward the tent flap. The command canvas shifted as a young scout entered. Despite the strain in her gaze, every detail about this soldier changed in her presence. His face turned pale even as he braced himself to face the commander directly. Still, as a soldier, he kept his posture crisp and proper. Standing ramrod straight in salute, even fearful that a glance from her might consume him.
"As you ordered, Commander," he reported softly, dropping the file on the table before quickly retreating.
"Wait," she called, stopping him short.
He snapped around, awaiting further orders. Yet before him, she barely noticed him, her eyes instead focused on a side screen where a team's heartbeat was now a flat line. Perhaps their power armor was badly damaged, she thought, or, worse, something fatal had happened.
"Squad 68 isn't back yet?" She turned her piercing gaze on him.
"Reporting, Commander, still missing!"
"Noted. Update me when they return," she nodded, turning back to her seat.
"Yes, ma'am!" He snapped a salute, hand clenched to his chest, then ducked out, leaving her alone with the AI assistant.
Sitting at the simulation table, she slouched with her pen spinning in hand. All she could do was stare at the map in front of her. Nothing had changed, not even a bit on this cursed terrain. Her head drooped as she tapped her finger, conjuring another hologram. There, listing many soldiers' names with a bright green note, though few would know that only yesterday, every name here had been cold gray.
She remembered too well, the day in Legion 4's field hospital, tucked into a remote corner of the buffer. The air, heavy with the stench of antiseptic, pressed down with the groans of soldiers broken by failed missions. It was an isolated corner of camp where only the soft moans of the wounded, the clang of medical instruments, and the hurried steps of medics and nurses could be heard. Under barely bright overhead lights, white beams shone on each soul, casting shadows that swayed on the thin border between life and death. Beds jammed close together, every one a story of patriotism, young soldiers covered in bandages, some motionless, others struggling upright through clenched pain.
When Lunamaria stepped in, her presence filled the cramped space. Her deep blue uniform trimmed with black and a moss-green tie made her seem stern as always, but warmth radiated from her today. A few wounded soldiers tried to stand and salute, but she quickly signaled them gently to rest. For her, what mattered most was that her wounded returned to full health. In a calm, steady voice, she proved that concern. It was soothing, yet carried a strength that drew instinctive obedience.
"Status report, casualties!" the young commander said to the lead medic, those violet eyes sweeping the room to catch every detail, ensuring no wounded was left behind.
"Fortunately, we lost no one in the latest raid. However, twenty-two are injured, four of whom require transfer to a larger facility for intensive care. Some wounds are severe, but all have been stabilized," the chief medic replied.
"In addition, survivors from the previous border assault are recovering. I'm confident that in a week, all will be battle-ready," he continued.
She nodded, studying the soldiers on their beds. Though they'd just failed, there was no despair in their eyes; instead, fierce conviction filled them, belief in the bloc, in her, and in the guiding star of the Alpha Legion, a vision of future victory for the white-skinned races. Released of tension, she allowed herself a long exhale. Relief, at least all these faces were still here. That small gesture was enough for the chief medic to know how deeply she valued her troops.
"They gave their all for the nation. Organization is obliged to do all it can for them!" she ordered.
The commander strode slowly between beds, each step solid on the packed dirt. She passed quiet figures, paused by a young soldier whose left arm was completely bandaged. His face was pale, but somewhere behind his gaze, faint light remained.
She bent down to murmur something. He forced a smile, assuring her that he'd be back with his rifle in a few days. Seeing this, she just sighed, gave a brief, heavy pat on his shoulder, a gesture carrying more than a thousand words, and told him to rest and recover, as the front still needed men like him.
She made her way down the line, speaking to every soldier, seasoned fighter or green rookie. She asked one about his leg wound, promised that the medical center he'd be transferred to would have the best equipment. To another, she encouraged him through the pain, reminded that every scar was proof of loyalty to the nation. Her presence was a cool breeze calming the stifling air and weariness. Nurses, though busy, looked up at her in admiration, while the soldiers felt that rare, genuine care from a commander in the throes of war.
Again, her lashes fluttered, perhaps more than thirty hours had passed since then. She sat up, realizing the file her subordinate had delivered was still there. The sight of it dulled the room. She exhaled, then flipped through each page. One might pray for a miracle, but reality was cruel. After all, only a single page was printed, the rest plain blank. She parsed each ambiguous sentence, but the mystery remained. It was like searching for a torch deep in a dark dungeon. There was nothing useful. No pictures, no heroic deeds, just a name and a scattering of fragments over empty space. In the end, the image of her opponent and his true nature existed only in one word, Nichts, nothing.
"His name is Stratos, one of three senior commanders of the Nation Guard. Based on data from our last op, he may have a tendency to deploy directly to the front," the AI assistant droned.
"And?" the commander couldn't even be bothered to turn.
"That's what we've got, Commander!"
Lunamaria scowled. The same frustration simmered every time the red flashes announced a lost outpost. A high-ranking commander appearing at the front was concerning. She looked at her familiar weapon in the corner, unable to hide a suspicion. After all these years, was this finally someone her spear might need to fear?
She interrogated the system, her voice deep and low, skepticism clear in her gaze. Why would someone of his rank put himself in such danger? The AI answered evenly, saying that fighting at the front let him track the battle's true tempo, adjusting tactics more nimbly than any order from the rear. Moreover, direct links between frontline command and rear deputies brought clear benefits, as seen in her own blitz victories. There was an uncanny resemblance.
She leaned into her chair, drumming her fingers slowly. This opponent was totally different from any she'd faced, not someone who hid behind troops and heavy gear. Someone like him wouldn't break by ordinary means, and his recent presence sounded a clear warning. The battles ahead would not merely be contests between armies, but fierce duels of mind, where every decision could dictate the outcome.
She rested her head, hand to her brow and eyes closed, letting her thoughts drift. His image rose again in her mind, a tall figure in blue-black armor, twin swords blazing, and those deep red eyes behind his helmet that seemed to cut through all strategy. She'd once considered him just another upstart or lucky puppet. After three days, she had to retract her words. The bastard was not only a dangerous strategist, but someone who could completely neutralize her intelligence network, a source of great pride, all her keys to the rival's weaknesses and strategy now worthless. His identity was like a ghost, no files, a shadowy past, and no flaws exposed. As though across this land, there simply was no one with that name.
She breathed out, wondering, How is every move of his one step ahead? Is it some kind of psychic link, so he can read my mind and predict everything I plan? That's impossible, but reality is proving otherwise. Day after day of failed campaigns only strengthened her unease. They weren't only wounds on the battlefield, but direct blows to her pride.
"He knows us better than we know ourselves," she muttered in frustration.
Sadly, that moment didn't last. Mere minutes later, the hush of the command tent was shattered by blaring alarms, red as blood flooding over the 3D map. Sector E34, a strategic Legion 4 point, had been completely wiped out. Its icon blinked a few times, then vanished, leaving a black pit on the map into which all her efforts seemed to fall. Lunamaria leapt to her feet, eyes wide, breath caught as if a spectral hand squeezed her chest. She stared, willing the icon back by force of will. But reality was merciless. The position was lost, and with it, a bucket of cold water dashed all hope of invulnerability.
"Five strongpoints in three days," Lunamaria could only stare at the screens and force out the words.
Brief initial reports came swirling in via the comms. Everyone had retreated safely and there were no casualties, but were these facts enough to ease the heavy air in the command tent? It was two years since taking command of Legion 4, never once had she felt like this. Today was not one of those glory days. Lunamaria Whieblod, the leader who had brought Legion 4 through missions that once seemed impossible, who made the "infidels" at the border remember her name, was now frozen at the control panel, staring at mocking red blips. Her hands dangled at her sides, fingers limp, shoulders slumped. Was the battlefield weighing her down, or was it something else? Everyone knew the truth, but no one dared say it.
Once again, her hand clenched into a fist, merging with a guttural roar before her rage landed full-force on the tabletop. The resounding bang sent her careful stacks of documents sweating with fear. Yet the pain from her punch was nothing compared to the screaming in her mind. It was lava pouring through her skull, scorching away the calm she once possessed. The hologram light twisted her face into a distorted mask. Her lips pressed white, her eyes sparking with hatred and despair.
"That bastard! What is he doing?" she nearly growled, her fury echoing around the base.
"Analysis of recent battles indicates he's using force dispersion tactics, focusing on severing communications or falsifying contact at our points. It seems he's exploiting space and time to the fullest," the AI delivered its unsettling monotone.
Rage drained away as her muscles released. She slumped into her chair, relief at last surfacing if any subordinates had been present. A pause, as her lashes blinked, was necessary to collect herself. Inhale, exhale, equilibrium returned. Three, five, then seven minutes passed as, suddenly, her eyes lit again, determination forging over the embers in her gaze. She stood up, posture firm and radiating her unyielding nature. Eyes on the map, she ordered the AI to broadcast a shift in tactics to the legion, emphasizing that if Legion 4 continued dancing to the enemy's rhythm, they would lose not just the initiative but morale, the invisible weapon more crucial than any fortress.
Stretching, she strode toward the tent entrance, eyes on the sun's path. Tapping her watch, a new simulation appeared before her eyes. Standing there, she took it in, rebooting every neuron. Fingers moved in the air, sometimes spreading wide, sometimes drawing in, occasionally tracing her chin, sometimes skimming the surface of the holographic terrain. Was a new plan forming? After a decisive nod, she moved back to the war table. When system syncing finished, a new model appeared on her sim table.
"Long-term campaign, that's how we'll play," she vowed, balling her hand into a fist.
With the new plan dispatched to the rest of the legion, she tapped the table edge. A fleeting smile crossed her lips, knowing that all the deputies would begin dissecting and revising their tablet notations as soon as the new orders arrived. She would stand here, silent, watching it all unfold. Though unsaid, she could not help but respect her opponent's battlefield control. Every action was a perfectly calculated move on a grand chessboard. Yet this very acknowledgment kindled new fire in her, even if he seemed a phantom, Organization's light would expose him, tear him from his lair.
A while later, the soldiers gathered at the camp mess. On long days stationed far from base, this was one of the few times to relax and savor the art of the field kitchen. In truth, no matter how tough or weak, food comes first. Under gentle noon sunlight on the eastern border, the field canteen buzzed with order. Dark green canvas under the energy shield flapped in the highland breeze, sheltering neat rows of plain wooden tables, as orderly as formation before battle. The scent of grilling meat mingled with savory soup and fresh bread, enveloping everything in comfort amidst the haze of war.
Lunamaria, in earlier uniform, stepped in. In the noisy "dining hall," she merged seamlessly among her troops, no hint of hierarchy. She sat at a wooden table after collecting her meal. She placed her tray where it belonged. Even as legion commander, there was no privilege; here at Legion 4, every tray was equal. A plate of braised beef, tender and rich in tangy-sweet sauce, cooked in her homeland's traditional style. Beside it, a bowl of hot soup with slices of rich sausage and vivid herbs. A solid, dark loaf of bread, dusted in flour, proof of careful logistics work. Today's menu: Deutland's traditional fare.
She picked up her spoon, slowly tasting the soup, letting warmth and flavor rise over her face. Simple, but rich in tradition. Nearby soldiers ate, the clang of spoons and laughter making a chorus of peace. Each meal prepared with care. Though not artful, every bite was fresh and good. No soldier here ever lacked energy for battle. But comfort wasn't the only thing on offer.
"Hey, brother, check this out," a young soldier, maybe seventeen, set a metal ration box on the table and slid it to his friend.
"Look, does this seem familiar? I hear logistics redesigned them." He nudged.
The other, also just about that age, picked it up to examine.
"Looks familiar…"
"It better! It's exactly like those Warhammer 40K power tools, Corpse powder!" The first one tried to stifle a laugh, pointing at the box's painted top as if just uncovered from some forgotten supply room.
"No kidding! What, logistics want us acting for the movies? At least there's no hair in here," the other joked.
"Exactly! And seriously, these things ought to say, 'this is your buddy' right?" The first pointed to the label, "Pre-made Stamppot" printed like a codebook label.
"Stamppot? Like someone mashed potatoes and kale and called it 'codex'." His comrade tapped the lid, but it barely made a sound.
"This thing, though, exactly what a space warrior would carry into battle, only to find out it's heavier than a chainsaw!" As they both snickered, more at their table joined in, and no one could look away from the ridiculous ration box. It was the logistics team's "creative" design, both grandiose and useless in its way.
"Your buddy, huh? Might make more sense if it read, 'this is beloved Steve and Frank!'" A frosty female voice rang out from behind. The chill of it froze the boys, and all noise evaporated.
Lunamaria stood there, sunlight on violet eyes and glowing white hair. Now, everyone fell silent at her appearance. Calmly, she set her tray on the table, picked up the tin of Stamppot, and, after a few gentle taps on the side, let the rattle echo. Her gaze, though on the box, peeled back the layers of each soldier as though reading their souls.
"Mocking logistics' hard work?" She kept examining it, voice soft.
Though her eyes stayed on the tin, the two young soldiers knew she was probing deeper than its contents. Less than a minute later, she set the box down and nudged it back to its owner with just enough force for it to stay put, a silent warning.
"Commander, we didn't mean—" one stammered.
"You have ten minutes to eat, then meet me at the training field. In full armor." A simple order, but enough to freeze not just those two, but everyone else at the table.
"Yes, Commander!" Both instantly snapped to attention.
After a slight nod, she picked up her tray and walked away. Each step chilled the mood further for the two ill-fated privates. They could only watch her go, sweat beading on their brows. This afternoon, the training field would become more than a drill ground; for them, it was a place to face the wrath of the war's most feared female commander. No doubt, someone would have to see the medic before the day was through.