The Independent Magic-Equipped Battalion's fliers, leveraging their mobility, struck the enemy's rear as they clashed with the Magic Association's volunteer army. Only forty strong—a single platoon—their speed amplified their impact twofold, threefold. Unhindered by losses, their black Mobile Suits boasted high bulletproofing and robust magical defenses.
Still, no armor was invincible. Weight limits left them vulnerable compared to tanks or warships. Bullets hit, explosions wounded, and holes pierced chests. Yet, unless instantly fatal, they didn't stop. A bloodied soldier would rise unscathed, suit pristine, as if untouched.
A tall figure wielding twin silver CADs pointed his left hand, pulling the trigger. Wounded soldiers revived, freed from death, charging as demons.
The invaders couldn't believe their eyes. Fatal blows were undone, as if never struck. A waking nightmare eroded their reality. They realized the silver gun's left hand restored the black-clad soldiers. Instinctively, they aimed at the wielder, but bullets and shells dissolved midair. Whatever his right hand targeted—man or machine—turned to dust.
Divine Left. Soldiers rose from death's edge. Demon Right. All pointed at vanished into dust.
Three years ago, Hong Kong soldiers coined these English phrases to skirt their superiors' gag order. The words rippled, then surged, drowning the invaders' morale.
Maheshvara.
With that name, the invaders' existence was erased one by one.
Sensing the enemy's assault falter, Katsuto expected their retreat later, but he wouldn't let it pass.
"They're shaken!" he roared.
The youngest in the volunteer army, Katsuto naturally seized command. Few saw through his youthful appearance, but none questioned his leadership. His shout dispelled their hesitation, uniting the army in a barrage of weighted-system magic, synchronized to avoid interference.
The attack crushed the wavering invaders. Most infantry and mages fell, half the remaining upright tanks toppled. Surviving vehicles and soldiers fled.
Katsuto smashed fallen tanks with Phalanx from above, then thrust his arm forward. "Advance!"
The volunteers' morale peaked, pursuing without mercy.
Unaware of the battalion's rear assault, Shoki sensed the shifting tide alongside Katsuto. Like Katsuto, he held a leadership role but preferred shielding others at the forefront over giving orders.
Alone before Chinatown's north gate—usually open to tourists, now sealed—Shoki stood. He didn't begrudge the gate's closure, but fortifying an enclave in a foreign land irked him.
"Open the gate!" he shouted. "Or I'll assume you're aiding the invaders!"
Tense, ready for gunfire, shells, or magic, he stood poised. Surprisingly, the gate creaked open moments later, catching him off guard.
A refined young man, five or six years older, led a group with bound enemy soldiers. "Zhou Gongjin," he introduced himself.
Shoki eyed him warily. "…Zhou Gongjin?"
"My real name," the youth said.
"My apologies. Ichijo Masaki," Shoki replied, hastily but firmly.
"We're not with the invaders," Zhou said. "We're victims too. We cooperated to prove it."
Shoki wondered how civilians captured armed soldiers—Zhou was no ordinary man. But he lacked authority to interrogate civilians, and their aid effectively ended this front's battle.
Thanking Zhou, Shoki joined the volunteers to take the prisoners, unaware this pulled him from the front line.
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