Snow piles high around my boots, dimming the glow of the wreckage until everything blurs into shades of white. Burned jackets lie half-buried beside toppled walker hulls. Shattered and fallen drones remind me of dead insects. Faces press under tarps and warped plates of metal that pass for uniforms now—some machines, some men—whether the snow is stained with oil or blood, their deaths are all the same.
The snowfall intensifies, turning tracer rounds into white threads and spitting grit against my faceplate. The fight does not end so much as still: my eye catches a bundle of drone carcasses tangled in the cordage of a collapsed bridge, and a strip of molten metal where a hull was ripped open steams into the air.
Whatever had been used to kill us had kept on killing until nothing moved at all.
I once asked for something like this. Not this—never this—but all my life I have wanted to be something more than a scared boy. They praised me, told me I had the potential to do great things, so I volunteered, signed the forms, and accepted the needles. I believed the promise that you would come out better. You do not think about the consequences: you think about being useful.
I had anticipated my end to be quieter. Just a final misstep and the lights going out. Still, if anyone is going to make that final breath look cinematic, it will be him.
And there he is.
The Radiant Blade.
He strolls out of the storm as the snow parts for him, his greatsword dragging light across the ground, ribbons that sear the snow and smoke. Heat reaches me even here; the ground hisses where the blade has been. For a moment I want what I signed up for more than I have ever wanted anything, and for a longer moment I want to be anywhere else.
His eyes catch mine. They don't blink. They never blink. Eyes like that don't belong to men; they belong to things that can't be reasoned with. They are the eyes of something inhuman.
The air around me screams as lightning erupts from my hands, the living tendrils of blue-green fury that lights up the frozen darkness. Heat blossoms across my skin—and yet, the cold remains. Settling into the hollow spaces between my ribs, pooling in the marrow of my bones.
Around me, the snow tells stories I don't want to hear.
There, under that drift? Jansen lies motionless. That patch of violet on white? Rook, her eyes still wide with disbelief. The wind stole their last words before they could reach me.
The relentless storm refuses rest, a shroud of white erasing the horror beneath. The world is washing its hands of us.
Of me.
Then he laughs, the sound cutting through the howling wind.
He grins wide, that sickening predator's grin that says I was dead before this started.
My eye catches a glint of light. Movement!
He comes like a falling star, blazing hot flames trailing in his wake. The world narrows to this single heartbeat, this fractured moment between life and whatever comes after. The lightning in my veins screams for release.
I braced myself for the cut that would finally bring about my end.
Gasp.
I lurched upright, heart pounding. The world snapped back into the cramped walls of my flat. Looking around, the lack of a snowy battlefield and plumes of smoke was disorientating. No Jansen and no Rook, either; not that I knew anyone with those names. I looked down at my hands to find they weren't bleeding. Feeling my face, I noticed the lack of a faceplate that felt like I'd been wearing it for years.
It was…a dream? No, a vision perhaps? Whatever it was, it clung to me with the weight of memory, as though I had lived it.
And the worst part? A part of me swore I had.
My apartment's dim light filtered through cracked blinds, painting the peeling walls in slants of gray. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 5:52 a.m.
Too early for anyone sane to be awake. I pressed my palms to my temples, trying to shove the vision back into the dark corners of my mind.
"Get up, Abital," I muttered. I dragged myself to the bathroom and avoided the mirror. I didn't need to see the dark circles beneath my darker eyes, a nest of messy black hair, or the same hollow stare that followed me since the war ended. The stare of a man who shouldn't be alive.
I turned on the shower, deciding I'd let the cold water shock me awake. It was one of the few "perks" of this place, always ice-cold. In a world where nothing felt certain, at least the pipes in this building were consistent.
Stepping in, I let the chill sink into my skin, my muscles tightening reflexively. At least I had that: a body hardened by years of conditioning and enhanced genetics. I never did look in the mirror anymore. There wasn't much to see that hadn't been there the day before; light brown skin catching the slant of morning light, a frame built for survival and practicality more than show.
I dressed on autopilot—black hoodie, pants, gloves. It wasn't much to look at, but it worked. The hoodie's fabric draped loosely, hiding my frame, and the gloves kept the world at arm's length. The face mask, a permanent fixture by now, slipped over my face easily.
Grabbing my phone, headphones, and knife, I headed for the door. The old wood creaked in protest as it opened. Outside, the early morning lights felt harsh, and I reached for my sunglasses. They weren't completely opaque; you could still make out my eyes through the green tint, just not the color.
As I walked, the familiar hum of the city settled around me. Dresden's pulse thrummed around me, neon haze clashing with the drone's whine. A holo-billboard flickered above, a chiseled face looming—messy blonde hair framing crystal blue eyes, his golden armor gleaming like the sun. An authoritative voice hummed from the billboard:
"Lord Alaric Solarius, uniter of Germany, light of the Grand Coalition Front."
"Uniter of Germany, harbinger of justice, beacon of light upon the world; The people of Germany thank Lord Solarius!" The perfect gold caption floated, praising the hero who'd stitched a war-torn nation into the Grand Coalition Front.
Every bit of tech, including the holo-billboard's white-gold frame, was etched with the Sunko—a radiant sunburst, spiked rays encircling a coin-like core, currency and sigil of the Grand Coalition Front's new Germany. Looming towers gleamed, erasing a century of blood in the soil. It all felt too polished, too perfect. Looking up at his saintly grin made me feel uneasy.
I had to admit, the tech had come a long way since the war. A century of conflict, but here we were, modernized like nothing had happened. I slipped the phone back in my pocket and tugged my hoodie a little tighter.
"All thanks to Solarius," I muttered under my breath.
Despite my reservations of stepping out into the city, I found myself heading toward my usual spot, a small coffee shop a few blocks away. It was a morning ritual I adhered to like clockwork. As I approached the shop, the streets were quiet, though a few early risers were out, glancing my way with cautious eyes. This wasn't the friendliest neighborhood, and I suppose my attire didn't help.
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped inside, the familiar aroma of roasted beans washing over me. The shop was nearly empty, as usual. Just the way I liked it. I slid into a back booth, hood up, headphones dangling around my neck.
The place was a relic; old wooden tables, a Sunko-stamped radio on the counter, its sunburst logo glinting, spitting GCF propaganda: "Lord Solarius, uniter of Germany, ensures your safety…" I snorted, rubbing my temples. That radio always droned on about Solarius and his innumerable saintly deeds.
I pressed my palms into my eyes until I saw sparks. The kind that dances behind your eyelids when you've been running on fumes too long. Sleep hadn't been a friend lately, just another liar promising peace and giving me grief instead. Morning didn't make it better. Nothing did, except maybe coffee strong enough to melt the table.
"Ugh… I really need to find a way to sleep longer," I muttered to no one.
The bell over the door jingled behind me as a draft slipped in, cold enough to remind me I should have layered up.
"Morning, stranger."
I didn't even notice the footsteps until they were right next to me. I looked up. Alarie stood there with that half-grin she always had, the kind that said she knew me well enough to joke but not well enough to pry. Her chestnut hair spilled over one shoulder, an apron smudged with coffee stains, emerald eyes catching the light.
She was always here, bright and cheerful without fail, even at this hour. Her smile was a bit too vibrant for my groggy state, but I couldn't help but glance up.
"You're here early," she said, tapping her notepad. "What's the occasion? Couldn't sleep?"
"Something like that." I rubbed at the corner of my eye and managed a faint smile. "Give me the usual."
She raised a brow. "Which is?"
"Black," I said. "As big as you can make it."
Alarie chuckled softly and jotted the order down. "You know, most people who can't sleep go for decaf."
"I'm not most people."
"Clearly." She shook her head, evidently amused, and walked off to work the machine.
I let the silence fill the space once more. Looking around the coffee shop, I stared at the wooden tables scarred by years of carved initials and spilled drinks. The old Sunko-stamped radio continued to crackle propaganda:
"Lord Solarius, uniter of Germany, light of the Grand Coalition, thank you for your continued support…"
Same voice, same honeyed tone. I traced the grooves in the table with a fingertip, wishing the static would drown him out.
Alarie came back with the cup, the steam curling lazily. She set it down gently. "Here you go. Extra large. Don't say I never do anything nice for you."
"Thanks." My hands closed around the ceramic, heat bleeding through to thaw the chill clinging to my skin. "You're a lifesaver."
"Flattery before caffeine? You really must be tired." She smirked and slid into the next booth, pulling out her phone. Always close enough to talk if either of us felt like it. That's what I liked about her.
Some time passed, and the shop started to fill up with the usual morning crowd, and I found myself watching Alarie as she moved from table to table. I glanced away quickly, opting to focus on my coffee instead.
The bell jingled again, hard this time. Heavy boots hit the floor in a rhythm that was far too loud. Then a voice boomed:
"Today marks my criminal debut!"
I didn't even need to look up to know trouble had arrived.
His frame filled the doorway, a mountain of muscle wrapped in black, the steel sheen of his gauntlets catching every flicker of fluorescent light. Death Hand. Of course. I had seen the name mentioned in rumor feeds for weeks. And now here he was.
Chairs screeched across the floor as people froze, a couple bolting for the exit before his shadow even cleared the doorframe. He didn't spare them a glance. His eyes were on the room.
One armored fist slammed into a nearby table, splintering it. Mugs exploded against tile, coffee spraying dark across the floor like blood. The sounds of wood cracking and metal grinding tore through the room.
Alarie stiffened behind the counter, refusing to run or take cover. Her eyes flicked to me for a split second. A question without words: What now?
I sighed and set my cup down slowly. So much for quiet.
He raised a hand once more, orange flames licking his gauntlet as a grin formed beneath his hood. "Time to burn, mortals! Cower and tremble at my might!" he bellowed. With a thunderous punch, he blasted a hole through a wall, sending soot and debris flying. The shop erupted into chaos.
I slid out of the booth, my boots crunching on broken porcelain, and let the legs of the chair next to me scrape loud and slow enough to get his attention. His head turned to face me.
"Throwing a tantrum isn't what I'd call a criminal debut. What exactly are you planning here?" I asked.
Death Hand smiled wide, his teeth misshapen and yellow. "Plan? I'm not planning, friend. I'm making history. And you? You get a front-row seat."
He flexed his hands, and the steel gauntlets clamped tight with a hiss. At first they looked like oversized gloves, dull iron with riveted plating; then he triggered something in the wrist. A metallic click echoed, and the palm of each gauntlet split apart.
Jagged, interlocking teeth unfolded like the jaws of a mechanical beast. Gears whirred as the "mouths" snapped shut again.
He dragged one clawed finger down the café's counter. Sparks danced across the marble where the sharpened tips scraped. The claws were more like hooked blades than fingers. When the gauntlet-jaws opened again, a coffee cup tumbled into the maw. The gears shredded it instantly, spitting ceramic dust out through the seams like smoke.
Yeah. This was going to be one of those mornings.
I kept my hands where he could see them and angled my body so Alarie sat behind my shoulder. "House rule," I said, stepping once to the left, once more to center him. "If you break a cup, you buy a round."
Death Hand grinned. The gauntlet hummed a low, hungry purr. "Guess I'm buying the whole damn place."
The fingers flexed. Steel claws brushed against each other. I moved before the sound could turn into anything worse.
The first strike was aimed at my head. I dipped under, boots sliding on tile, and let the wind of it cut past. He was faster than I expected.
I pivoted hard, felt the counter edge bite my hip, and drove my shoulder into his ribs. The gauntlet whined as it overcorrected, metal jaws snapping air where my neck had been. I hooked his wrist, jamming it into the countertop. The servos screamed in response.
"Strong toy," I said. "Shame about the operator."
He lunged back, wrenching free in a shower of splinters. The next swing came lower—body shot, mean enough to break me in two if it landed. I shifted my weight, barely, a ghost of space between my ribs and his claws. His knuckles kissed fabric, tearing a thread loose.
I snapped an elbow toward his jaw; he rolled with it, spitting something halfway between a laugh and a growl.
The gauntlet spun up again, the claws glowing faint with heat as steam poured from the joints. He charged.
And he was doing so well.
I sidestepped, caught his coat, and turned his rush into a stumble. He hit the booth back-first, rattling the frame. Before he could reset, I came in close, knife in my hand now, steel clashing against steel as I tested the gauntlet's durability. One precise cut and his toy would sing its last note.
"Not so—" he started, and that's when the door blew inward.
Wood shattered, glass spilled from the nearby windows, and the cold walked in wearing armor black as midnight.
Death Hand froze. So did the room. I caught myself holding my breath.
Standing there, still as stone, was the reason grown men had nightmares. The well known "black sheep" of the GCF Peaceguard, Oberwächter Shogun.
"The Nightmare of Berlin," as he was more commonly known.
The doorframe was full of him. His shoulders carried armor plates like iron slabs, squared and roped in crimson cords, each one scarred with old strikes.
The kabuto sat heavy on his head, a war crown with horns that curved like the crescent of a moon. Sharp rivets climbed its surface, and under the shadow of its crest, his face was nothing but an oni's sneer. Red teeth glared through the black mask, the wet shine catching every breath as if the mask itself wanted blood. Above it, a visor of polished night gave nothing back.
At his hip, an odachi—a blade long enough to shame any battlefield, and make any man feel self-conscious. Its blackened steel drank the light, except for the edge: a line of pink triangles that shimmered like fractured glass, catching the glow every time Shogun shifted.
He moved without warning—one sweep of his blade that barely made a sound. The edge hit the gauntlet at the wrist, and the metal burst. Sparks sprayed hot across Death Hand's face, and his scream was the raw sound of pure terror.
Shogun didn't stop. The second stroke hit his elbow, shearing through metal and meat alike, seemingly not caring which was which. The gauntlet half hung, half dangled by stringy tendon before gravity took it, slamming to the tiles with a sound like a church bell.
Death Hand dropped with it, choking, blood blooming from under his sleeve in a dark flood. He clutched what was left of his arm like he thought it would listen to his pleas.
And still, Shogun didn't speak.
He stood over him, sword angled low, the lacquered plates drinking in the golden neon glow that leaked through the blinds. For a moment, all I could hear was Death Hand trying to breathe through the pain. Then a flash, and the sound ended.
Just like that.
The only thing moving now was the steam curling off Shogun's blade, red dripping in slow beats onto the tile. He didn't look at me at first. He just stared down at what was left, measuring the quiet he'd made.
Then his visor tilted, dark glass reflecting my hood and the knife still loose in my grip. A hefty pause. I half expected his sword to pierce me next.
I blinked, and then he was gone.
Behind me, the shop stayed dark and silent. Alarie must've escaped in the chaos and hadn't come back yet.
I looked at the mess, then at the broken door. Someone else would clean this up.
I pulled my hood higher and slipped out the back before the smell of iron could stick.