The ridge line erupted first. Three barrels of the Juggernaut spat incandescent fire, and the whole jungle seemed to recoil. At this range—barely fifty meters—their plasma bolts weren’t munitions but cleavers of white light, tearing channels of brilliance through the night air.

  Long before that thunder, the Stinger’s electronic warfare suite had draped the valley in silence. For the next half-hour, it owned the sky, weaving a lattice of static and false echoes. Enemy optics bled with ghosts; their weapon locks froze, and their signal relays spat out nonsense.

  Nine Paladins broke into two fire teams, overlapping arcs into a crossfire net. While the Juggernaut’s volleys forced the Imperials to scatter, the Paladins drew lines of fire across every possible exit. The kill-box sealed shut.

  The first clash was merciless. Three Wraiths—those beastlike Imperial frames whose claws had unstitched so many Commonwealth cockpits—died before they could even register the trap. Their remains burned in the undergrowth like pyres.

  But the survivors, six in number, did not waver. Even blind and voiceless, their coordination was uncanny —a legacy of old pack instinct, honed over centuries of warfighting. They did not recoil. They charged the Juggernaut.

  The Paladins were dismissed. They had slaughtered Paladins before. The Juggernaut, that mountain of fire support, was the threat. Break it, and the battle would tip.

  On the ground, Third Squad fell back under Major Caleb’s orders. They had been bait, and the trap was sprung. Plasma hissed through the air above him, and Caleb hurled himself into cover, half-stumbling—then froze.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The Beast III was changing.

  Its corroded armor didn’t part; it dissolved, atom by atom, into a gray fog of nanites that hissed into a canister spine. The under-frame pulsed black and molten, as if alive. Then, like liquid steel being poured into a mold, the mech reshaped. Plates re-grew. Proportions shifted. Within seconds, the Beast was gone. In its place stood a perfect Wraith.

  Caleb’s throat dried. He felt both admiration and disgust. That fat Lieutenant isn’t a fool. He’s a conjurer of foul tricks, a craftsman of the dirty miracle.

  “Detonate!” Sergeant Roric’s voice cut through.

  Caleb punched the switch. The slope behind them convulsed in an explosion, rocks and trees hurled skyward. One Wraith toppled, its leg blown apart.

  When the smoke fell, Caleb glimpsed the counterfeit Wraith—Jack’s machine—sliding low, vanishing into the haze like a fox into tall grass.

  The enemy adapted. Five Wraiths, unshaken by the loss of half their number, accelerated. They moved like predators breaking from the brush—no hesitation, no disorder. Their vector: the Juggernaut.

  The Paladins threw themselves into the breach, weaving a curtain of plasma. Not aimed fire, but a solid wall of light.

  The lead Wraith vaulted high, catching half the barrage. It burned in midair, twisting, but its sacrifice tore open a gap. The others surged through.

  They struck the line’s vanguard. Two Paladins were gutted instantly, their cockpits torn apart in sprays of blood and molten steel.

  “Fall back! Protect the Juggernaut!” Roric barked. His voice held no panic—only the clipped edge of a man who had seen such slaughter before.

  The Paladins contracted, forming a crescent shield around the Juggernaut.

  Roric’s private channel chimed. One word, encrypted. Wait.

  He understood. Jack was hunting.

  Through the drifting smoke, a sixth Wraith slithered into position behind the others—silent, deliberate, lethal.

  The Tartarus pilots didn’t know.

  Roric’s lips bent into a thin smile. The dirtiest bastard in the regiment just slipped into your pack. You won’t live to regret it.