We stopped at Aethergard's main airlock. The echo of our boots on the metal ramp alerted the sentries instantly. Four men in matte gray armor with rifles magnetized to their chests blocked our path.
There was no welcome. Only the hiss of hydraulic mechanisms and the cold rotation of an automatic turret locking onto us as targets.
"Identify yourselves and keep your hands where we can see them," the leader ordered through a distorted loudspeaker.
They surrounded us in a tense semi-circle. Suspicion hung in the air. Our high-end gear, concealed under desert dust, was an anomaly in a sector used to receiving ragged refugees. Ha-jin remained calm, his Apex rifle deactivated but ready.
"We're independent scouts. We've come from the southern hunting zone," he stated in a neutral voice.
"We'll see what you've brought from there. Proceed with the search," the guard declared.
One of them stepped forward with a handheld scanner. The device emitted a rhythmic beep over our backpacks until, as it passed over my side compartment, the sound turned into a sharp, persistent buzz. The guard tensed up. With a sudden movement, he pulled out the sphere pulsing inside.
"What the hell is this?" he asked. His professional tone vanished, replaced by a trace of fear.
The sickly purple light from the infected sphere bathed his tactical gloves. The rest of the sentries instinctively backed away; contagion was the greatest taboo in that settlement.
"It's a Sandworm Leader core," I replied, my eyes fixed on his visor. "We obtained it less than an hour ago."
A heavy silence fell over the group. The sentry exchanged a quick glance with his superior; surprise cracked through his mask of indifference.
"A Leader?" The guard captain approached cautiously. "Those beasts are Level 18. No one in this sector has the arsenal to take down an infected specimen."
"We do," Ha-jin countered. He pointed toward his weapon's railgun barrel.
The officer scrutinized our tags and then the core. Doubt mutated into a forced courtesy. He realized we weren't mere drifters, but high-value assets—or a threat that required immediate supervision.
"I see. This changes entry priorities," he said, gesturing toward the interior. "Takamori, Ha-jin... follow us. High command will verify this piece personally."
The inner airlock opened with a metallic roar. We didn't enter as citizens, but as high-profile prisoners under an escort that wavered between admiration and fear.
We crossed reinforced concrete corridors under the constant surveillance of rifles. The air was cold and recycled, permeated with ozone that contrasted with the rot of the outside world. They led us to an armored anteroom where the officer ordered us to wait.
Ha-jin leaned against the metal wall with his arms crossed. His calm was a facade; the tension in his jaw betrayed the fact that he was calculating every escape route.
"This feels like an arrest, not a welcome," I whispered, aware of the microphones.
"Protocol for the unknown, Takamori-san," he replied without looking at me. "We're carrying a Level 18 core and gear that doesn't match our apparent rank. To them, we're either a gold mine or a ticking time bomb."
"Do you think they'll try to confiscate the loot?"
"If they try, they'll find out exactly why we survived the worms. But for now, keep it diplomatic. We need access to this city's network."
The double doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss. A uniformed assistant stepped out of the office with a commanding gesture.
"The Commander will see you. Surrender your weapons to the honor guard before entering."
I exchanged a glance with Ha-jin. Diplomacy had become a risky gamble. Disarming meant putting ourselves at the mercy of an unknown faction, but refusing was equivalent to a declaration of hostility. With a sharp nod, Ha-jin placed the Apex in the security rack. I did the same with my sword. A sting of vulnerability pricked at me as we crossed the threshold.
The man didn't wait for us to sit. He remained behind a desk of reinforced metal; his titanium arm hummed faintly under the amber glow of the ether illuminating the surface. His steel-cold gaze swept over us with technical curiosity and skepticism.
"I am Varek Voss, commander of this bastion," he declared. His voice sounded like the grinding of two metal plates. "Don't feel special; you aren't the first to pass through that airlock."
He paused. He rested his hand of flesh on the table while the mechanical prosthesis remained under controlled tension.
"There were others before you—bearers of this same technology and variants that defy the logic of this desert. None revealed the source of their arsenal. I assume you will maintain that same silence; I don't care."
He leaned forward, casting an imposing shadow over us.
"What interests me is your goal. You are only the third group to take down an infected Leader. That monster was suffocating our supply lines and forcing us into suicide missions. With its death, you have restored a vital route to us."
He straightened his back. Residual heat from his mechanical arm made the air in the room shimmer. His gray eyes locked onto mine, searching for any hint of deception.
"Now, tell me: what do you seek in my city in exchange for this service?"
"Haji-kun, let me handle this," I said.
He nodded and took a step back, ceding the center of that invisible duel to me. I stepped forward and performed a deep bow. The gesture, rooted in my heritage, contrasted sharply with the industrial grit of the office. Voss remained motionless; only the low hum of his arm betrayed his curiosity at my formality.
"Commander," I began, my back straight. "We are foreigners looking for a place to settle. We understand that in this world, hospitality is a resource scarcer than pure water. We aren't asking for charity; we are offering an alliance."
Voss narrowed his eyes. The weight of his gaze was a physical scrutiny, searching for cracks in my resolve.
"Our weapons and skills are at your service. We can clear hunting zones, secure routes, or face threats your soldiers cannot afford to engage. The cores we've delivered are proof enough of our worth."
The silence stretched, charged with electric tension. Voss drummed his titanium fingers; the metallic echo marked the rhythm of his judgment. Finally, pragmatism overcame suspicion.
"I accept," he declared. His voice regained the gravity of command. "But understand this: this bastion does not tolerate parasites. Your stay here is neither permanent nor secure."
He leaned forward. The amber glow of his prosthesis illuminated the scar on his face.
"Another visitor arrived recently. He and his partner showed up with elite gear and lethal efficiency. They looked untouched, as if the desert were afraid of them."
Voss paused deliberately to gauge our reaction.
"He didn't give a real name. He asked that we call him... Zero."
The air grew thick. A surge of adrenaline shot down my spine; it wasn't dread, but the recognition of an equal. That name wasn't a threat—it was the standard of absolute excellence.
I clenched my fists to contain the anticipation. Behind me, Ha-jin shifted his stance. He took an imperceptible step forward, his jaw tight and a spark of pure competitiveness in his eyes.
Voss watched us intently. Our reactions confirmed his suspicions: we knew the man.
Silence returned, deathly still. It wasn't fear; it was the overwhelming weight of realizing that if Zero was there, the game had just ascended to a level where the slightest mistake would leave us in his shadow forever.