Chapter 21 - Attack of The Witches' of Jupitar!

  Henryk

  “How are you holding up, Wizard?” Axel asked.

  Henryk sat with his seatbelt still strapped tight, fingers flicking over the console’s buttons and dials. The soft patter of rain drummed against the hull, a rhythmic reminder of the storm outside. The ship—their new ship—felt different. Bigger. Heavier. It carried weight, both in size and in meaning.

  A gift, Maelia had called it, meant to replace the battered old transport they’d lost. This one was something else entirely. Larger, stronger, bristling with new weaponry—Gatling gun emplacements on all four sides, a reinforced T-shaped hull with twin thrusters that could tear through the void like a blade through flesh. It wasn’t just an upgrade. It was a statement.

  Henryk exhaled, stretching hard against the seat restraints until his spine popped. “…You asking about the battle, or about what happened to Issac?”

  Axel hesitated, his usual cocky ease absent. Then, a sigh. “I—I guess both.”

  Henryk raised an eyebrow. That was new. Axel wasn’t the type to get stuck on things. Yet here he was, arms folded against the cold metal grating, posture tense, his fingers drumming against his bicep.

  “I didn’t know Issac very well,” Henryk admitted, rubbing his face. “I kind of wish I did.”

  Axel let out a slow breath. “He was trained in a MilAcademy. On a MilWorld.” The words came out in a sneer, but it wasn’t anger. It was something heavier. “If he couldn’t hack it, what hope do we have?”

  Henryk frowned. “People keep saying that. MilAcademy, MilWorld. What does it even mean?”

  Axel blinked, taken aback. “You don’t know?”

  Henryk shook his head.

  Axel clicked his tongue, looking off toward the shadows where the other Sons of Mars huddled together, their armor reflecting dim streaks of light from the ship’s console. “A MilAcademy is exactly what it sounds like—a Military Academy, but on a planetary scale. Entire worlds built around one thing: war. Every child, every elder, every goddamn person on that planet, trained from birth to serve as soldiers. The best of them end up in places like Issac’s academy. They don’t live normal lives. They don’t get to choose anything. They just fight.”

  Henryk leaned back. “So what you’re saying is, they take orphans, throw them into a meat grinder, and call it ‘duty.’”

  Axel’s gaze hardened. “It’s more than that.”

  “Is it?” Henryk asked.

  Axel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Say what you want about Issac as a Martian, but that academy didn’t just make him a soldier. It made him a Knight.”

  Henryk scoffed. “Is there really a difference?”

  Axel turned his head sharply, staring at him like he’d just spat on his mother’s grave.

  “Us Knights—” Axel thumped a fist against his chest.

  Henryk rolled his eyes. “You knights.”

  Axel’s sneer deepened. His lips curled as he leaned in closer, the dim lights casting long shadows across his face. His voice dropped, low and cold. “You want to know the difference? Fine. I’ll tell you.”

  He crossed his arms, purple eyes burning with something unshakable. “Soldiers fight because they’re told to. Because they have to. A Knight—a real Knight—fights for something greater. We have doctrine. We have chivalry. We fight not just for battle’s sake, but for honor, for God—the Christian God. The only God. There is no greater calling than that.”

  Silence.

  “My uncle was not a Martian. My mother was Venusian. Their marriage was arranged,” Axel said, pausing before jabbing a thumb into his own chest. “Yet he—a man with no Martian blood—taught me the stories, Henryk. The legends of a thousand Knights, each from different orders, who threw themselves against the alien tides and emerged victorious. Because we were made by God. Not these xeno filth who merely copied His design.”

  Axel sneered, whirling toward the window. Beyond it, the plains of Oceana stretched, dark and endless beneath the storm-laden sky.

  “This is all it is. Didn’t you know?” His voice had the edge of a man revealing a grand, terrible truth. He turned back to Henryk, who sat stiff, silent. “Centuries ago, when humanity first touched the stars—just briefly—they came. An ancient race of aliens. They burned our worlds. They slaughtered us like cattle. And yet, through the power of the ARC cores, we destroyed them. What remained of their empire, of their terraforming, became our worlds. Our homes.”

  Henryk’s eyes widened. “…Are you saying there are people who actually believe we were created by aliens?”

  Axel rolled his eyes. “To an extent, I can see how someone might believe that.” Then his expression hardened. “But I believe in Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.”

  His hand slipped beneath his purple tabard, fingers grasping at something unseen. A moment later, he pulled forth a small cross, the metal worn smooth by time and touch.

  Henryk blinked. “I didn’t realize you were religious.”

  Axel sighed, his thumb running absently along the edges of the cross. “If all my brothers truly followed the tenets of chivalry, they’d have joined me in faith.” He met Henryk’s gaze, unwavering. “And tell me, is it wrong to think of the dead?”

  Henryk froze. His father’s shadow loomed large in his mind, his voice still an echo in his skull—harsh, relentless, like the pounding of war drums.

  Axel exhaled, tucking the cross away. “I’ll be praying for Issac’s soul tonight. I hope you and my brothers will join me for the burning.”

  “The burning?” Henryk’s breath hitched. “You mean… cremation?”

  Axel nodded. “His father died during the Fall of Mars. His mother, a decade before that. He had no siblings. No family left. The only real friend he ever had was Joseph…” Axel trailed off, his voice losing momentum, as if speaking the name had drained something from him.

  Silence stretched between them. Both knew the weight of it. Both knew exactly how Joseph would react to the news.

  “…Has Edward radioed back to the academy yet?” Henryk finally asked.

  Axel hesitated. Then shook his head. “I—I don’t believe so.”

  Henryk narrowed his eyes. “He’s not going to tell them.”

  “Not yet, at least,” Axel admitted.

  Henryk exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around his armrest. “I—I don’t think that’s right. If he’s dead, the least we can do is tell the people back home.”

  “Even if it could damage morale?” Axel asked, voice measured.

  Henryk sneered. “I’d have a lot of issues trusting Edward if he concealed my death just to keep morale up.” His grip on the controls whitened his knuckles. “Look around, Axel. We’re out of the thick of it. We’re heading straight through Mercurian lanes, out of the sector. The fighting is over. We lost.”

  Axel’s gaze fell, but Henryk’s voice only grew harder.

  “…You were right,” Henryk muttered.

  Axel remained silent. His eyes fixed downward as if staring into something vast and dark, something he wasn’t ready to name.

  "You have some nerve, pretty knight."

  Arthur’s voice cut through the space like a jagged blade, heavy, thick with disdain. His boots thudded against the grated floor as he stepped forward, the sound filling the room like a drumbeat of coming violence. "Issac—you’ve got a point. He was more soldier than Knight. But his fall? That was in his own hands."

  He stopped inches from Axel, close enough that their breaths could have mingled if either of them had remembered to breathe. "While you were up there in your Warcasket, nice and safe in your shell, Issac was down there, fighting. He was the reason I made it out. He saved me. And when he went out, he did it on his terms, middle finger in the air. Fuck them. And fuck you for diminishing his sacrifice."

  He turned sharply, eyes burning as they landed on Henryk.

  “…We’re low on warriors. That’s why Issac died. Because we don’t have enough. He was holding back hordes of those meager bastards. And you—" He swung his gaze back to Axel, voice sharp enough to carve the air. "You will not speak of his training. Not of his arms. Not of—"

  "Enough," Henryk said.

  And shockingly, Arthur stopped.

  Axel did too.

  They all turned to Henryk, and in that moment, something clicked in his mind. His relationship with them. The strange, uneven balance between them all. Maybe it was him—maybe it had something to do with growing up surrounded by women, never having many friends, never quite fitting in during school. He didn’t know.

  Arthur sneered and jabbed a finger at him.

  “…We should’ve taken one of the other squires. Mateo—he’s got blood in him. More than Kieren. Do you even know what happened while you and that Mercurian girl were off playing hero?”

  Axel stayed silent. Didn’t argue. Didn’t stop him.

  Arthur smirked at that.

  “Kieren was a fucking pussy,” Arthur spat.

  "Arthur," Axel muttered, more out of obligation than actual reprimand. There was no real force behind it. No care.

  "It’s true," Arthur shot back.

  Henryk chuckled, just a little, and Arthur took that as encouragement.

  "Henryk, I took your sword. Thought I was fighting the man who murdered my family. And you know what Kieren was doing?" Arthur barked out a laugh. "Digging himself into a fucking hole!"

  He hollered it, full-chested, and the others laughed with him.

  But unknown to them all—Kieren was on the other side of the door.

  The laughter bled through the steel like muffled ghosts, like the kind of thing that would haunt a man later, in the quiet hours when he was alone. Kieren stood there, listening, frozen in place.

  Then, slowly, he turned and walked away.

  Edward

  Maelia sat on a stack of crates, her claws tapping idly against the metal. The wind was restless, cutting through the open landing port, carrying the distant hum of machinery and the acrid bite of exhaust. Edward stood nearby, a tablet in his hands, but his attention was elsewhere—on the Martian princess, on the monolith that loomed behind them, on the flickering torchlight dancing against the slick red-and-yellow plating of forklifts hauling nailer ammunition.

  For all their feudalism, the Martians had never been blind to the necessity of war machines. Ritual and tradition could only carry them so far.

  Edward exhaled, eyes flicking back to the tablet. “You’re reinforcing us with another sniper-type model?” he asked, voice edged with skepticism. “Princess, with our MSN, and Axel’s and Henryk’s—our suits weren’t nearly as damaged as…”

  Maelia sighed, the sound low and deliberate. The wind caught strands of her brown hair, whipping them around her face as she stared out at the thick clouds rolling over the landing pad. Her claws curled against the crates, metal groaning beneath her grip.

  “Take it,” she said flatly. “We’re abandoning the Monolith in a few days anyway. Keeping the suit limits our mobility. If it’s spotted, if it’s captured—”

  She trailed off, her meaning clear.

  Edward nodded. “We’ll send the data for the specs.”

  Maelia gave a slow, wordless nod, her expression unreadable. “It will be sent out to the Knights of House Mars,” she murmured. “To the surviving knight orders.”

  Edward’s brow furrowed. “How many survived the purge?”

  Maelia turned to him, and there it was—the shift in her gaze, the way the anger and grief warred beneath her skin, just barely held back by sheer will. She was too disciplined to lose herself in it, too trained to shatter. But even then, when the tears came, she still spoke.

  “Twelve.”

  Edward’s breath hitched. He blinked. “…Twelve?” His voice nearly cracked. “Twelve out of fifty?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He saw the tears, shining against her wind-chilled cheeks.

  “My princess,” he whispered. He dropped to one knee.

  Maelia took a deep breath, composing herself. “Rise, Edward. You don’t need to bow… especially when so few are watching.”

  He hesitated, but obeyed. “You are still my princess, and I am merely your subject and—”

  She cut him off.

  “…Edward Goldtree,” she said, and his name sounded strange from her lips—heavier, weighted with something ancient. “You haven’t changed a day in your life, have you?”

  Edward stiffened. His throat worked. “Y-you knew…” He rose, slower this time, like a man wading through deep water.

  “That you were the true heir to the Martian throne?” Maelia scoffed.

  She stood, her spine unfurling in a way that was almost unnatural, her shoulders drawing back, her head tilting ever so slightly. Edward saw it then—saw the animal that lurked beneath her skin. The way her fangs bared, the flicker of something more feral in those golden eyes.

  “My father heard rumors,” she continued. “Rumors that the Praetorians assigned to you watched you slip into the void—watched you disappear, swallowed whole by the darkness of space.”

  Her gaze burned into him, unflinching.

  “So tell me, Edward Goldtree, King of Mars—”

  She pointed at him, her clawed hand steady.

  “Explain to me why I had to bear the mantle of princess. Why I, a mere offshoot—a genetic abomination the Neptunians wouldn’t have wasted a second glance on—had to hold this farce together while you rotted in the dark.”

  Edward swallowed, but she wasn’t finished.

  “My brother was autistic,” Maelia whispered, voice barely above the wind. “He was in a home. They didn’t care about him before this war. And now he’s dead.”

  Her claws curled into a fist.

  “I don’t even have his ashes.”

  Edward was silent. The laptop in his hands slipped, slick with sweat, and clattered to the floor with a sharp, jarring crack. He didn’t reach for it. Didn’t even glance down. His gaze stayed locked on Maelia’s, meeting her challenge head-on.

  “You ask why?” His voice was low, steady.

  He took a breath, chambering his words, tightening his grip on the moment before it slipped away. “By the war’s end, we’ll have a lot of dead brothers, Maelia. Arthur’s already lost two.”

  Maelia’s expression didn’t shift, but the air between them thickened.

  “The restoration of House Mars’ honor and property,” Edward continued, his voice gaining weight. “And the acquisition of our greatest dream.”

  Maelia’s eyes narrowed. “…And what is our greatest dream?”

  Edward leaned forward slightly, the firelight catching the angles of his face. “An empire,” he said, and there was something dangerous in the way his voice curled around the word. “A true Empress, and a revolutionary army to assure it. Turn your hate, Maelia. Turn your rage. Turn it against those who did this to you.”

  Maelia sneered, and the sound was edged with something almost like laughter—dark, humorless, scraping. “The Neptunians,” she said, shaking her head, “and the Eunuch Emperor.”

  Edward’s jaw tightened. “Where did this fight leave you?”

  Her eyes widened for a second, then narrowed into slits. “Watch yourself, Sire,” she said coldly. “I’d like to see you keep as much control as I have.” She let out a sharp breath, wrapping her arms around herself. “Rich. So rich, coming from you. The Neptunians are trying to sell me off as a broodmare to tame the sector. My little brother died a matter of hours ago. And I am still here. Fighting.”

  Her voice cut through the air like steel.

  Edward exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. “What do you want, Maelia?” His voice was quieter now, edged with something he didn’t want to name. “What’s the point of us arguing? We’re on the same side.”

  She scoffed. “The same side?” A bitter smirk twisted her lips. “Your secrecy got my brother killed.”

  Edward set his jaw. “So what would you have me do, Maelia? Take the crown with no army? March into the Emperor’s halls alone?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Like you said, the Knight Orders have been crippled. We don’t even know where they walk. Right now, our best chance is to align with the Revolutionary Army. They hate the Emperor as much as we do.”

  Maelia’s nose wrinkled in disdain. “And how long is that going to take?” she bit out. “How many years? Decades? How long do I have to wait for my revenge?”

  Edward turned to her then, and this time he smiled.

  It was a dark smile.

  “This year’s recruits are something else,” he said. “Issac may be lost, but our Executor candidates… Henryk especially. Once he proves himself, we’ll be able to take the fight to the true enemy.”

  Maelia’s sneer deepened. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “I know the histories. At the Academy, when an Executor is picked and installed with the spikes, the other squires are expunged.” She exhaled sharply. “And I can see it from the way—”

  “You’re confusing Kieren with Henryk,” Edward interrupted. His voice was flat, final.

  Maelia lifted a brow. “The taller one,” she said.

  “Henryk was taller,” Edward admitted. “Before Kieren got the spikes.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “There’s a whole story behind that…”

  Maelia’s expression darkened. “Broke tradition?” She echoed, her voice tight. “Edward, what are you—”

  Edward pressed forward. “Kieren’s just some kid from a midworld,” he said, voice even, shoulders rolling in a slow shrug. “He hurt himself pretty bad after we accepted him. If we hadn’t given him the spikes, he would’ve died.”

  Maelia’s eyes widened. “Edward.”

  She spoke his name low, deliberate, like she was holding it between her teeth, testing its weight. Then she stepped closer, close enough that he could see the rage simmering beneath her composure. “Edward, do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Her voice was measured, but there was an edge to it, sharp enough to cut. “This is sacrilege. The spikes. God forbid Kieren runs, god forbid he talks. Do you understand what you’ve just risked?”

  Edward raised his hands, palms outward. “Relax, Maelia. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

  “Edward—are you fucking with me?” she hissed, her pupils dilating with barely-contained fury. “First the secrets. Then my brother. And now this? What kind of clown show are you running at the Academy? Who’s your leading Executor?”

  “Kieren is,” Edward said.

  Maelia blinked.

  Her face twisted into something unreadable, a sound leaving her throat—a mixture of anger and incredulity. A dry, humorless laugh, a scoff, something between a growl and a curse.

  “Christ,” Edward muttered.

  “I’m trying,” he said, exhaling sharply. “I really am. But during the duel to decide who’d lead—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Kieren didn’t even win outright. Henryk was stronger, but he used magic and—”

  “Ed. Enough.”

  Maelia’s voice was firm, cutting through his explanation like a blade. Her hands pressed against her face for a moment before dragging down, revealing weary, furious eyes. “You have to make this right.”

  “I will,” Edward said, stepping forward. His voice was steady now, carrying the weight of something deeper. “As King, I assure you.”

  Maelia exhaled, shaking her head. “My house is in ruin. My father, my brother… The only reason my people follow me is because there isn’t anyone better.”

  Edward took a breath, rolling his shoulders back, steadying himself. “House Mars, in its golden age, was a powerhouse—wealth, military might, a culture unlike any other. A dynasty.” His eyes locked on hers. “After this—when we win—what do you want?”

  Maelia was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a smile.

  “My house is destroyed,” she murmured, “and we were never of importance.”

  But Edward heard the shift in her tone. The softening. The calculation.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “No husband,” she continued. “No brothers. And to be part of the High Nobility, to be royal—not some offshoot, but proper—even with my mutations…” She trailed off, watching him carefully.

  Edward felt the weight of her words settle over him.

  She was testing him.

  Then Maelia’s eyes glinted, and the moment stretched.

  “Either you, as the King of Mars,” she said smoothly. “Or that boy, Henryk. Your Druid Executor.”

  And then she placed a hand on her stomach.

  “A heir,” she said, voice silken, deliberate. “To a Martian King… or to an Executor. In my belly. That would restore my house. That would bring honor.”

  Edward felt his breath catch.

  The implications of what she was saying—

  He was still processing when she scoffed, shaking her head.

  “…And not that Kieren boy,” she added, lips curling in distaste. “There’s something not right about him. I don’t trust it.”

  Edward exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I get what you mean about not liking Kieren.” He let out a small chuckle. “But he’s not a bad—”

  “I doubt it,” Maelia cut in sharply.

  Her gaze lowered slightly, her voice shifting into something heavier. “My brother was good,” she murmured. “I know it. Deep down, I know people can change.” A pause. A hesitation, just for a second. And then her eyes found his again, darker now. “But there are others who don’t.”

  Silence.

  Then she spoke again, and this time her voice was like iron.

  “You made the wrong choice giving a boy like that divinity.”

  Henryk

  Henryk woke to the sound of the ship shaking. A low, guttural groan of metal under stress. His eyes cracked open just as the red warning lights flared to life, staining the bunks in pulsing crimson.

  "N-not again…" he muttered, voice thick with sleep, rubbing the exhaustion from his face. His body ached, the kind of dull soreness that came from weeks of combat, tension coiling in his shoulders like an old wound.

  Across the room, Arthur was already in motion, throwing himself out of his bunk with the effortless grace of a soldier who lived for chaos. He landed on one knee, shirtless, the hard muscle of his frame catching the low light as he grinned.

  “Man, nothing like a good melee to wake you up, huh, Druid?”

  Henryk didn’t answer. Just laced up his boots, fingers working methodically as he listened to the others suit up, the sound of pilot gear being strapped on, helmets clicking into place.

  He didn’t bother. Didn’t even reach for a flight suit. Just pulled a t-shirt over his head, yanked his worker pants into place, and pushed through the barracks, the others following close behind.

  Ed was already waiting as they rounded the shuttle bay, the automatic doors hissing open to reveal the dimly lit hangar. The air smelled of coolant and machine oil, the sharp tang of combat readiness.

  “Three hostiles,” Ed said, voice clipped, professional. “Moving fast. Colors I don’t recognize, codes I’ve never seen before.”

  Henryk, Arthur, and Axel exchanged a glance.

  But then—

  “Where’s Kieren?” Ed asked.

  Henryk sneered. “Screw him,” he snapped.

  Arthur let out a low whistle. “Druid’s in a mood this morning…”

  Henryk ignored them, brushing past with long strides. “I could use a good fight right now.”

  He charged down the hall, boots pounding against the grated floor, keyed into the hangar, and didn’t hesitate. He climbed into his machine—the spare, not the new ace unit. A standard model, painted in fresh black, grey, and white. He could’ve taken the upgraded machine, but there was something grounding about using what was familiar.

  Axel was already in his own cockpit, running checks.

  Arthur was grinning, flexing his fingers inside his gloves, eyes running over the new instrument panels. “Woah…,” he whistled. “She’s a beaut, wizard.” He tapped a fist against the control panel. “I still don’t know how you passed on the new model.”

  Henryk chuckled, strapping in, adjusting the grips on his controls. “I’m good with rust buckets.” His engines roared to life, the frame around him shaking as the power surged through the suit’s limbs.

  Then Ed’s voice cut in through his comms.

  “Henryk—why the hell aren’t you in your pilot suit?”

  “Because I don’t care.”

  Flat. Cold.

  The visor of his Martian mobile suit flared to life in an aquamarine blaze.

  Ed exhaled sharply, frustration seeping into his voice. “Dammit, Henryk—do you even think? What if they shoot you down?”

  Henryk’s hands flexed over the controls, his voice low and almost bored.

  “Then I’ll just die.”

  Silence.

  Ed’s breath caught. His fingers twitched. “O-oh Henryk…” His voice stumbled, the heat from before suddenly gone, replaced with something awkward, uneasy. His hand ran through his hair, pressing against his face. “Dude, that isn’t…”

  Henryk sneered. “You never know what to say, or you always know exactly what to say at the right time.” His teeth clenched, jaw tight with frustration. “This is Henryk Brown—ready to sortie.”

  “Axel, ready to sortie!”

  Arthur’s grin was wide, teeth bared like a wolf. “Glory to the Red Templars!” His voice boomed through the comms as Ed slammed the hangar release.

  The vacuum of space swallowed them whole. Zero-G gripped their frames as their mobile suits were pushed clear of the widening hangar doors.

  And then—ignition.

  The moment they had the clearance, their thrusters roared to life, hurling them forward in a tight arrow formation. A pack of predators streaking through the abyss. The enemy was already inbound—red markers blinking closer on their HUDs, fast and unrelenting.

  “They’re quick,” Axel muttered, more to himself than anyone.

  “Not quick enough,” Henryk growled. His left hand pushed the thruster controls further, sending his suit into a rolling spin to balance the force and friction as they descended.

  Then—

  ALERT. ALERT.

  Their cockpits flashed with an urgent warning.

  DEBRIS DETECTED.

  Axel cursed under his breath, eyes darting to the oncoming field of rock and jagged wreckage. Some of it no larger than pebbles, but moving at speeds that could puncture metal like paper. Others—massive, tumbling remains of ruined ships—cast shadows across their path.

  The larger chunks loomed closer, growing in size, turning the battlefield into a deadly maze. The three pilots adjusted course, leaving behind streaks of crimson light, their rapid, erratic turns cutting through the black void like jagged scars.

  “Stay sharp, watch the debris,” Axel warned.

  Then they saw it.

  The source of the wreckage.

  “…Whoa,” Arthur breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

  “So that’s where all this shit came from,” Henryk muttered.

  It was a Mercurian ship—or what was left of one. A hulking corpse of metal and failure, shattered along its spine. The hull was fractured, its bridge gone, and its half-destroyed engines flickered with dying embers of energy. The entire mass was tilted unnaturally, floating like a broken arrow aimed toward the planet below.

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  And then, from the other side of the wreck—them.

  The enemy.

  Their thruster trails burned an unmistakable deep azure, cutting across the battlefield like fresh wounds.

  No words. No posturing.

  Just combat.

  In an instant, they clashed—red and blue rocket trails spiraling, dipping, weaving through debris and wreckage. Then came the laser fire, streaking through the void in silent, deadly bursts.

  Henryk locked eyes on his opponent. His own. He didn’t need to be told; the others had their pick.

  This one belonged to him.

  A blur of motion—a mobile suit unlike any he’d ever seen. Its frame was sleek but jagged, a strange fusion of curves and angular slopes, its movements unnervingly fluid. It didn’t carry a rifle. Instead, it raised its hands, and from the metal of its forearms—lasers.

  Henryk’s instincts screamed.

  The enemy fired, bursts of energy snapping through the void in rapid succession. Too fast. Henryk jerked his controls, weaving through the shots, each round missing by inches.

  Then—he cut his thrusters.

  Momentum carried him forward, his mobile suit spinning violently in the zero-g vacuum. And just as he crossed the enemy’s blind spot, Henryk redoubled power and slammed forward—a kick, full force.

  Metal met metal. His mobile suit’s foot drove into the enemy cockpit with a bone-rattling impact.

  For a moment, victory seemed certain—

  Then came the grip.

  Henryk’s eyes widened as his whole frame lurched. The enemy had caught his leg, servos straining against the force of the impact.

  His HUD flashed warnings.

  The enemy’s other hand moved. A blade ignited—a blue beam saber, snapping to life in a humming arc.

  It swung—aiming for his cockpit.

  Henryk gritted his teeth, didn’t think, just acted.

  He raised his rifle. Point-blank.

  He knew he would’ve lost his leg. But he was okay with that.

  A good point-blank shot, and it would’ve been over.

  Henryk grinned through the sweat dripping down his face, finger tightening on the trigger. But then—

  Something hit him. Not physically. Something deep in his skull, like a twitch behind his eyes. A jolt. A presence.

  The mobile suit released him.

  Just like that. The grip unclenched, and in an instant, the enemy thrusters roared to life, sending it hurtling backward, putting space between them.

  Henryk’s eyes widened, his breath caught in his throat. “Did it read my intent?” His fingers trembled against the controls as he blinked away sweat.

  The enemy suit stared back—if something like that could stare.

  Dark blue armor, spattered in streaks of yellow. A lone, glowing mono-eye, flickering and shifting, tracking him like a predator.

  “No… you’re just—” Henryk swallowed. “S-special.” The word caught in his throat like a blade.

  He flicked his radio.

  “Report,” Ed’s voice came in flat, urgent.

  “Ed, we’re gonna need backup. These ones… these ones are different.” Henryk’s eyes stayed locked on the enemy unit. It had stopped retreating. Now, its legs snapped into position, thrusters re-engaging—

  And then it launched.

  Like a spear.

  “Fuck!” Henryk barked, diving hard to the right, his own thrusters screaming as he tore down into the battlefield below. “Take the ship and light them up with the main guns!”

  Ed gritted his teeth, hands snapping to the controls. His fingers reached for the microphone.

  “Kieren, I don’t have time for your bullshit!” His own voice cracked from the force of it. “You’ve got the Spikes of Mars! You’re a soldier now! Get in that machine, or we’re all gonna fucking die!”

  The ship’s engines roared. Power surged beneath Ed’s hands, vibrations rippling through the console as the shields held against the churning debris. He didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate—his hands worked automatically, a rhythmic dance across the controls.

  Chainguns locked. Missile payloads chambered.

  A low, mechanical grind as the ship’s weapons came to life.

  “I hope to hell this works…” he muttered, half to himself. Then, into the radio: “If you’re not getting in a mobile suit, get on a turret!”

  Across the battlefield, Axel’s magenta eyes narrowed behind his visor. The bazooka kicked against his shoulder as he fired off another shot, a thick plume of smoke spiraling from the barrel.

  The enemy suit twisted midair, deploying flares in rapid succession. The missiles caught, igniting in premature bursts of light.

  “Arthur! Covering fire! Now!” Axel roared.

  Arthur didn’t hesitate. A dual missile payload streaked out from his suit, splitting into twin trails of fire and smoke.

  “Give chase! Don’t give them a fucking inch!” he barked, slamming his throttle forward. Axel followed suit, both of them eating up the distance between them and the two enemy units.

  Then the enemy suits dipped—descending fast.

  Arthur’s gaze snapped to where they were heading. The ruined ship.

  He gritted his teeth. “The hell are they doing?”

  “Like hell I know,” Axel shot back.

  They followed, diving hard.

  Arthur’s fingers danced over the controls, detaching his shoulder-mounted missile payload mid-fall. A dead weight jettisoned into space.

  Then—they tore past it, red-orange tracers slicing through the black.

  Marcus

  Iman sat in the cockpit, her eyes closed, the universe stretching before her in all its silent, indifferent vastness. She could feel the weight of the stars pressing in, like a heavy, suffocating blanket. The only thing grounding her were the cold straps of the seat, the tight fit of her American-style astronaut suit, and the gentle, rhythmic sway of her twin tails that bobbed softly behind her.

  Her legs were crossed, the quiet hum of the suit’s systems vibrating through her skin. She was still, but not in the way that silence demanded—it was the stillness of something poised, waiting, yet deep in the center of her mind, something was shifting.

  Outside, the cosmos unfolded. Greens, blues, and purples swirled like paint on a canvas. Stars were born, burned, and died in an eternal cycle of creation and destruction. Asteroids drifted like fragments of ancient memory, some crashing, some rising, only to be shattered again. The void was alive, full of ghosts and whispers, as if the entire universe were breathing alongside her.

  But then—

  Her eyes fluttered beneath their lids, a tremor ran through her. The wolves.

  They were far out, on the horizon of her senses, but they were there. Their forms were dark shadows against the ever-turning wheel of the cosmos, their movements subtle, the way predators moved when they knew they were being watched. One was dead, swallowed by a sickly pale blue shroud, a ghost among the stars. The others… they sulked. But there were others, too. Three more.

  Iman’s pulse quickened. Something in the universe shifted. A tremor of reality itself bending, twisting. Something dark and ancient. The feeling wrapped itself around her, pressing in. The wolves weren’t alone.

  The shadows of three hags appeared around them, old women with skin like cracked leather, their faces sunken and worn by time. Some were pale, others darker, their hair wild, tangled, like it hadn’t been touched by a comb in centuries. They hovered, their bony fingers pointed at the wolves, murmuring in a language that tasted like ash.

  And then—

  They turned.

  The hags’ eyes locked onto hers. Their bodies were impossibly still, but their hands moved like claws, reaching for her, pointing with crooked fingers that seemed to stretch beyond the limits of the universe.

  Iman’s chest tightened. A howl rose in her throat, one that wasn’t her own. The darkness around her thickened, pressing down, suffocating.

  And then, a wave of fire—

  It radiated from her, swirling, as liquid flames poured from her body, wrapping around her in a protective cocoon of light. It wasn’t light—no. It was something older. Something raw. A figure rose from the light—a figure of her, clad in tattered rags, olive skin etched with the passage of time, a long, grey beard flowing from its chin. It was her, but not her.

  The hags screamed. The sound cracked the very fabric of space, an unholy shriek that pierced her soul. They howled, recoiling from the light, their bodies breaking apart, fading like dust in the wind. And then, as quickly as it had come, the light flickered out, and Iman was alone again.

  Her eyes shot open. She was back in the cockpit. The universe around her spun as if she had been pulled back from the edge of some abyss. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stared through the open hatch.

  Marcus was there, a figure on the deck below her, sipping from a drink. He was talking to Ernest, laughing. When he saw her, he waved, completely unaware of the maelstrom that had just churned inside her.

  Iman’s fist clenched, resting against her chin, her mind replaying the haunting vision. The feeling—it had to be real—she could still taste it, like smoke in her lungs.

  “That was real,” she whispered to herself, but it didn’t make sense. She couldn’t explain it.

  But deep inside, she knew. She’d felt that before. She couldn’t ignore it.

  “Ernest!” Her voice rang out, sharp and urgent. The entire deck fell silent. Pilots, engineers—they froze, all eyes on her. Even Marcus paused mid-sip, his eyes blinking in confusion.

  Iman didn’t wait.

  “What’s good, Iman?” Ernest shouted back, his voice booming, a grin spread across his face, completely oblivious.

  Iman’s gaze hardened, locking onto the new models—the RX-III Pippard. The latest mass-produced mobile suits, the ones that were set to replace the old ones. The ones she had come to hate with every fiber of her being.

  Those old machines, the ones she fought in—they would be nothing more than relics now. Pushed into museums or stored away for emergency use. But the Pippard? The Pippard was the future. It was a fucking revolution. The Martians had pioneered this shit, but now Mercurians were getting their hands on it. The battery packs—they didn’t need them anymore. The technology had evolved beyond them. It was a game-changer.

  But for all their advancements, Iman’s rage boiled over.

  She was always the one left behind. Always one step behind that ginger-haired cunt who had cracked the code first.

  She slammed her fist against the console. The new models, those bulky, stocky suits—they were different, stronger, more powerful. The Mercurian sphere was on the verge of an arms race, and yet, they were still trailing the others by miles.

  And she? She was just another soldier.

  The standard configuration was solid: a reinforced shield, a laser SMG—compact, lethal, with a stock that folded like something out of a bygone age, evoking memories of the old world UZI. A bazooka could be added, if need be. A beam blade or two. And there were five other configurations to choose from. Some were even customizing theirs fully. It was an armory at the fingertips, yet nothing ever felt like it was enough.

  Marcus, off to the side, was putting his own machine through its paces, the mech being repainted in a dull camo green. His focus was laser-sharp, but Iman? She stood a bit apart, a quiet laugh escaping her lips as she took a long step to the side, her boots heavy against the hull. The noise of the crew around her was a blur—a choir of shouted commands and nervous chatter.

  Then came the scream. "Commander Iman, what the hell?!" A voice rang out, but Iman’s smile never faltered.

  She didn’t even turn. "Sorry, clear out of my way!" Her words were crisp, precise, like a surgeon wielding a scalpel. She strode forward, her hand tapping the console. "Captain, open the door." The words came easy. Her confidence was a razor edge, cold and sure.

  The mechanics of the battleship were familiar to her. There were three ways to launch mobile suits from the hanger, but Iman was positioned near the left, where the platform could eject her like a springboard—out into the dark abyss of space, propelled by nothing more than the force of her engines.

  The captain’s voice cracked over the intercom, panic threading his words. "I-Iman, what the—?"

  “I had a vision…” she interrupted, her tone steady, cutting through the tension like a blade through flesh. The entire deck fell silent. Even the hum of the engines seemed to stop, as if the ship itself held its breath.

  Her voice was low, pulling them in, holding them there. "There’s something out there. Something pulling me into space."

  Her eyes narrowed, the pupils narrowing into thin slits, like a predator sizing up its prey. Her lips curled into a grin that was sharp enough to tear the stars in half. "And I’m not going to stop until I find out what it is."

  A heavy silence followed her words, thick and suffocating. Ernest was the first to speak, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "Iman…" He trailed off, but then his shoulders stiffened. "Everyone, clear the bridge. If what she’s saying is true, then we have to—"

  “I’ll sortie too!” Marcus cut in, his voice louder, raw with a fire of its own. He sprang from the platform with a grunt, his hands flying over his half-finished mech. His sniper suit was more conventional, a relic of an older, long-range breed. Its sleek body was built for stealth, its radar sensors a whisper in the dark void of space. It wasn’t built for close-quarters. It wasn’t meant to be caught in the chaos that loomed on the horizon. But Marcus was always the first to dive in headfirst, without hesitation.

  He slammed a large barrel onto his rifle and clicked a grenade launcher into place at his waist, the weight of it settling heavy in his gut.

  Iman felt the engines flare to life beneath her. Her suit was a different beast altogether. Custom. Wild. Her arms were braced with two ten-mag bazookas, powerful enough to level entire sections of the battlefield. Her laser rifle was compact, but deadly, holstered along her back. She could feel the heat rising in her chest, the surge of adrenaline as the suit came alive under her touch.

  “I-Iman," Marcus’s voice crackled through the comms, uncertain now, laced with tension. "You know what you're doing, right? This was supposed to be a quick exercise, just a drop-off. A short trip.”

  Iman’s smirk deepened, her eyes glittering with something dangerous. “I don’t know, Marcus…” she trailed off, savoring the moment. “I’ve got a great feeling about this.”

  Her voice turned into a shout, the joy bursting out like a dam breaking free. She laughed, the sound wild and unrestrained, as the doors shot open and the vacuum of space greeted her like an old friend. Her suit surged forward, and for a moment, she was weightless.

  For a brief second, it felt like she was flying—not through space, but through time itself. The ship behind her was just a memory. The crew below her, an afterthought.

  And then she was falling, screaming into the darkness of space, racing toward the debris she felt so strongly pulling at her. The blue fuel of her engines flared out in bright streaks, painting the cosmos with lines of red and orange. She could feel the pull of whatever it was calling to her—the tug in her chest, the ache in her bones.

  Behind her, Marcus followed, his sniper mech trailing the same path, but his movements were controlled, deliberate. He was always the cautious one. The watcher. But she wasn’t watching. She was moving—out there, where the stars faded, where the unknown awaited her.

  The deck below her—the engineers, the pilots—watched as she hurtled through the cosmos, a shooting star on a collision course with destiny. No one could know what was waiting out there. They could only wait and watch as she chased the thing that called to her, like a moth to a flame.

  Henryk

  "Henryk! H-Henryk!" Arthur's voice cracked through the comms, frazzled, dazed, as though he were half-lost in the chaos around him.

  The rapid fire of his laser rifle was like a staccato beat in the void. Green beams of light splattered against the hull of the ruined vessel, each shot a violent punctuation in the madness. Explosions tore through the wreckage, and Arthur’s voice was barely audible over the din. “I need backup!” he shouted. The sound of his own desperation was raw, stripped of all pride.

  Laser blasts from enemy arm cannons sliced through the air around him. He raised his shield, the impacts reverberating through his frame, but the rifle's muzzle still burned bright with return fire. Suddenly, a flash of light. A stray blast. And then... his right wrist separated from his rifle in a spray of sparks and blood.

  “Fucking… b-bastard!” His voice was a guttural scream, a curse against the cruel and indifferent void. Arthur twisted his body, descending fast, rockets roaring as he spiraled deeper into the belly of the destroyed ship.

  Axel and Henryk were weaving between the scarlet-orange flames of their exhaust, navigating the battlefield with a desperation only war could bring. "Henryk, I—!" Arthur's voice echoed again, this time more urgent. "We’ve got to help!"

  A flash. A streak of purple across the darkness. "What the hell…?" Henryk’s words were lost in the static of the comms, but the confusion was palpable. He dipped and dove, narrowly avoiding another barrage of laser fire. The stars around them blurred with the rhythm of their evasion.

  "What in God’s name?!" Axel shouted as another explosion lit up the distance. A flurry of purple beams shot past, forming shapes, like twisted light in the darkness, constantly shifting, unpredictable. Their mobile suits danced and twisted around them.

  Henryk gritted his teeth, his eyes darting from Axel to the incoming barrage. Another beam sliced through the void, grazing Axel's shoulder thruster clean off. The mech spun, narrowly regaining control. "What sort of weapon is that?!" Axel’s voice was hoarse, disbelief and pain threading through his words.

  "I don't know!" Henryk’s response was clipped, the urgency pressing on him like a vice. His hand flew to his side, gripping the hilt of his evisceration weapon. It roared to life with a terrifying, mechanical grind, the chainsaw-like weapon’s eager bite filling the silence of space. "Focus on Arthur… the way they're moving..." His voice trailed off, thick with uncertainty. Something was wrong. Something felt wrong.

  And then it hit him. That feeling. It crept up his spine like cold fog rolling over him. He felt it in his gut, an undeniable chill, as though the very fabric of space was warping, twisting. His eyes widened as he watched the form take shape—a figure moving through the darkness.

  It shimmered first, a fleeting wisp of grey and white, barely more than an outline against the void. And then, as if the very stars themselves refused to let this thing remain nameless, it solidified. The shape grew larger, as though the cosmos itself was bending to give birth to something unimaginable.

  Henryk’s heart pounded in his chest, his pulse quickening. His fingers tightened around the trigger, but he couldn’t take his eyes off it. Axel hadn’t seen it yet. And Henryk prayed to whatever gods were listening that he never would, for Axel would lose his mind at the sight of it.

  "W-what in the world…" Henryk’s voice was barely a whisper. He gripped the trigger even harder, feeling the weight of the moment like an anchor pulling him down into the abyss.

  And then he saw her—her. A girl.

  His voice caught, like a knife twisting in his chest. “A girl...” His breath caught in his throat, the words too soft, too fragile. She stood before him, surrounded by the emptiness of space, like a ghost.

  She was clad in a deep black robe that seemed to soak in the light of the stars around her, her form barely more than a shadow amidst the void. Her features were sharp, scowling. Her skin was a deep brown, darker than Iman’s, and her almond eyes glowed with a fire that felt unnatural, as if they were burning from within. Her black hair was coarse, wild, and tangled, clinging to her face like the remnants of some forgotten storm.

  She didn't belong here.

  “Who are you?” Henryk’s voice was a rasp, the question hanging in the air, absurd in its simplicity. He stared at her, trying to make sense of it all, but the words seemed as lost as he felt.

  The girl’s eyes flickered, her head tilting slightly as if she hadn’t noticed him before, hadn't even realized he was there. Her gaze sharpened, like a predator sensing prey.

  "You… man-thing," she sneered. The words dripped with disgust, like poison from her lips. "Abomination. You shall be destroyed."

  The blood in Henryk’s veins turned to ice. His eyes hardened, and a deep, guttural anger rose in his chest. “Like hell…” His voice was low, dangerous, a growl slipping from between his teeth as the words seethed from his lips.

  The vision wavered, the reality of it crumbling in front of him like paper in a fire. The time for battle was now.

  Henryk slammed the throttle, his suit surging forward as Axel veered to join him.

  Henryk surged forward, his heart pounding in sync with the frantic hum of his Warcasket’s engines. The ethereal image of the girl had faded, and now he was back to battling a nameless Warcasket—an enemy as faceless and empty as the void they fought in. But her face lingered in his mind. She was cute.

  The thought felt out of place amidst the chaos, like an odd, fleeting thing—something far removed from the blood and fire of war. He gritted his teeth, pushing the throttle harder, feeling the thrusters bite into the vacuum of space. They were fast, these thrusters. Faster than he remembered, though the memory of fighting Jose still lingered, and compared to Piper's...

  His mind flickered to the blueprints he’d worked on with Bea. This—his Warcasket—wasn’t perfect... but it would have to do.

  The machine gun on his Warcasket roared to life, spitting a hail of bullets into the darkness. His target was close now, a blur of metal and fury. He was preparing to lunge, to cleave the thing in two, but then—

  Pain.

  A sudden, sharp burst of agony tore through his forehead like a jagged ice pick driving deep into his skull. He gritted his teeth, fighting to stay in control, the sharpness of it burning his mind. Without thinking, he dove hard, cutting his engines and slamming his Warcasket into a sudden descent.

  Where the hell are they?

  The thought barely formed before another laser beam lanced through the void, narrowly missing him. His Warcasket shook violently, the hull creaking under the impact. He gritted his teeth, eyes flashing as the vessel’s warning lights turned red. A laser blast had grazed his right shoulder—his shield had taken the brunt of it, but he could still feel the sting of it, deep in his bones.

  “Where is it?!” he shouted to no one in particular, his voice tight with frustration. Sweat beaded along his brow as his eyes scanned the empty, starry void, searching, hunting, waiting for her.

  The laser blasts came again. This time, one struck so close it rattled the cockpit. A pipe came loose, hissing steam, the hot vapors nearly blinding him. He ducked instinctively, leaning low, the steam dissipating as the system decompressed, but the damage was done. His Warcasket had been rocked, and the fight was slipping through his fingers.

  Without missing a beat, Henryk spun the suit into a sharp, half-circle dive, engines blazing as he fought to regain control. He had to regroup with Axel and Arthur—there was no other choice.

  “Edward, where the hell are you?!” Henryk’s voice cracked over the comms, desperation threading through the static. He slammed the throttle again, hearing the whine of laser fire all around him. His Warcasket was a blur, weaving and dodging, trying to stay ahead of the onslaught. He could hear Axel’s frantic voice crackling faintly in his ear, but it was too distant, too disjointed.

  “We need support! We need support!” Henryk repeated, his words gnashing through clenched teeth as another laser blast struck the thruster of his left calf. The shock of it sent a jolt through his body, but his anger flared hotter. He was already spinning around, tearing his Warcasket’s machine gun upward, firing wild into the dark. His fist slammed into the trigger, the bullets rattling out in a deafening burst.

  But then, a voice. A woman's voice. Cold. Cruel.

  "Too easy..."

  It was garbled, distorted by the interference in his comms, but there was no mistaking it. The girl. She was toying with him. She was watching, her eyes filled with mockery.

  Henryk's heart skipped a beat as a new shape appeared before him, a glimmer in the blackness of space. He hadn’t felt it, not on instinct—no, this was a guess. And it worked. The object materialized out of the void, a small, sleek shape, like a missile but far more ominous. Massive barrels, blinking lights, and beeping dials covered its surface, its appearance faintly alien, as if it didn’t belong in this world at all.

  His breath hitched.

  In the split second it took to react, his Warcasket swerved, narrowly dodging the missile, its sleek form whizzing by in a blur of light and sound. Henryk’s heart thundered as he twisted the controls, bringing his father’s sword into play, aiming to slice the missile clean in half. His Warcasket’s left arm swung wide, but before he could make the strike—WHAM!

  The missile, or rather, its trap, detonated in a brilliant flash of light. His Warcasket’s left arm took the full brunt of it, the middle joint shattering with a sickening crack. Henryk’s vision blurred as the force of the blast sent him tumbling through the vacuum of space.

  “Shit!” Henryk shouted, his heart pounding in his chest as his eyes flicked over the crumpled state of his Warcasket. Every warning light was flashing red—everything was on fire. His fists slammed against the controls as he keyed into the radio. “Ed, my Warcasket’s red as shit! We need backup, now!”

  The crackle of static was followed by a silence that gnawed at him. Then came Edward’s voice, low and grim.

  “I am the backup.”

  Henryk’s blood froze. His fingers tightened on the controls, his knuckles white. “W-what…?” He barely whispered it as he pushed his thrusters forward, racing to stay in the fight.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Edward’s voice came through, grim and relentless. “This is what it means to fight for House Mars. To fight against unbeatable odds—and come out on top.” There was something in Edward’s words, something that cracked through the stoicism, a tremor buried deep within his teeth.

  Henryk’s eyes widened. “Edward… You’re not—You can’t be—”

  “To the death, Henryk Brown,” Edward interrupted him, his voice cold and final. “We couldn’t retreat even if we wanted to. So give ‘em hell. Give ‘em fury, Henryk, and more. Even if it kills us, even if you’re the last Executor to ever stand… give it your all!”

  The words echoed through the comms like a death knell. And then—a laser blast tore through the silence.

  “Axel!”

  The shriek of the blast hit Henryk like a slap, and he watched in horror as Axel’s Warcasket jerked violently to the side, the right shoulder obliterated in a spray of sparks. Axel slammed into the jagged hull of a ruined ship, the echo of the impact reverberating like thunder.

  Axel’s voice came through, strained, panicked. “H-Hen! Help!”

  “Arthur!” Henryk howled, his heart slamming against his ribs. Without a second thought, he slammed his Warcasket into full throttle, propelling it forward, fists clenched around the controls.

  But then—the world exploded in agony.

  The strange Warcasket, the one with the alien weaponry, pounced. It came up behind Henryk’s Warcasket like a serpent, wrapping its hands around the machine, squeezing with brutal force. Henryk’s heart skipped a beat. His fingers trembled as he tried to free himself.

  “I—I’ll… crush you…” The voice came through, garbled and hateful, spitting venom. The pressure on his Warcasket increased. It felt as if his suit were being compressed like a tin can.

  Henryk’s eyes widened. His teeth ground together as he slammed the engines to full throttle. Come on, come on!

  But nothing happened. The rockets—they wouldn’t fire. The thrusters wouldn’t ignite, the grip of the enemy suit holding him in place, suffocating him. He yanked at the controls, shouting, desperate, but the weight of the other Warcasket pressed down, and he was trapped.

  “What? I can’t—!” He screamed into the comms, his voice laced with fury and fear, testing every lever.

  Then, in a flash of cold calculation, he made a move.

  He yanked his father’s chainsaw sword from its holster, his hand trembling, but with a hunger that pulsed in his veins. The chainsaw whined to life with a guttural roar, its teeth grinding and shredding the air. He swung it viciously at the other Warcasket, biting into its armored flesh, sparks and pieces of metal flying like confetti.

  The screech of the chainsaw splitting through enemy armor was like music to his ears. He could feel it tearing through, the satisfaction of violence rushing through him. His Warcasket’s arms flailed, slicing through the enemy’s limbs, severing pieces of the torso. It was brutal. It was primal.

  But the other suit wasn’t idle. No. It was doing the same to him.

  The suit’s hands—clawed, vicious—dug into Henryk’s Warcasket’s body, raking across it, bending, tearing metal. His Warcasket groaned in protest as the pressure mounted from above. He could feel the joints screaming. His shields were flickering, their power draining. If he didn’t get out, he was going to be crushed into a bloody pulp.

  Wait...

  An idea sparked in his mind, one born of desperation. He was an idiot—an absolute idiot. He had to act. He couldn’t wait around, trying to find some weak point. His life was being smothered.

  His heart pounded as he fumbled for the release mechanism. Don’t fuck this up, Henryk.

  He could hear the groaning of his Warcasket as he fought with the latches on his flight suit. The hiss of the air escaping from the seal was deafening, and then—click—the helmet snapped into place. The motion was frantic, jerky, but it was done.

  And then, just as his Warcasket was about to be crushed, just as his suit was about to split apart, the cockpit spat him out.

  The sudden release of pressure yanked him forward, out of the confines of the Warcasket, and he was freefalling.

  Henryk’s body flailed through the cold vacuum of space, limbs splayed out in all directions, as he spun, disoriented. Sweat was already beading on his brow, his muscles straining as he fought for any semblance of control. His left arm shot up instinctively, his whole body rocking as his equilibrium shattered and the universe spun around him like a twisted kaleidoscope.

  The radio crackled in his helmet, voices booming through the static, distorted by panic and urgency.

  “Henryk!” Arthur’s voice sliced through the chaos, raw with fear. “Do you read? Did you eject? Hey, hey!”

  A growl ripped through the comms, thick with rage. “The whole damn thing was rended apart!” Arthur snarled. “VENGEANCE!” His words were a howl, and Henryk watched through his spiraling vision as Arthur’s Warcasket, a blur of fire and fury, slammed into the mobile suit that had been trailing him. The thrusters kicked up a violent storm, sending Henryk drifting further into the void.

  But there was no time to focus on Arthur. He snapped his head to the side, spotting Axel still locked in a deadly dance with one of the enemy suits. Axel was a blur of movement, thrusting, dodging, fighting.

  “T-they don’t see me…” Henryk muttered, his voice hollow, as he drifted further from the chaos.

  But one of them did.

  A voice—cold, venomous—slithered into his mind, clear as day. “Die, Druid Executor.”

  Henryk’s heart skipped, a cold chill sweeping over him as his body continued its erratic spin. He saw the Warcasket, its hand rising, aiming at him, a beam of searing purple light building up from the barrel, preparing to turn him into nothing more than a fleeting memory in the endless black.

  For a moment, everything slowed—his mind flooded with images. His family, a brief flicker in his mind’s eye. The woman, an even shorter flash, vanishing as quickly as it came. Nothing, he thought. This was all he was ever going to amount to.

  Is this how Jose felt?

  The heat of the purple laser crackled, and Henryk could feel its unbearable burn just a moment too late. But then—nothing.

  The suit swung its arm, and the laser missed.

  “W-what…?” Henryk blinked twice, struggling to make sense of it. He was alive—somehow—but why? Why had the shot not killed him?

  Another blast, and another, but this time, the beams were aimed high above him. It was like the enemy suit had completely changed direction, firing at something else.

  No. It sensed something.

  A shiver ran down Henryk’s spine as he saw it. Two Warcaskets, moving with a deadly grace, their movements sharp, calculated. He saw them in his mind’s eye, through the fog of space, their red-pink mono-eyes glowing like beacons, cutting through the black like predators.

  “Marcus!” A voice shouted in his mind, garbled and distorted by the static.

  He raised his hand instinctively, pointing toward the incoming threat.

  Through the cloud of debris, amidst the wreckage of a destroyed ship, they descended—swift, like falcons closing in on their prey. Their thrusters roared, propelling them through space with terrifying speed.

  “Eject, propellants. Now!” the voice came again, but this time, it was urgent. A recognition sparked in Henryk’s mind—he had heard this voice before, but where? The words were familiar, but the connection eluded him.

  He watched as the discarded propellant tanks tumbled through space, like empty brass casings falling from a gun.

  The two Warcaskets locked their focus on the approaching threat. Henryk could barely comprehend what was unfolding as the radio came alive again.

  “Iman!” Marcus’s voice broke through the static, frantic. “Radar’s detecting three hostiles. Callsigns and registrations scrambled to hell!”

  “The others!” Iman’s voice cut in, her tone sharp and decisive.

  Marcus’s lips curled into a smirk. “Sons of Mars... Academy Codes.” He regripped his controls, a hard determination set in his features as he maneuvered their Warcaskets into the entrance of the shattered ship.

  Iman’s lips twitched into a feral grin as she flipped a switch, unleashing a barrage from her dual-bazookas. The explosions filled the vacuum with a violent pulse, her thrusters kicking her forward, propelling her through the zero-g like a comet of destruction.

  One of the enemy Warcaskets, closest to Henryk, was caught in the blast, flung violently to the side.

  Axel and Arthur’s gazes snapped to the side in unison.

  “The fuck is that?” Axel’s voice crackled over the radio, his words sharp, breath ragged.

  Arthur’s focus never wavered from the witch. Her laser beams tracked his every move, each blast scorching the air, each one a whisper of death, just inches from ripping through his Warcasket. The machine groaned under the strain, but Arthur knew—he knew that to bring him down, she’d have to risk her own suit, too.

  With a roar, Arthur’s voice thundered through the comms, “Glory and honor!” His hand seized the beam blade, and with brutal ferocity, he drove it through the right shoulder blade of the enemy suit. Again and again, he hammered the blade into its joints, the grinding noise of metal on metal like the wail of dying gods. The two suits collided with the wall, their momentum sending them careening, bouncing off like wrecked cars. Thrusts fired wildly in opposite directions, tearing at the space around them, chaos reigning.

  Meanwhile, Henryk’s chest heaved, his breath shallow and frantic as he glanced at his oxygen levels. 77%? His stomach dropped. He could hear it, too—the faint hiss of air escaping his suit. Panic surged, and he began patting around his body. His fingers found a small tear in the material. With a grunt, he gripped it tight, feeling the cold seep out. The hiss stopped. Slowly, mercifully, his oxygen stabilized.

  But that small moment of relief was shattered when he saw it.

  A shape emerging from the darkness—a mobile suit he’d never seen before, sleek and deadly. His eyes narrowed as the suit’s free hand raised a long-range beam-laser rifle, its scope wide and menacing. A heavy backpack, bristling with antennas and buttons, was slung onto the machine, making it look like some monstrous insect preparing to strike.

  Then the cockpit of the Warcasket hissed open. Henryk flinched as a blinding light poured out, the glow almost too bright for his eyes to bear.

  Inside, a young man, tall and lean, stood as he rested his hand on the frame. His face was sharp, almost too familiar.

  "Marcus," Henryk said with a smirk, his voice steady despite the tension. "I’m glad to see you."

  The witch flung her Warcasket back with brutal force, sending it hurtling toward the others, who were locked in their own savage battle.

  “Marcus,” Iman’s voice crackled through the radio, cutting through the chaos. “Where are you?”

  “I—I recovered a friend,” Marcus chuckled, the sound sharp and hollow in the static. Iman made a face at that. “We’re holed up in one of the torn hull sections.”

  “Set up yet?” Iman’s voice was laced with a dangerous gleam, her eyes narrowed, calculating.

  She trained her bazooka forward, her gaze sharp as she observed the three combatants in front of her. “Two out of the three are badly damaged,” she stated, her voice low, each word dripping with cold focus.

  “Which one?” Marcus’ voice came through again, firm, unwavering. His Warcasket crouched low, its laser sniper rifle mounted with its bipod set in place.

  Behind him, Henryk sat suspended in his seat, his face lit up with a stream of orange numbers and dials flashing across his HUD. His mind was a battlefield of calculations—routes, trajectories, laser paths—all flashing before his eyes as he ran theories through his mind, recalculating for the perfect shot.

  This was the essence of the radar position: to see more, to guide, and to help carve the path for the kill. To make every shot the right one.

  “Which one do you want me to kill?” Marcus asked again, his voice calm, almost bored.

  Iman’s lip curled into a sneer. “These are witches. They won’t go down with some cheap trick,” she spat. “But if you’ve got a clean shot, take it.”

  Marcus’s voice dropped into a sharp smirk. “Give them something unexpected, Henryk.”

  Iman’s eyes widened at the mention of Henryk’s name. “H-He’s with you?” she asked, her voice tinged with surprise.

  “Hell yeah,” Henryk muttered under his breath, the orange numbers on his display flashing into a wild green pulse. “She’ll be in the kill box in ten seconds. She’s probably moving in to finish off Arthur. But what are they after?”

  Marcus’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Doesn't matter, Henryk. What they want, why they’re here... It’s all irrelevant. They’re the enemy, and if they’re gonna try and kill us, we’re gonna kill them first.”

  Henryk felt the cold wave of focus wash over him. The words reverberated in his skull. The truth. Marcus had already lined up his target. In the split-second that followed, Marcus was already aiming through the sniper scope of his Warcasket, his reticle locking in.

  Henryk’s sensors turned green. The calculations were in place. Everything was ready. “Target locked,” he muttered under his breath. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  There was a quiet, suffocating pause. Marcus didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger.

  A thunderous roar shattered the air. The shot fired, a piercing scream of light as it ripped through space. The witch’s Warcasket—a hulking, brutal machine—had just raised its beam saber, preparing to pierce Arthur’s cockpit. But before the blade could meet its mark, the sniper round ripped through its chest, sending a shower of sparks, fire, and metal out in every direction.

  The enemy Warcasket staggered, its torso split open, and the cockpit exploded in a violent eruption, sending the remains spiraling off into the void.

  But the remaining two enemies weren’t done. Like hungry wolves, they quickly changed direction, heading straight toward Marcus and Henryk. Their voices—sharp, bitter, filled with seething hatred—echoed in Henryk’s mind. The words were twisted, jagged, a mental barrage that hammered at him like a thousand needles.

  “Die, Druid Executor!”

  “You’ll burn for this!”

  Henryk’s head throbbed. His body jolted as the words hit him, sharp and agonizing. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt. It wasn’t just in his ears, it was in his skull, in his bones, in his blood. The force of their hatred flooded his mind, a chaotic, violent storm that felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside.

  He grabbed his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as he screamed, his voice raw, the anguish boiling up from deep inside. His vision blurred, and the ship around him seemed to twist and tremble. “I can’t—” he gasped. “I can’t take it!”

  “Hold it together, Henryk!” Marcus’s voice came through the comms, strained but firm. “We’ll handle this!”

  But the two enemy Warcaskets were already on them. They were closing in fast, their weapons raised, ready to strike. Marcus swore, his voice thick with tension. “Shit—hang on!”

  The Warcaskets shot out of their hiding spot, rocketing up through the wreckage of the shattered ship, the thrusters pushing them further and further into the wreckage. The ship—what was left of it—groaned beneath them, twisting and creaking under the pressure.

  Behind them, the enemy was coming, relentless. One of the Warcaskets fired, a stream of missiles lighting up the dark expanse, but Marcus was already twisting the controls, shooting them upward. The ship was falling apart, chunks of metal breaking free, but Marcus didn’t flinch. His eyes were locked ahead.

  Below them, Iman appeared—out of nowhere. She unleashed a barrage of missiles from her waist, sending them streaking down at the advancing enemy Warcaskets. The first explosion hit with the force of a thunderstrike, the sound deafening as fire and debris erupted. The force of the blast shook the hull of the ship. The second enemy Warcasket was engulfed in flames, its thrusters sputtering as it lost control and crashed into the twisted remains of the ship.

  The third enemy Warcasket tried to pull away, desperately trying to flee, but Iman wasn’t done. She carelessly discarded her bazooka and her waist rockets in one fluid motion, her Warcasket darting forward, using the wreckage as cover as she pursued.

  Arthur and Axel weren’t far behind. They had grabbed the remains of Henryk’s destroyed mech as they passed by, throwing it into the back of their own Warcaskets.

  “Marcus! Iman!” Arthur’s voice crackled through the comms. “Thanks for the save.”

  Axel’s voice joined in, grateful but still sharp. “Appreciate it.”

  Iman didn’t respond. She never did. She was too focused. But Marcus did, his voice steady. “We need to move. The ship’s rending itself apart. We don’t have long.”

  Iman was still lingering, though. Her laser rifle trailing after the third Warcasket, the one trying to escape below. She had one last shot in her, and it was just the right moment.

  The ship around them groaned and creaked like a dying beast, the metal shuddering with every explosion, with every impact. Iman’s sensors blipped—every nerve in her body screamed, but she knew. This was it. She smirked, pulling the trigger just as the enemy Warcasket tried to dive deeper into the wreckage.

  The blast hit its left shoulder rocket with brutal precision, sending it spiraling out of control, its thrusters flaring in desperation. Iman’s voice was cold, sarcastic as she watched it tumble.

  “They’re not as slick as they think they are.”

  Her mech’s sensors blinked, and she finally saw it—a strange missile-pod contraption, attached to the Warcasket that was now spinning out of control. Without the pilot, or with the pilot far enough away… it was useless. Iman smirked, casually discarding her last remaining weapons. She reached out, her fingers wrapping around the pod with a firm grip, pulling it free from the wreckage.

  It was then that she noticed another one—the same model, the same twisted, angular design—but this one was charred, its surface scarred by flames. She grabbed it, too, her mind already running over the possibilities of what this could mean.

  The battle had calmed for a moment, leaving only the dull hum of the damaged Warcaskets and the deafening silence that followed the chaos. Iman, her heart still racing, held the twisted missile-pod in her hands, her fingers clenched around it like she was about to crush it. Another piece of the puzzle, another mystery unfolding before her. She glanced back at the wreckage of the enemy Warcasket, now a smoldering husk.

  Its weapons—deactivated, its pilot likely dead or scattered somewhere in the void.

  It was then that Marcus’s voice broke the silence, thick with dry amusement. “Well, well. You're the last person I thought I'd run into around here.”

  Henryk blinked, the shock of hearing Marcus's voice washing over him like cold water. “You?” He shook his head, still struggling to process everything. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  “Reinforcements,” Marcus replied casually. He didn’t miss a beat, his tone laced with a kind of dry humor that never seemed to leave him. “Sent to reinforce the Oceana II Mercurian Corps with new mechs. They needed bodies. So, here I am.”

  Henryk’s brows furrowed, his mind still reeling. “Iman,” he said slowly, almost as if testing the name. “She’s the one who felt something was wrong, wasn’t she?”

  Marcus's smile faded, replaced by something more somber. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s always her, isn’t it? She’s the one who really deserves the thanks, not me.” There was a quiet respect in his voice that lingered longer than the words themselves.

  Henryk didn’t speak for a moment, his hand gripping the controls of his Warcasket as if they were the only thing holding him together. He took a long, drawn breath, his eyes heavy as he rested his head back against the seat.

  Iman. The name bounced around in his skull like a stone in a tin can. He had heard it before, but from where? When?

  His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard that name before,” he said, as much to himself as to Marcus.

  Marcus chuckled softly, though there was a touch of surprise beneath it. “I’m shocked you forgot her, Henryk.”

  Henryk shot Marcus a glance, confused. "What do you mean?"

  Marcus’s grin widened. “Oh, nothing. Just wondering if I should let you know now, or let you figure it out the hard way.”

  Henryk gave him an odd look. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

  Before Marcus could respond, the deep, weighty silence of the wrecked ship pressed in once more. Henryk stared out the Warcasket’s port, his gaze drifting across the stars. The ship that had been their battleground, was now collapsing into a mass of broken metal and twisted hulls. He could feel the weight of it all—the destruction, the loss, the violence that had become so familiar. It gnawed at his insides, settling like a lead weight in his chest.

  His eyes caught sight of Iman again, standing amidst the chaos, her Warcasket almost impossibly calm in the maelstrom. The remnants of the battle swirled around her, but she was the eye of the storm, her green eyes locking onto the great ball of Oceana as it spun slowly behind her. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way she stood, something in the way her figure cast a shadow against the dying light.

  That girl.

  Iman.

  Henryk didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on Iman, her mech poised amidst the shattered remains of the battlefield, her figure like a silhouette in the fading light. “She’s different,” he murmured, as much to himself as to Marcus.

  “Yeah, she is,” Marcus agreed. His voice had softened, his earlier teasing gone. “But then again, who in this mess isn't?”

  Henryk didn’t say anything. Instead, he gave Iman a final passing glance. Her emerald eyes seemed to glow in the fading light of the distant sun, watching as the Sons of Mars left this world once loyal, but lost, once again.