SEGREGATION IS THE NORMAL FOR ALL.
Across the strait lies Upper Crownpoint, a municipal expanse that radiates the glory and elegance of neoclassical architecture fused with Luciana modernism. Its districts are laid out in intentional, deliberate eixample grids, a testament to meticulous urban planning and ambition, which gave the city an unmistakable sense of wealth and refinement.
Where the grid gave way, a richer mid-rise skyline rose in its place, quietly reflecting the social and economic distances that separated it from Hell's Kitchen, its counterpart across the water.
Every architectural choice in Upper Crownpoint seemed to communicate class stratification without ever having to say a word. The hierarchy begins in the pristine, high-altitude alpine estates, where the ultra-wealthy reside in quiet isolation, before descending into the tranquil semi-rural exurban communities. As the population increased, those settlements became denser and more affluent, developing into wealthy suburbs and well-to-do upper-middle-class neighborhoods.
From there the city progressed steadily into a highly populated commercial hub that stretched through the busy districts before finally giving way to the working-class quarters.
Everything about Crownpoint felt like an intentional partition. A living society of segregation and separation.
NATURE'S OWN BOUNDARIES.
Hell yeah—even nature and geological features had taken part in this, solidifying the discrimination. The geography told a story of stratification.
As though the divisions created by politics and socioeconomic inequality weren't enough—nature had chosen to play its own game of division.
But the strait wasn't enough. Inside Hell's Kitchen, Mother Nature continued her game of division by erecting a massive geological rock formation—a massive escarpment that stretched for miles, forming a natural ridge between Front Marina and Undercity.
Unlike the strait, it could not simply be crossed by bridges. Instead, the two cities were connected through a network of transportation tunnels carved through the rock, carrying both road and railway traffic beneath the geological barrier.
The beautiful handiwork of Mother Nature. It was as though Mother Nature had looked at Crownpoint and thought:
You know what this place needs? Another boundary.
A QUIET MORNING, A LOUD PROBLEM.
Colebrook, Upper Crownpoint. It was still a sunny mid-morning. The mid-morning sun hung over Upper Crownpoint, casting warm light across the streets as the city gradually awakened into the rhythm of another day.
Down the road stood a pub. It was the sort of establishment where respectable men could sit, drink, exchange conversation, and simply absorb the morning before returning to whatever responsibilities awaited them.
Don Klause sat comfortably in his usual spot, nursing a cold pint of beer, when a shadowy figure in a heavy hoodie stepped up to the bar and slid onto the stool right beside him.
The bartender sauntered over, wiping down the counter. "What can I get started for you, sir?"
The man ignored him. Instead, he turned slightly toward Klause. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold, hard, and unnervingly calm.
"I believe a loyal carrier is supposed to enjoy the benefits that come from his sender." He shifted his gaze back to the bartender. "Do you think so?"
Judging by the confused expression on his face, he had absolutely no idea what the mysterious fellow was talking about. The man's words made no sense to him.
"I don't get you, pal." He scratched the side of his temple. "Is that some kind of question that requires me to answer?" he asked politely.
Before the stranger could respond, Klause interjected, "You get compensated and enjoy all the benefits that come from the table of a king, dickhead."
Klause took another sip of his beer. "When you do your job flawlessly."
He then turned toward the bartender. "Put it on my tab, whatever he orders."
"Aww, I'm touched by your kind gesture," the stranger replied, a sarcastic grin spreading across his face as he placed a hand over his chest in feigned shock.
"Cut the crap," Klause snapped before another word could escape the stranger's mouth. "Why are you here?"
The hooded man finally turned back to the waiting bartender. "Two shots of tequila, mixed carefully with vermouth. And if you have fresh lime, serve it on the side."
BAD NEWS FOR THE TIMETABLE.
The bartender nodded, moving off to fulfill the order. With the barkeep gone, the stranger leaned toward Klause once more, his demeanor shifting back to business.
"We have a problem." His voice remained calm. "It looks like there's gonna be a slight delay, as the Mute Swan is yet to enter the pond."
Klause's expression changed immediately. The relaxed man who had been enjoying his morning beer only moments earlier disappeared.
Frustration and anger surged through Klause.
Thwack!
He slammed his fist against the bar top, the sharp crack drawing the attention of patrons enjoying their morning.
"Easy there, fella." He looked back at Klause.
"You're drawing unwanted attention." He raised his hands slightly, adopting the exaggerated manner of someone pretending to care about the situation. "Pump your brakes, Hulk Hogan."
Klause took a deep, forced breath. After a few agonizing seconds, he managed to rein in his temper.
He glanced around the pub and realized just how many people were watching him.
Klause sighed.
"My apologies, everyone."
Raising a hand toward the watching patrons, he offered a quiet, polite apology to the room, gradually restoring the easy morning atmosphere.
The bartender returned, placing the concoction on the counter before quietly retreating.
"Details," Klause demanded under his breath. "Why the sudden shortcoming?"
The carrier leaned in close to Klause's ear, his voice dropping to a low, steady whisper as he laid out the entirety of the situation and the compromised state of their plan.
Klause exhaled a long, bitter sigh, his chest sinking under the weight of deep disappointment.
The plan had been delayed, and whatever timetable they had been working with was now hanging precariously in the balance.
Yet the carrier didn't seem bothered. Not even slightly.
He casually picked up his shot of tequila and drank it with a cheerful ease that seemed almost insulting given the circumstances. Klause stared ahead, visibly devastated by the sudden delay.
The carrier simply enjoyed his drink. One man was deeply troubled by the situation. The other was completely unbothered.
For Klause, the delay represented a serious problem.
For the carrier, it appeared to be nothing more than an inconvenience worth washing down with tequila.
LABYRINTH FOR NEGOTIATION AND AGREEMENT.
After hours of driving through the labyrinthine arteries of the dying city, the van finally reached its destination. The steady hum of the engine gradually faded until it came to a complete stop.
Then came the side doors, sliding open with a metallic krrr-chk.
Cool, stale air rushed into the vehicle. Der Sand and Morrison were pulled out one after the other—not roughly enough to leave marks, but not gently enough to mistake it for courtesy.
Even before the blindfolds were removed. For reasons neither of them could fully explain, they knew they were still in Undercity.
The place had a presence of its own; even the air itself betrayed the truth.
A mixture of smoke and suffocating heaviness in the air, the smell of damp concrete and rusting pipes, and the faint chemical sting that seemed to cling to every underground corridor. Undercity was a dying city beneath a living one, and its atmosphere was unmistakable.
A character of its own, and once you had breathed its air enough times, you never forgot it. It's a unique essence and quiet decay that no other place in Luciana carries quite the same way.
Their hands remained tightly bound behind their backs. Thick blindfolds covered their faces. "Move," one of the guards ordered.
The guards gripped them firmly by the arms and guided them toward the mechanical elevator.
Their shoes scraped over rough concrete, then metal. A set of elevator doors opened with a dull ding.
They were pushed inside, and immediately, the iron cage groaned as it descended.
At first, faint traces of life could still be heard above them—the distant rumble of machinery, muffled voices, and the occasional vibration of vehicles passing somewhere beyond the walls.
Then, the restless noise of the streets gradually thinned, then vanished altogether, swallowed by layers of rock and reinforced steel until there was nothing left except the low mechanical groan of cables and the occasional clank of old machinery.
Minutes later, the elevator settled with a gentle jolt. When the gate finally rattled open, they had reached the deepest level of the underground complex.
A CONTROLLED SILENCE.
They were marched down an echoing corridor and nudged into a massive room. The first thing Der Sand noticed wasn't a sight, but a sound: pure, deliberate silence.
It was not the ordinary silence of an abandoned room or an empty warehouse.
This was a controlled silence.
The kind of silence that existed because everyone present had been warned not to speak unless they were spoken to.
Rough hands shoved them down onto wooden chairs and made them sit. The blindfolds were yanked off.
Snap. Light struck them immediately.
Both men flinched as bright overhead lamps flooded their vision. For several long seconds, all Der Sand could see were white blurs and moving shadows. Morrison blinked repeatedly, his eyes watering. Slowly, the room came into focus.
A long, weathered wooden table. Armed sentries positioned around the perimeter with military precision. The architecture alone screamed hostility.
Neither captive spoke, but their eyes immediately locked onto the figure seated at the center of the table. He was a massive, imposing man whose face was mapped in intricate ink, the lines twisting across his jaw like contour lines on a map. He had the sharp, lethal air of someone born to manage an empire in the dark.
A tailored suit hugged his broad frame, complemented by subtle diamond studs, a heavy gold watch, and eyes as cold as slate. Two hulking bodyguards stood behind his chair like gargoyles.
Several feet away, the driver who had brought them there stood quietly, seemingly unconcerned with the meeting. He kept to himself near one corner of the room, hands loose at his sides, expression unreadable.
Der Sand's gaze lingered on the man for a fraction of a second before darting back to the center. Morrison remained frozen, barely daring to draw breath.
The underboss finally broke the silence. He leaned forward, resting his chin on folded knuckles, and fixed Der Sand with a look of calculated intimidation.
"So…" he began, his voice calm but intimidating. "Mr. Der Sand."
Der Sand looked at him with a serious gaze.
"What is so special about you and the others who have tried to gain my audience?"
Der Sand slowly turned his head toward Morrison, and Morrison returned the look, equally uncertain.
Then Der Sand faced the tattooed man again. "Depends," he said.
The man's brow lifted. "On what?"
"Are you asking because you genuinely don't know?" Der Sand said softly.
The room tightened.
The response struck a nerve. One of the guards stepped forward at once, but the underboss lifted a hand, and the man returned to his place without a word.
The underboss stared at Der Sand for a moment. "Careful." A faint smile tugged at the man's lips.
"You've got some nerve," he said. The smile remained, though it carried no warmth.
He settled back into his chair. "Tell me something, then—"
"What do you think the chances are that you leave here alive?" he asked. "With your head still attached to your shoulders?"
Der Sand didn't flinch. Instead, he let his eyes wander lazily around the room. He counted the guards discreetly, mapping their angles, masking the tactical evaluation as sheer boredom. Finally, his attention returned to the boss.
"How will you get your hands on what I came here to offer," Der Sand asked, "if you kill me before I can offer it?"
The room went still.
"It's like burning down a colony of bees," Der Sand added, "without caring about the honeycomb."
Morrison turned toward him, visibly surprised.
The boss stared at Der Sand for several seconds before giving a low, humorless laugh.
"I assume you came here to negotiate." His smile disappeared.
"So let's stop wasting time. What can you offer me that I can't get somewhere else?"
Der Sand leaned back in his chair, appearing more relaxed than a man in his position had any right to be.
"Something different."
"That is vague," the underboss said.
"That is because I'm not selling you a product." Der Sand smiled, though his eyes remained serious.
The underboss turned slightly to his left, then faced him again. "Then what are you selling?"
"I'm selling you a future," Der Sand said.
The words settled over the room, and silence followed.
The guards' postures tightened, weapons shifting slightly as the tension spiked toward violence. But before anyone could move, the underboss offered a sharp, approving nod.
"Go on."
Der Sand held his tongue for a beat, letting his gaze drift casually across the room once more. Morrison caught the movement, and so did the underboss.
This time, the man in charge allowed the behavior to pass without comment.
"Find something interesting?" the kingpin asked, his tone laced with venom.
"I'm just learning the room," Der Sand replied, knowing the admission had already been registered.
"You should've done that before you walked through the door," the underboss snapped. "My patience is running thin."
Both parties were fully aware that the guests were blindfolded and tied up upon arrival. The streets care less.
"I know," Der Sand said. "Forgive me. It is an old habit."
Then his expression hardened.
The joking was over.
REPUTATIONS AND MISDIRECTIONS.
"Word on the street says you are the reason business has been slow," the underboss said. "Your little charade with the princess caused merchandise to halt across the city."
Der Sand remained quiet, letting the man speak. He saw no reason to interrupt.
"Law enforcement is everywhere. Bursting good business because of the dinner incident in Upper Crownpoint."
The underboss leaned forward, cataloging Der Sand's known failures with methodical precision. "For someone who claims to be so prolific, you weren't even smart enough to keep your warehouse from getting hit."
A few guards chuckled on cue, eager to play along with their commander's mockery.
The underboss grinned. "Guess you didn't see that coming. And you expect me to sit here and listen to an incompetent amateur?"
Der Sand did not respond.
Inside his mind, however, the pieces were beginning to fit together. His instincts had been correct.
Then an aide quietly approached the underboss and leaned close to whisper in his ear.
"Sir, pardon my interruption," the aide said. "There is a correction."
The aide's voice was barely a murmur. "The warehouse raid was a complete failure for the Royal Police. They didn't seize any product. They found baking powder, flour, and commercial supply crates."
The room went dead still. The underboss stared at his aide, then glanced toward the shadowed corner of the room before looking back.
"Really?"
"Yes, sir," the aide confirmed, stepping back.
The underboss turned slowly to Der Sand, studying him, forcing a thin smile. "How'd I never hear that part of the story? Guess you weren't as dumb as you look."
Der Sand's mouth curved slightly. "I didn't gain my reputation for just being flippant."
The underboss watched him carefully.
"The Royal Police were fast," Der Sand continued. "But I was faster. I'm always five steps ahead."
The underboss leaned back, saying nothing. For several agonizing seconds, heavy silence filled the room.
AN UNNOTICED COURTESY.
Then, a tiny noise broke the quiet.
Flick.
The driver—the man who had navigated the van through Undercity—stood near the back pillar. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack. He took one cigarette, placed it between his lips, and began searching for a lighter.
Two armed bodyguards rushed forward. One instantly flicked open a silver lighter, holding the flame out for the driver.
"Thanks," the driver muttered, his voice barely audible.
"No problem, sir," the guard replied respectfully, stepping back to his post.
The driver took a slow drag as Der Sand watched him.
Only for a moment. It was a minor detail and almost meaningless. Der Sand narrowed his eyes, then turned his attention back to the underboss as the conversation resumed.
The underboss cleared his throat, leaning forward again. "So, what are you offering, and what do you want in return? Territory? What's your play?"
"I want opportunity," Der Sand said, eyes serious.
The boss gave a short laugh. "Same thing."
"I won't say so. Not where I'm from."
"Hmm." Curiosity flickered across the underboss's face. "Then enlighten me."
"Undercity is choked," Der Sand said, leaning across the wood. "Every alleyway has countless different fools claiming ownership. Everyone is bleeding each other dry over the same ruined streets and the same desperate junkies."
The underboss listened, unmoving.
"That's a small man's game," Der Sand continued, watching the kingpin's eyes carefully. "I think bigger."
Morrison sat rigid beside him, mentally praying Der Sand wouldn't push too far. One wrong word, a misplaced insult, or one careless remark would turn the room into a slaughterhouse.
They would both be dead before the elevator reached the surface.
"Undercity is only the foundation." He raised one finger. "Front Marina is the next step." A second finger. "Then the people above it. For example, Upper Crownpoint."
The underboss's gaze sharpened.
"The parties. The private gatherings. The people with money who want everything delivered without ever having to know where it came from."
Der Sand paused, then pressed on. "Happy juice, crystal candies, mushrooms, and happy pills. Moon powder. Different products. Different appetites. Different circles."
The underboss folded his arms. The room had grown attentive.
"And what makes you think you can penetrate those circles?" the underboss demanded.
"Because I'm not selling to the crowd," Der Sand smiled, his confidence absolute. "I'm targeting the people who have everything, except the one thing they aren't allowed to buy."
Der Sand gestured outward. "We look beyond it."
He let the implication hang in the air.
"Two-thirds of Luciana's major markets," he said. "And perhaps overseas, when the business grows the way I expect it to."
The underboss leaned back. For the first time genuine interest showed. Then he glanced toward the quiet man standing several feet away—brief, almost imperceptible. The quiet man returned the smallest of nods. The underboss looked back at Der Sand.
"That could work."
Der Sand's eyes moved from the quiet man back to the underboss. "Could it?"
The underboss frowned, finding the question insolent. "What?"
"I can't help but notice," Der Sand said softly, "that every time you're about to make a decision, you look at him."
Silence crashed over the room like a physical weight.
Morrison looked between Der Sand and the guards, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The underboss's features hardened into iron. "He's my advisor. What's it to you?"
Der Sand nodded slowly, his tone dripping with quiet sarcasm. "Of course he is." But he did not believe him.
The underboss began discussing terms. Prices. Risks. Routes. Possible alliances. Supply chains. Distribution points.
Yet every time a meaningful decision was about to be made, the same thing happened.
The same routine played out: a micro-pause, a subtle glance toward the back wall, a barely noticeable nod, and then the underboss would speak.
REVEALING THE REAL KINGPIN.
Der Sand observed it all and said nothing—until the underboss finally leaned forward once more.
"So tell me, Der Sand. Why should I put my operation behind you?"
Der Sand looked the man dead in the eyes. "You shouldn't. Not yet."
"And why the hell not?"
"Because you're not the one I need to convince." Der Sand added carefully.
The room froze; Morrison's eyes widened.
The guards shifted immediately, ready for the order that might follow. The tattooed underboss slowly stood from his chair. Anger crept across his face.
"Watch your mouth," the underboss growled.
Der Sand didn't flinch. His eyes drifted past the giant in the suit, targeting the quiet man standing near the pillar. The man who hadn't said more than two words since they walked in.
Der Sand smiled, pointing a finger toward the shadowed corner. "You," he said, gesturing toward him. "You're the one I need to convince."
The supposed underboss stared at him. For a moment, he seemed genuinely unable to understand what Der Sand was getting at.
"He talks." Der Sand gestured toward the man at the center of the table. "You decide."
"That's interesting." Der Sand gestured toward the cigarette resting between the driver's fingers.
"Your driver... he gets his cigarettes lit by your top heavyweights. The hostiles in this room don't offer courtesies like that to hired help."
The hostile room went dead silent. Der Sand leaned back, the calm of a man who had just rearranged the board.
"One interesting thing you need to understand. Men don't usually light another man's cigarette unless they know where the hierarchy actually sits."
The quiet man's lips curled into a genuine smile.
"I've seen setups like this before," Der Sand continued, turning his eyes back to the giant at the desk. "This... is a prominent position." He then gestured back to the driver. "And that... is the quiet position. One acts as the mouthpiece. The other holds the authority."
He looked from the false underboss to the silent driver.
"Drivers are not usually influential when sensitive matters like this are being discussed. Advisers do not receive this kind of treatment either."
He kept his looks directly at the quiet man. "Not unless there's more to them than their title suggests."
Der Sand paused.
"I know some people earn special treatment because of years of hard work, loyalty, and devotion."
His eyes moved over the room.
"However, loyalty gets you perks, sure, but no driver sits in on a summit unless he owns the table. And just now—when your 'boss' hesitated—he looked to you for permission. And you gave it."
Then, Der Sand spoke for one more time, "But you have contributed far too much to be merely a driver—or merely an adviser."
The man at the center slowly turned toward the quiet figure. And there it was—the slightest nod, a permission so subtle it might have been missed by anyone less attentive. It gave Der Sand everything he needed.
THE SHIFT IN POWER.
The real kingpin let out a soft laugh. He took a final drag from his cigarette, and he removed the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth.
Tossed the butt to the concrete floor and crushed it out beneath the toe of his boot, extinguishing the ember.
Without a word of threat or posturing, the former driver walked over to the table. The tattooed man rose at once and pulled out a seat across from Der Sand for his master.
The real kingpin sat down, casually resting his forearms on the wood.
"I suppose I gave off too many tells," the kingpin admitted smoothly. "A sharp man was bound to pick up on it eventually." He leaned back, shaking his head. "I'm impressed. And, frankly... disappointed in myself. I'm just glad you aren't wearing a wire for the Royal Police. I'll have to practice blending into the background a bit better."
Der Sand recalled his earlier words. "Five steps ahead."
For the first time since Der Sand had entered the room, the quiet man laughed.
It was not a loud laugh. It was controlled but genuine.
The entire room had changed.
Der Sand's intelligence had altered the balance of the meeting. In a world ruled by guns, money, and fear, he had demonstrated another kind of power—the kind that came from seeing what everyone else missed.
"Other than the cigarette," the real boss asked, "how did you determine that I was the real man in charge?"
Der Sand considered him for a moment.
"A person important enough to have a guard offer him a seat is not an ordinary driver," he said.
The real boss listened.
"A person at the bottom of the chain of command does not understand that many nonverbal cues unless he has spent years working closely with the people in the room."
Der Sand continued.
"Since I have been here, nobody has offered your frontman a drink. Not even water. Not a face towel. Nothing."
He nodded toward the tattooed man.
"But you?"
He looked back at the real kingpin.
"You were offered a seat, and you refused it. Whenever the discussion reached a point where a decision had to be made, he turned slightly toward you. You answered with the smallest approval or disapproval, depending on the subject."
He paused.
"And when everyone in the room became tense, you were the least bothered."
A mild chuckle escaped Der Sand.
"That is far too much freedom, confidence, and nonchalance for someone who is supposedly just a driver."
The kingpin stared at him for a long moment before raising his hands, clapping slowly.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
"Bravo, Mr. Der Sand. Bravo." The kingpin leaned over the table, his eyes locked onto Der Sand's. "Now... let's hear that proposal again. From the top."
With the real authority finally sitting across from him, Der Sand dove straight into the true mechanics of the deal, laying out routes, supply lines, and cut percentages with cold, razor-sharp precision.
Beside him, Morrison listened in absolute awe. He could hardly reconcile the brilliant, calculating tactician sitting next to him with the reckless, hot-headed man who had nearly wrecked everything in the coffee shop hours earlier. This was a completely different Der Sand—dangerous, brilliant, and entirely in his element.
BEHIND THE RAZOR LINE.
Both companies continued their march forward as a single, coordinated unit.
The Lucianan military had successfully overrun the first line of defense belonging to the Imperial Army of Rey Santana. The battery was now deep inside enemy territory, led by none other than Major Adams as its commanding officer.
Now they pushed deeper into enemy territory, but their objective had not changed. Luciana had one goal: covert assault.
Luciana could not afford a loud, costly engagement this early in the campaign. Every movement depended on silence, concealment, and speed. The fewer casualties they sustained, the stronger they would be when the true battle finally came.
The soldiers moved across the harsh terrain in staggered formations, rifles held at the ready, fingers close to their triggers. Their eyes swept constantly across the horizon, searching the golden expanse of savanna for movement, metal, smoke, or the glint of a distant scope.
For a while, their advance remained unchallenged. Then the forward observer stopped, and he raised one hand.
Halt.
The signal travelled back through the formation. Another soldier raised his fist. The soldier behind him repeated the gesture. Then another.
Within seconds, the command passed silently through the entire formation, and the Lucianan force came to a complete halt.
The observer lowered his binocular harness, his expression hardening.
Stretched across the entire sector was an immense razor-wire perimeter. Standing eight feet tall, the barrier was a dense, multi-layered mesh of heavy-gauge coil, crisscrossed with galvanized tension wire and rusted, razor-sharp steel blades. It spanned as far as the eye could see in both directions, carving an artificial wall directly across their line of advance.
Worse than the steel itself was what sat behind it.
The observer adjusted his optic, zooming past the concertina wire to spot the telltale sign of entrenched Imperial forces. He reached down, thumbed his tactical comms unit, and depressed the press-to-talk switch.
Then the communications frequency came alive.
"Enemy spotted. I have eyes on a small recce outpost with buggies," he radioed in, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hiss! "How many tinas?" a voice crackled back through the radio.
The observer adjusted his view.
"Can't tell to be exact," the observer replied, keeping his forehead pressed against the dirt. "But I got eyes on two watchmen and seven sandbag bunkers occupied by Imperial infantry."
Hiss! "Can they see your position?"
"Not yet, from my observations."
Hiss! The channel clicked open again. "Alright, can we breach it?"
"Not quietly."
Hiss! "What about wire cutters?"
"Too slow," the observer muttered, shaking his head. "The wire is multi-layered. We'll be exposed on the wire and spotted by their watchtower sentries in no time."
Hiss! "Explosives?"
"Really, Fool?" The observer's reply carried clear irritation. "That would defeat the purpose of stealth, you idiota."
The approaching force had reached an impasse.
If they opened fire, the Imperial soldiers would immediately occupy their bunkers and turn the open terrain into a killing field. If they attempted to climb the razor-wire fence, dozens of Lucianan soldiers would be silhouetted against the horizon, exposed and helpless as they struggled through metal blades and tangled wire.
Cutting down the fence was equally impossible. The watchmen would spot the movement almost immediately.
The watchmen were specifically positioned to observe the surrounding terrain, and the moment they noticed movement around the perimeter, the entire operation would be compromised.
Trying to find a way around it would mean wasting time and nothing short of plowing the sands.
Hiss! The observer reached for his radio again. "Oscar, bravo, uniform. This is Eyes. We have a problem, sir."
For several tense seconds, there was only static.
Hissssss…
A voice came through, "Go ahead." It was the voice of Major Adams.
Hiss! "Can you breach?"
"Not without compromising the entire operation, sir."
Hiss! A heavy exhale echoed through the receiver. "Understood. Maintain position."
The observer hesitated briefly before speaking again. "Sir, we're gonna need a Gifter as our alternative."
Hiss! "Gifter?" Major Adams sounded confused. "Aren't you the one who just said we would be compromised if we went guns-blazing?"
"We don't need a powerhouse Gifter," the observer explained. "We just need someone who's specialized in infiltration."
THE GHOST BREACH.
Miles back at the mobile command station, Major Adams immediately began toggling through their tactical roster, scanning the profile manifests of every available Gifter and specialized operative on the field. Yet with every file he opened, the realization set in: none of their high-value assets matched the unique parameters of the problem.
He searched through every possible option capable of changing the situation in their favor.
Close-combat specialists couldn't bypass an eight-foot physical barrier without tripping wire sensors. Healers were tactically irrelevant for an uncompromised infiltration. Berserkers and long-range heavy hitters were far too loud—they would level the sector but alert the entire regional command.
"There's a transmuter in the Eighteenth Squadron," someone suggested.
Hiss! "Can he or she conceal themselves?" Major Adams asked.
"Negative, sir."
Adams pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. His most powerful Gifters were useless in this particular situation.
This was not a battlefield that required someone capable of leveling a bunker, tearing apart a tank, or turning the ground into a crater. It required something much rarer.
He needed a ghost. Someone who could slip through space, cross an eight-foot razor wall without making physical contact, conduct forward reconnaissance, and strike the enemy from within their own perimeter.
Above them, the savanna sun beat mercilessly against their helmets and uniforms. Sweat gathered beneath body armor. Every passing second increased the risk of exposure. Their options were growing thinner by the minute.
Then, like a sudden jolt of electricity, a Gifter's name flashed through his mind.
He grabbed his radio.
"Sir, if my memory serves me right... Doesn't the November Company have someone with dimensional-rift abilities?"
Major Adams didn't waste a second. He rerouted a priority command directive straight to Team Ember. The order was absolute: Team Ember's spatial specialist was needed at the point position immediately.
Captain Balogun had little choice but to release Baker from his unit.
Minutes later, Baker arrived at the forward position, crouching beside the observer and several other soldiers. Dust clung to his boots and uniform as he listened carefully to the briefing on the perimeter, the bunkers, and the active sentries, with a sharp look. "Can you get us past this?"
When the explanation was finished, Baker nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I can do it. I can get us through with my spatial portal."
The observer looked at him carefully.
"Refresh my knowledge of your ability again," he requested. "Don't you need concrete, line-of-sight knowledge of your environment and an exact destination before you can link Point A to Point B?"
Baker acknowledged the scout's understanding with a brief nod.
"You're right about my standard spatial rifts. To establish a conventional Point A-to-Point B connection, I need clear spatial knowledge of the destination. That means I must have physically visited the location before, or have a sufficiently clear visual acquisition of it."
He paused, then continued.
"But Dimension Gate works differently."
"And with this?" the observer asked.
Baker pointed toward the Imperial defensive line.
"I don't need prior knowledge of the destination. I establish Point A here, enter my phased state, and physically travel the distance myself. Once I reach the position I want, I can create Point B from my actual location."
The observer narrowed his eyes.
"So what are the chances you don't just poof and drop an entire assault team right in front of an Imperial machine-gun nest like a wrapped birthday gift?" he pressed.
Baker gave a faint smile.
"That's the advantage of Dimension Gate." Baker gave a faint smile.
He pointed a few feet behind them. "I open a portal there. Then I face the other way, get into a sprinting stance, and launch myself forward. The moment I move, I phase out."
"Phase out?" Confusion flickered across the observer's face.
"Yes, you heard me right. Phase out." Baker nodded. "My body enters a dimensional state. I'm still physically moving in real space, but I can't be seen, heard, or interacted with."
"For how long?" another soldier asked, listening closely.
"Sixty seconds."
"Hmm…" The observer studied him. "I see."
The ability sounded convincing enough, but the observer was not the kind of soldier who trusted an idea merely because it sounded good.
He looked toward the fence again. "You can remain invisible for the entire duration?"
"Yes," Baker answered without hesitation.
"While moving?"
"Yes," he affirmed confidently.
Baker then pointed toward the Imperial side of the perimeter.
"I run, leap over the fence line in my phased state, reach the exact tactical position I want on the other side, and then open the exit portal from within."
The observer's eyes widened slightly as the tactical picture clicked into place. "And we emerge right behind them."
"Exactly," Baker said, giving a quick thumbs-up.
Silence fell over the small ditch for a long moment. The observer turned back, staring through his optics at the unwitting Imperial troops patrolling their positions.
"This... this will actually work."
He grabbed the comms unit, opening the direct encryption channel to command. The device had a direct line to Major Adams.
He pressed the transmit button.
"Sir, I think I have a solution, but I would love you to hear him out."
Hiss! "Speak," Adams' voice commanded through the speaker.
Baker brought the radio toward his mouth.
"Sir, I'll be using my Dimension Gate," Baker reported, keeping his voice steady. "I establish Point A to enter a phased dimensional state. Once inside, I am entirely invisible and non-physical for sixty seconds. I physically cross the distance myself to my predetermined Point B."
Major Adams listened intently, processing the mechanics.
Hiss! "So if someone is watching the fence…"
"They won't see me."
Hiss! "And what about the connection?"
"It won't manifest on their side until I physically emerge and deploy it, sir."
A GHOST IN THE SAVANNA.
A heavy silence lingered on the radio for five agonizing seconds as Adams calculated the operational risks. Slowly, a faint smile spread across the officer's face on the other end of the line.
Hiss! "How far can you physically cover in sixty seconds?"
"Mid-range at my absolute top sprint speed."
Hiss! "Enough to clear the perimeter and reach the rear of their bunkers?"
"Yes, sir."
Hiss! "I'm gonna need you to be faster, so suit up your gravity boots."
"Alright, sir." Baker returned the radio to the observer.
"Prepare the infantry," Adams ordered.
The command rippled quietly through the ranks. Up and down the line, Lucianan soldiers began performing final equipment checks—reseating magazines, flicking off weapon safeties, and securing bayonets to their mounts.
"Get us behind those sandbag bunkers," the observer instructed Baker.
"You got it," Baker replied, crawling back a few yards to give himself running room.
A heavy, expectant silence settled over the field. Soldiers watched intently as Baker took a deep breath, raised a single hand sign, and whispered under his breath.
"Spatial Technique: Dimension Gate."
His voice was barely a murmur, but the air surrounding him reacted instantly. For a split second, the atmosphere warped like heat shimmering off asphalt, taking on the visual texture of liquid glass.
VWOOM.
A circular spatial rift tore open in the air directly behind him. There was no bright flash, no concussive shockwave—just a dark, bent aperture hovering inches above the grass, twisting the air around it as if space itself had been folded inward.
"Sixty seconds, buddy," the observer whispered, gesturing toward Baker. "Make 'em count."
"You got it." He nodded.
Without a moment's hesitation, Baker dug his boots into the dirt and launched forward like a sprinter coming off the blocks. Within the blink of an eye, he vanished. It wasn't standard instantaneous teleportation; his physical form seamlessly phased out of the visible spectrum as he became invisible to the naked eyes.
He raced across the exposed battlefield, his gravity boots boosting every stride with unnatural force.
He was running against time. Beyond the fence, the Imperial soldiers continued their routine patrols. Baker crossed the open ground as he reached the razor-wire fence.
Then, with the assistance of his gravity boots, he leapt; his invisible body soared over the eight-foot barrier and the cruel rows of sharpened metal beneath him.
He landed silently on the other side.
Still unseen as he kept running. As he neared the enemy line, Baker passed the first bunker, then the second, and then the third. Imperial soldiers continued their patrols, entirely unaware. One watchman looked directly toward the fence and saw nothing. He turned away and resumed his routine.
On the surface, the Imperial soldiers continued their casual patrol routines, completely oblivious to the displacement of air passing right beside them. High in the watchtower, a sentry glanced down at the razor-wire fence, saw nothing but swaying grass, and turned back to sip his hot drink.
To make matters worse for the garrison, the outpost lacked any sensory-type Gifters or specialized detection equipment capable of picking up localized spatial anomalies. They had relied entirely on their physical defenses, believing their forward line was an impenetrable buffer.
They had no idea it had already been bypassed.
Baker kept running, pushing his lungs to the limit as he neared the designated drop point directly behind the central bunker array.
Forty seconds.
Thirty.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
His breathing became heavier. Every step pushed him closer to the limit of his ability.
Luckily, and almost gracefully, Baker finally reached his destination. He crouched behind a section of uneven ground near the rear of the Imperial defensive line and raised the same hand sign.
Then he muttered calmly—
"Release."
VWOOM—Space twisted behind him as the fabric of the air tore open a second portal.
Baker immediately materialized as the dimensional process ended. His invisibility vanished, and his body became visible once again.
He crouched low as the infiltration was a success. He was behind the entire enemy defensive line. A quick glance toward the Imperial bunkers, then he radioed the signal and transmitted the execution pulse.
AN UNDETECTED COLLAPSE.
Back across the field, Major Adams raised a hand and signaled the advance.
One after another, Lucianan infantrymen stepped through the initial portal. Within seconds, a continuous stream of fully armed soldiers poured silently out of the dimensional gateway on the other side.
They emerged directly behind the Imperial positions in coordinated fireteams, rifles raised and ready. It was the textbook definition of a covert breach: not a single shot fired, not a single position compromised.
The first Imperial soldier walking between the bunkers never knew what struck him. A Lucianan soldier slipped behind him, a hand clamped over his mouth, and dragged him into darkness.
Gone.
Another soldier entered the first bunker. The Imperial occupants turned—but it was far too late. The Lucianan soldier snapped the neck of one Imperial soldier before the man could raise his weapon.
The remaining occupants were eliminated with suppressed rifles, their bodies dropping soundlessly behind the sandbags.
The first bunker was secured.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Across the defensive line, the same thing happened. One bunker after another fell into Lucianan control.
The Imperial soldiers had spent the entire morning watching the horizon for an approaching enemy, secure in their role as the second line of defense and confident in their multi-layered razor wire. They never considered the possibility that the enemy would appear behind them.
At the edge of the camp, a final watchman turned around, his eyes widening in sudden horror as he found a squad of Lucianan soldiers already occupying his compound. He lunged frantically for his radio console, but an operator tackled him to the ground before his fingers touched the receiver.
Before the second watchman could understand what was happening. He reached for his sidearm—
Pfft.
His world went black before he could clear his holster as a Lucianan marksman dropped him from a few yards away.
Silence reclaimed the sector. No sirens blared. No distress calls reached Imperial central command. The Lucianan military had systematically dismantled the enemy's second line of defense without raising a single alarm.
Baker leaned against the wooden frame of a sandbag bunker, catching his breath. The sheer physical tax of maintaining maximum sprint velocity while sustaining a dimensional phase was heavier than he had anticipated.
The observer walked up to him, checking his tactical timer. "How much time was left?"
Baker glanced down at his wrist unit. "Fifteen seconds."
The scout offered a rare, approving nod. "You just saved us thousands of rounds of ammo and a hell of a lot of blood."
Baker managed a tired grin.
The observer stretched out his hand and helped him to his feet. Together, they looked toward the razor-wire fence behind them.
The barrier that could have forced an entire army into a bloody assault had become irrelevant.
The Lucianan soldiers advanced through the captured line and began bringing down sections of the fence for their incoming artillery crews. Soon, the FV433 Abbot self-propelled artillery vehicles rolled through the breached perimeter without interruption.
Yet, in the chaotic friction of war, absolute control is an illusion.
The inevitable arrived. A trio of Imperial infantrymen, returning from an off-route patrol, crested a nearby ridge just in time to see Lucianan armored vehicles rolling past their captured positions toward the main fortress. Paralyzed by sudden terror, the three soldiers turned and sprinted back into the brush, clawing at their field radios to report the catastrophic breach to headquarters.
The Lucianan soldiers did not know they had been seen and reported. They continued forward, walking into the unknown fate that now waited ahead.