Taipei had survived. The Iron Alliance had won, but Kane was not allowed to linger. Strategic command, uneasy with the myth growing around the young general, reassigned him to the Arid Expanse—a barren desert corridor critical to controlling the remaining oil pipelines feeding the Alliance war effort. Officially, it was a tactical necessity; unofficially, command wanted to throw Kane into another infernal situation to see how long his streak of "miracle survivals" could last.
Kane did not protest. He didn't need to. The universe—or whatever cruel fate watched him—ensured he would continue. He left Taipei under cover of night, haunted by the destruction he had overseen, telling himself this new assignment might finally be the one he failed at.
He arrived at the plateau overlooking the desert valley, and the numbers made him flinch: 200 enemy soldiers for every single Iron Alliance fighter. But it wasn't just the numbers. Kane studied the enemy in terror and awe:
Mechanized infantry in desert-adapted armor, moving in near-perfect formations, each unit equipped with reactive shields and energy rifles capable of piercing reinforced hulls.
Hover tanks, massive and lethal, gliding across dunes with magnetic stabilization, capable of leaping minor obstacles and crushing anything below.
Artillery trains mounted on magnetic rails, raining down shells with orbital precision over kilometers.
Drone swarms, thousands of individual units, some armed for kinetic strikes, others for electronic warfare, constantly scanning for movement.
Shock troopers riding sand-striders, mechanical beasts that sprinted across dunes faster than any human could react, striking in sudden bursts and vanishing before retaliation.
The desert seemed alive with threats. Kane could feel the weight of impossibility pressing down on him. His soldiers—Japanese, Korean, and Taiwanese units scattered across ridges—looked at him for guidance. He wanted to disappear.
"Two hundred to one," Tanaka muttered, voice low. "This is… madness. We cannot hold the valley. We have nothing to stop them."
Kane spread a weathered tactical map across a ridge. "Then we won't hold it in the conventional sense. We'll bend the desert itself against them. They think the terrain favors them. It does not. They will walk into traps they cannot see, and when they think victory is inevitable…" He paused, swallowing, his mind racing. "They will be wrong."
He outlined his five-layer plan:
Layer One: Visible decoy squads in open desert, mostly holograms, luring enemy forces into canyon gullies.
Layer Two: Mobile demolition units on armored sleds, rigging cliffs to collapse and trigger sand avalanches.
Layer Three: Snipers and drones hidden on high ridges, targeting officers, sensors, and artillery operators.
Layer Four: High-mobility teams equipped with magnetic charges and grappling tools, immobilizing hover tanks and mechs in unexpected ways.
Layer Five: Covert operatives behind enemy lines, jamming communications, sabotaging fuel, and sowing chaos in command coordination.
"It's insane," Park said. "Even if it works, the losses—"
"Then we survive by exploiting their overconfidence," Kane interrupted, tone taut. "Every step they take into the canyon, every maneuver they believe safe, brings them closer to disaster."
The attack began at noon. The desert trembled beneath the marching mechanized infantry, hover tanks gliding across dunes like predatory animals, artillery firing in sweeping arcs. Kane's decoy squads drew enemy attention, while hidden demolition teams triggered avalanches that swallowed armored units whole. Hover tanks skidded into cliffs; drone operators were taken out by sniper fire; supply lines collapsed under sabotage.
Orders shouted across the battlefield sounded contradictory, suicidal even: "Advance! Retreat! Jump! Collapse left! Wait for the echo!" Soldiers obeyed, trusting the young general despite the madness. Every risk taken somehow worked. The enemy fell into every trap with a precision Kane never intended and could barely comprehend.
By sunset, the desert valley was littered with immobilized vehicles, shattered infantry, and burning drones. Kane's soldiers were exhausted but victorious. Yet Kane did not feel triumph. He felt disbelief, frustration, and a strange, bitter anger. He had wanted this to fail. He had hoped, prayed even, that some catastrophic miscalculation would allow him to disappear, let the war end without him orchestrating another impossible survival. And yet… it hadn't.
He stared at the shattered enemy formations, at the smoke rising over dunes, and felt hollow. The victory was accidental, chaotic, almost cruel in its inevitability. Others hailed him as a genius; he saw only the absurdity of survival, the randomness of chance bending around him, keeping him trapped in a role he never sought.
Far above the desert, unseen, cosmic entities watched, fascinated. The miraculous chain of events, the unintentional brilliance of every desperate maneuver, the survival against absurd odds—all of it was entertainment for beings who viewed time and war as games. Kane remained oblivious. To him, it was luck, chaos, fate. To them, it was sport.
He turned from the horizon, sand and sweat streaked across his face, voice quiet:
"They survive. I survive. And I… I cannot make it stop."