Sifting through a mound of wreckage, I shoved aside a twisted sheet of metal and finally spotted what I'd been searching for.
"Yes! Finally, a second leg spring stabilizer!"
I grinned, pulling the hefty coil free. It was a little wide, but the length was perfect. I could make it work.
Dragging the spring down the uneven terrain, I hauled it to Andromeda, who sat slumped against a heap of ruined automatons, his massive platinum frame partially sunken into the wreckage.
"Andy! I finally found another stabilizer that should replace the broken one!"
Andromeda scanned the part as I set it down with a clang. Then, without hesitation, he opened the armour plating around his left leg. The damaged stabilizer jutted out like a shattered bone, and with a sharp hiss of hydraulics, he ejected it, letting it clatter onto the ground.
I immediately slid the new one into place, wrench in hand. Andromeda lifted the other end with a single delicate finger—odd, given his sheer size—as I locked it into position, tightening both ends with measured precision.
"How's it feel?" I asked, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
The armour snapped shut, sealing the repairs within. Andromeda ran a quick internal diagnostic.
[Adequate for now, pilot. The same as the first leg stabilizer.]
I exhaled, rubbing the grease from my hands onto my pants. "Better than nothing. Just wish we could find knee plates that actually fit."
Andromeda flexed his newly repaired ankle, twisting it from side to side before curling his front toes, rear stabilizer, and the clamps between them. The rotational cogs had been easier to replace than expected.
[It would be a surprise to find compressed plates capable of withstanding my weight amidst this salvage, pilot.] He lifted a scrap of a wolf-droid, scanned its joints, then casually tossed it onto a distant pile. [None of these parts were built for a machine of my weight class or design.]
"Yeah, yeah..." I sighed, eyeing his knee. "Without new plates, your thigh and calf could split apart at any moment. I'll have to be careful while piloting."
A thought struck me. I climbed up onto Andromeda's leg, inspecting the damaged area.
"What if we crafted a new knee plate? Something like a... makeshift stilt? We could strip rubber from the larger springs and wrap your knees like a bandage."
[A viable solution. However, it would only last a day at most—perhaps only a few hours, pilot.]
I grimaced.
Across the scrapyard, the other idiot was fumbling with his knight. I watched as he struggled to pry open Boötes' armour using a crowbar of all things.
"Come on, you Throne-damned bucket—ahh!"
Boötes twitched in resistance, and the pilot was sent flying backward, landing in an ungraceful heap at my feet.
He blinked up at me. "Uh... hi?"
I stared down through my visor, unimpressed.
"Answer my question. How long have you been piloting that knight?" My voice was cold, arms crossed.
The boy scrambled up, dusting himself off. "Uh... three years. Why?"
I frowned. That's impossible.
"When did you get your knight?"
"Three years ago. And what do you mean it's impossible? I'm here, aren't I? Clearly it happened." He sounded offended, like I'd insulted his entire existence.
But his answer made no sense.
The Constellation Program only produced new pilots once every eight years. Seven years of training. One year of enlistment.
Even the noble houses, with their lesser knights, weren't allowed to field Constellation-class machines.
So how—?
Then I noticed Boötes watching me. His red optics burned through the dim scrapyard, silent and unblinking. There was something unspoken in that gaze. A plea for help—but for what?
My unease deepened.
"Do you not know about the Resurrection Protocol that Constellation Knights have?" the boy asked.
My visor snapped back to face him, my body going rigid.
"What?"
He nodded. "When a CK's pilot dies mid-battle, the machine sends out a pulse scan across the planet, searching for a new pilot—anyone under forty years old, as long as they're still loyal to the Nymphas Empire. When it finds them, it will stop at nothing to reach them."
My blood ran cold. This wasn't in the records.
I stood frozen, the weight of the revelation settling deep in my chest.
So this was the truth.
The Resurrection Protocol wasn't just a failsafe—it was a cruel, self-perpetuating cycle, binding new pilots to a fate they never asked for.
Alex, still sitting on the ground, brushed the dirt off his uniform as he continued, his voice laced with bitter amusement.
"Three years ago, Boötes' previous pilot died on my homeworld. He was fighting against a tag-team of two knights—ones no one had ever seen before. At the time, I was just an ordinary schoolboy doing math at home when a giant metal hand suddenly crashed through my wall and told me: 'You are now my pilot.' Then it never said a single damn word ever again."
He laughed, but it was hollow.
"I was Empress-damned terrified. Not that I pissed myself or anything. Wasn't that scared."
I turned slightly, whispering into my helmet's radio. "Andromeda, why was I never told of this?"
[A cold-fission thermonuclear contingency is in place to prevent my capture by enemy forces, pilot Firefly.] Andromeda's voice hummed in my earpiece. [If you die, whoever claimed your life would die with you—along with everything within a 100-mile radius. So long as you never die during battle, there is no need to use it.]
My breath hitched.
So that's why I was never told.
Suddenly, the way I'd been treating Alex—assuming he was just some reckless upstart—felt wrong. This wasn't someone who had been trained for war. He'd been dragged into it, thrown onto the battlefield without even the basics of piloting a knight.
I swallowed my pride. "I'd like to apologize for my rudeness."
Alex glanced up at me, surprised.
"I've never heard of this before. I assumed you were just someone who looked young for their age."
"It's alright." He shrugged, picking up his crowbar again. "Most pilots I meet are so jealous of me, y'know? Always going on about how they had to train for years before they could even look at a knight."
"That is normal procedure," I muttered.
"Yeah? Well, not like it matters anyway."
Alex turned back to Boötes, jamming the crowbar between the armor plates at its waist and straining to pry them apart.
"Boötes has a reputation for losing his pilots every three years or less. Then he forces another random person to take the seat. He's a goddamn coffin to anyone he chooses!"
His grip slipped. The crowbar flew from his hands, and he landed on his back with a frustrated groan.
I glanced at Boötes. The knight had shifted just slightly, tilting his head. But those red eyes... they were still locked onto me.
And suddenly, I understood.
That silent plea—it wasn't for himself.
It was for Alex.
The boy sighed, lying flat on the ground. His voice softened, like he was giving up.
"Y'know, I was supposed to be a farmer before I got dragged into this military horseshit. But I also loved getting into fights... and considering farming's supposed to be the quiet life, that didn't exactly match."
A bitter smile flickered across his face.
"So, at first? I was glad for the call of war. Thought it was my chance to do something exciting. But after experiencing it first hand—only minutes later? It's just... an utter shit place to be."
I sat down beside him, exhaling.
"I can't deny that. War is hell made manifest... I've heard soldiers say that before. And the few times I've seen it first hand? I can't say they were wrong."
I hesitated before asking. "So what happened after Boötes took you?"
Alex's expression darkened.
"You remember those two knights that killed Boötes' last pilot?" His voice was quieter now. "They chased us the entire way. Would've killed me too if it wasn't for the former Vice-General. He saved me... but after that, he left. Went on to form one of the four new knight battalions under the Empress' orders."
His gaze hardened.
"And me? I got left behind with that miserable donkey shit, General Rafellan."
Ah.
His tone made it clear—he didn't want to talk about Rafellan any further.
I switched topics. "We... haven't even introduced ourselves, have we?" I admitted. "I still don't know your name."
"Oh, yeah." He blinked, pushing himself upright. "I'm Alex. Major Alex Cyonis."
"Second-Lieutenant Firefly." I extended my hand. He took it, and we shook.
A small chuckle escaped both of us.
I reached up, unsealing my pilot helmet and letting it slide off. My long hair spilled free, brushing against my shoulders.
"If you want, I can help you with Boötes' repairs." I offered. "And teach you a few things about piloting a knight. I've done all I can for Andromeda, anyway."
Alex stared at me.
Then, for some reason, he turned away quickly, his face turning red.
"Th-That would be a great help." His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and muttered something under his breath that I didn't quite catch.
Boötes' Silence – The Weight of Guilt
"Let's start with opening up his armour. You don't need the crowbar."
Before Alex could react, I plucked the tool from Boötes' hip and tossed it aside.
"Just put a little spirit energy into your fingertips, press into where you want the armour to move, and the knight will authorize the field repairs."
To demonstrate, I placed my own fingers against Boötes' hip. The armour responded immediately, splitting apart with a soft hiss, revealing the cracked internal frame and a mess of sparking wires.
"You can use spirit energy, right?"
Alex scratched the back of his head. "Not well. After this coffin bastard abducted me, he forced a tube down my throat that hurt like hell for hours. After that, the Vice-General gave me some basic training, but I never really got the hang of it."
"It's not too hard." I guided his hand to Boötes' armour. "Just imagine a warm fire in your chest. Not harmful, just... warm. Take small pieces of that fire and flow them through your body to your fingertips. Try it."
Alex squeezed his eyes shut, his face tensing with effort.
It was clear this wasn't something he was used to doing on his own. His spirit energy had been dormant, only activated forcibly when Boötes' Constellation Drive drained it from him. Now that he had to will it into use, his body fought against it. But—he was getting there. Slowly.
A spark of energy flickered at his fingertips.
Boötes' leg armour popped open.
Alex nearly yelled out in excitement—until I clamped a gloved hand over his mouth.
"We're still behind enemy lines." My voice was quiet but firm. "They may not know we exist yet, but there's always a chance a patrol or mobile brigade could be nearby, looking for survivors who got past the orbital defence cannons. Any and all joy you feel must be celebrated as quietly as possible. Understand?"
Alex nodded fervently.
Satisfied, I removed my hand, and he lifted his fists in a mock cheer. "Yay~."
I exhaled, glancing toward the horizon. The small sun was already setting, the sky darkening unnaturally fast. It had only been three hours since I arrived on this world, yet night had come like a descending curtain.
"Andy, could you help Alex understand the dos and don'ts of piloting a knight? I'll handle Boötes' repairs until we receive a message on our target."
[Affirmative, pilot.]
Andromeda shifted, testing his weight on the newly installed spring stabilizers. His damaged knee joints wobbled under the strain, but he adjusted quickly before walking off.
[Come, Major Cyonis. I will give you a crash course on knight battle tactics.]
Alex groaned but followed, shooting me a look that said you owe me for this.
I turned back to Boötes and got to work. The wires beneath his hip were easy to fix—I reconnected them swiftly before sealing the armour back into place. Then, without looking up, I spoke.
"I know you can talk, Boötes. Why don't you?"
For a long moment, the knight was silent.
Then, a thin hiss of steam vented from his hood, almost like a sigh.
[Andromeda's pilots are always so kind.]
I stiffened.
His voice was deep—much deeper than Andromeda's. There was a weight to it that sent a chill rippling down my spine, like a ghost whispering from the abyss.
[I feel guilt for forcing such a child onto this path. I do not wish to give him any hopes.]
I scoffed, yanking out a fractured component from his leg and searching for a replacement in the salvage pile beside me. "By not even trying to help him, you mean?"
Boötes didn't respond.
"If you'd trained him, he might be a brigadier by now." I fit a new stabilizer into place, tightening the bolts. "He's got talent, from what I can see."
[He will only resent me if I try to teach him.] Boötes' tone was grim. [Just like all the others. Each pilot the Resurrection Protocol has chosen... they shun my words. They blame me for dragging them into a dead life. And then... they die.]
He fell silent for a long moment.
[Knight-King...] His voice wavered, just slightly. [What sin have I committed to keep repeat this tragedy?]
I exhaled, moving onto his left arm.
"Could it be related to what happened two hundred years ago?"
Boötes' head tilted slightly.
"When your pilot in that era attempted to betray the Empire alongside two other Constellation Knights. When Andromeda was ordered to kill them all, including his own pilot."
I glanced up. Boötes was staring at me now, and a slow realization flickered in his red eyes—he knew where I'd learned that.