What had once been a clean, cylindrical structure was now torn open—its curved walls split by jagged holes, red-stained metal peeled outward as if something had clawed its way free. Magitium residue steamed in the rain, glowing veins fading as the coil’s last charge bled into nothing. Above it all, the sky screamed.
Artillery fell in sheets.
The electromagnetic barrier was gone. There was no warning shimmer, no distant thunder anymore—only the brutal, immediate arrival of shells. Impacts stitched the streets with fire, throwing concrete and metal skyward. Shockwaves rolled across Ironford in uneven pulses, rattling teeth, buckling knees.
Irik drove the Bulwark forward, its massive frame hunched slightly, turret angled upward—not to fire, but to shield.
UF soldiers clustered beneath it, dozens of them, pressed tight under the armored belly and along its flanks. They moved as one frightened mass, boots splashing through ash and rain, rifles hanging forgotten at their sides.
Each shell that struck the Bulwark sent a metallic boom through its frame. The machine groaned, shock absorbers screaming as it absorbed the force. The soldiers beneath flinched every time, some crying out, others freezing mid-step.
It felt less like walking under protection—and more like sheltering beneath something that might crush them at any moment.
Loran walked near the front, jaw clenched, eyes observing the ruins. Nyra stayed close, rifle tight against her chest, knuckles white. Vera kept glancing upward, as if expecting the Bulwark to tip, collapse, end them all in an instant.
And Guren—
Guren walked slightly apart.
His uniform was torn, blood dried dark across his chest and side. His left arm hung heavier than it should have, veins of black threading beneath the fabric, faintly visible where the sleeve had burned away. Every step looked like it hurt. Every breath was measured.
The soldiers noticed.
Whispers followed him, carried between impacts.
He’s infected.
Why is he still walking?
If he turns—
A shell landed nearby.
The street buckled. The shockwave slammed into the group, throwing dust and heat into the air. Several soldiers screamed. One dropped to his knees, hands over his head.
Then another broke.
A young UF trooper—helmet too big, face slick with sweat—lurched out from beneath the Bulwark’s shadow.
“I—I can’t—” he stammered, panic breaking his voice. “I can’t stay under this thing—”
“Get back here!” someone yelled.
He didn’t listen.
He staggered into the open, boots slipping on rubble, eyes wide as he looked up into the falling fire. For half a second, it seemed like he might actually make it—
A shell struck the street ten meters away.
The blast hurled him off his feet like a doll. He hit the ground hard, screamed once, then scrambled back on all fours, sobbing as he crawled back beneath the Bulwark’s armor just as debris rained down where he’d been standing.
He pressed himself against the machine’s leg, shaking, repeating the same broken phrase under his breath.
“I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna die.”
The Bulwark stopped.
Its massive feet dug into the cracked pavement, servos locking with a deep mechanical thrum.
Silence followed—brief, suffocating, broken only by distant explosions.
Guren turned.
His movement alone made several soldiers stiffen. Hands tightened on triggers. No one raised a weapon—but no one relaxed either.
Guren’s face was drawn, eyes sunken, something tired and bitter behind them. He looked at the crowd huddled beneath the Bulwark—at the shaking hands, the wide eyes, the soldiers who had already seen too much and were still being asked to stand.
“Get a grip,” he barked.
His voice cut through the fear, sharp and raw.
“You think this is worse than dying out there?” He gestured toward the open street, still burning. “You step outside, you die. You stay together, you might live.”
A soldier swallowed hard.
Someone else nodded, barely.
They hadn’t forgotten what he was. They hadn’t forgotten the black veins, the way he’d stood back up after being run through. Fear of him mixed with the fear of everything else—and somehow, that made him familiar.
A monster that still spoke like a captain.
Irik’s voice crackled over the external speakers, steady despite the chaos.
“Well,” Irik said. “Ain't no Ironford is there?”
Another impact slammed into the Bulwark’s side. The machine shuddered but held.
“What's the next move captain?” Irik continued. “Can't really act as an umbrella for too long.”
Guren turned back toward the ruins.
Ironford was dying.
Entire blocks were gone—flattened into burning fields. Towers leaned at impossible angles before collapsing in on themselves. The UF base, once a hardened structure, was now a smoking crater with fragments still burning at its edges.
In the distance, Wardens still fought—small figures darting between explosions, grapples flashing as they engaged the last Vorl?ufer. Two Panzerreiters loomed farther down the avenue, their cannons firing methodically, indifferent to the destruction they caused.
And Sera—
She was gone, no where to be found.
Guren exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.
His sister was somewhere out there.
Even though he's infected, he is still himself, at least now. He still has responsability.
Artillery kept screaming overhead—long, tearing howls that ended in concussive thumps somewhere beyond the ruined streets. Each impact sent dust raining from the underside of Irik’s Bulwark, the massive machine standing like a steel canopy over the cluster of UF soldiers beneath it. Every blast made the armored legs groan, hydraulics hissing as the pilot compensated for the shock.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Then another shadow joined them.
A second Bulwark emerged through the smoke, its heavy steps slow and deliberate, each footfall crushing rubble into powder. Its floodlights cut through the gray haze, illuminating a small formation of UF soldiers moving beneath it like refugees under a moving fortress.
At their front walked a tall, old man.
Colonel Varrik did not hurry.
He moved with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight despite the bombardment, coat flapping slightly with every distant shockwave. He never once stepped beyond the Bulwark’s shadow. The moment artillery screamed too close, he paused, waited, then continued—measured, patient, as if the sky itself were merely an inconvenience.
The soldiers around him tightened their grips on their rifles as they advanced.
Guren noticed them first.
“Figures,” he muttered, shifting his weight. His left arm—black-veined, wrong—hung loosely at his side.
Varrik stopped a few meters away.
His eyes went immediately to Guren’s hand.
For just a fraction of a second, something flickered there—recognition, calculation. Not surprise.
“Captain,” Varrik said calmly.
Behind him, rifles came up.
Metal clicked. Safeties disengaged.
Nyra sucked in a sharp breath.
Loran stepped forward instantly, voice cutting through the tension.
“Stand down,” he snapped. “Lower your weapons.”
The soldiers hesitated, eyes darting between Loran and Varrik.
Guren exhaled slowly. “Easy,” he added. “They’re not wrong.”
He lifted his infected hand just enough for everyone to see it clearly—black veins pulsing faintly beneath torn fabric.
“I’m infected,” Guren said flatly. “By some miracle—or divine pity, take your pick—I haven’t lost my mind yet.”
Nyra’s knuckles whitened around her rifle.
Varrik studied Guren in silence. Artillery thundered again, closer this time, the shockwave rattling armor plates. He didn’t flinch.
“What do we do now?” Guren asked, breaking the quiet. “Because I’m guessing this wasn’t in today’s operation brief.”
A corner of Varrik’s mouth twitched. “Things have gone bad.”
Guren snorted. “Yeah. I noticed.”
He gestured vaguely toward the burning skyline, the broken Shield Coil, the distant silhouettes of Panzerreiters still stalking the city. “My sister’s still out there. She’s infected—and she can turn into a machine. A full one.”
That got a reaction.
Varrik’s eyes widened—not in confusion, but in something closer to confirmation. He knew. Whatever he knew, he locked it back down instantly, expression smoothing like ice over water.
Guren caught it.
“You know why she can do that,” Guren said quietly.
Varrik didn’t answer.
“She needs to be put to rest,” Guren continued. His voice didn’t shake—but it thinned, just a little. “And I’m the one who’s going to do it.”
“We’ve contained most of the intruders,” Varrik said instead. “Ironford is lost, but the line is holding for now.”
“Good,” Guren replied. “Then you can take your men and deal with the idiots turning the sky into fireworks.”
Varrik looked at him then—really looked. Two old soldiers measuring each other, not by rank, but by years of shared blood and bad decisions.
“You’re refusing an order,” Varrik said mildly.
Guren shrugged. “You’re letting me.”
Silence stretched.
Then Varrik nodded once. “Very well. You and your platoon handle… your situation.”
He leaned in slightly. “How long do you have?”
Guren laughed—a dry, cracked sound. “I’ll try not to find out.”
He glanced back at Nyra, who stood frozen, rifle held too tightly, eyes glassy with fear and something worse.
“I’ve got my people,” Guren added. “If I go feral, they’ll do what needs to be done.”
Nyra’s breath hitched.
“No,” she said quietly, before she could stop herself.
Guren turned to her, softer now. “You will.”
Her hands trembled.
She didn’t lower the rifle.
Varrik watched the exchange, his expression unreadable.
“Then make it quick,” the colonel said at last. “For all our sakes.”
Another artillery shell screamed overhead.
Sera walked through what remained of Ironford like a ghost that hadn’t realized it was dead yet.
The city was flattened into layers of ruin—collapsed buildings stacked atop one another, skeletal frames jutting out of the haze like broken ribs. Ash drifted constantly, clinging to her hair, her skin, her torn uniform. Smoke rolled low along the streets, thick enough to burn her lungs with every breath.
She limped.
Each step sent a spike of pain up her leg, metal scraping softly inside her where bone should have been. She bent forward, coughing violently—and black fluid spilled from her mouth, splattering onto the rubble.
She stared at it, wide-eyed.
The liquid shuddered, then crawled—pulled by something unseen—back up her chin, slipping into her skin as if it had never left. The veins along her neck darkened, pulsing once, twice.
Sera staggered, pressing a hand to a shattered wall, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Sweat soaked her clothes despite the cold. Her vision swam.
Then she heard them.
Whispers.
Not words—at first. A layered murmur, like many voices speaking at once through water. The language was wrong, built of sharp consonants and flowing tones that scraped against her thoughts rather than entering her ears.
“W-who’s there…?” she rasped.
The black veins along her arms flared.
The world folded.
The rubble beneath her feet smoothed into cold metal. The haze snapped into sterile white light so bright it hurt. The air smelled of disinfectant and fear.
She stood inside a cell.
White walls. Reinforced glass. Observation slits.
Across from her sat a man in a red military uniform—hands bound behind a chair, mouth gagged, eyes wide with raw terror. His boots scraped uselessly against the floor as he struggled.
A figure in white approached him.
UF insignia. Full isolation suit. Masked face reflecting the cell lights. In their gloved hand: a syringe filled with swirling black fluid.
Sera’s heart slammed against her ribs.
“No—” she whispered, though no one heard her.
The masked soldier hesitated. Even through the visor, doubt was visible in the tilt of their head.
Behind them stood a tall man, hands behind his back.
Captain Varrik.
Younger. Harder. His uniform immaculate.
“Proceed,” Varrik said.
The syringe tipped.
One droplet fell.
The black fluid hit the prisoner’s chest—and exploded.
It spread like a living thing, crawling across skin, diving beneath it. The man screamed through the gag, his body convulsing violently as veins blackened, branching from toe to throat in seconds.
The chair toppled.
He hit the floor, screaming, jerking—until the scream cut off abruptly.
Silence.
Then the body twitched.
The man rose—unnaturally, joints bending wrong, skin dissolving into flowing black matter. He lunged, feral, slamming into the masked soldier, claws forming where fingers should be.
Blood sprayed.
Before Sera could breathe, Varrik stepped forward.
Cold. Precise.
He drove a blade straight into the thing’s forehead.
The creature collapsed, dissolving into a pool of black fluid that hissed softly against the floor.
Varrik wiped the blade clean.
“I’ve seen enough,” he said calmly. “This will make an excellent weapon against the Empire.”
The masked soldier recoiled. “Sir—this isn’t controllable. If this spreads in Aurelion, we won’t be able to stop it.”
Varrik turned to them.
“I don’t care.”
The words hit Sera like a physical blow.
“A few casualties may be necessary,” Varrik continued. “If we want a future without fear. Without domination.”
He paused, glancing back at the dissolving corpse.
“Besides,” he added, almost casually, “some of us are immune.”
Sera’s breath caught.
Varrik turned and walked out of the cell.
The white light dimmed.
The walls cracked.
Black veins spread across Sera’s vision, creeping inward from the edges as the micromachines surged—climbing, threading toward her brain. She clutched her head, screaming as something ancient pressed against her thoughts.
The cell began to dissolve.
Before it vanished completely, the black fluid poured out of her pores, spilling into the air in front of her—twisting, weaving, forming words in a jagged, alien script.
Then—slowly—it reshaped into something she could read.
DO NOT MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE
The voices fell silent.
The city slammed back into place.
Ironford. Ruins. Smoke. Artillery thunder in the distance.
Sera collapsed to her knees, gasping, her hands clawing at the ground as the last of the black fluid seeped back into her skin.
Her eyes burned.
Her fists trembled.
Sera stayed on her knees for a long moment.
The city groaned around her—distant collapses, the hollow boom of artillery, the hiss of burning metal cooling in the rain of ash. Her breath came in shallow, uneven pulls. Her hands shook as they pressed into the broken street, fingers leaving dark smears where the black fluid had briefly surfaced.
Slowly—deliberately—Sera pushed herself upright.
Her spine straightened with a faint, wet click. Black veins pulsed beneath her skin, spreading like living cracks. The micromachines answered something deep inside her, pouring out through her pores in thin streams, pooling at her feet before rising again, spiraling around her body in slow, predatory arcs.
They whispered.
Not in words she could hear—but in knowing.
Sera lifted her head.
Her left eye ignited.
A symbol burned into her pupil—angular, ancient, rotating subtly as if it were alive. White light spilled from it, cutting through the smoke like a blade. The air around her distorted, vibrating faintly as the micromachines accelerated, knitting together with mechanical precision.
She clenched her fists.
“They used you,” she said, her voice trembling—not weak, but restrained. “They rejected humanity, and chose war.”
The micromachines surged harder, slamming into the ground, tearing chunks of concrete upward as if gravity had loosened its grip.
“They’ll pay.”
Her voice hardened.
“They’ll all pay.”
Metal flowed like liquid around her legs, climbing her torso in layered plates. Frameworks unfolded from nothing—limbs sketching themselves into existence, joints locking with sharp, metallic snaps. A massive silhouette began to form around her, three legs forming one by one, blades sliding out of hidden housings with a hungry hiss.
Tears welled in her eyes.
They fell—blackened halfway down her cheeks before evaporating into steam.
“I’ll avenge you,” she whispered, her voice cracking at last.
“Orphelia.”