Leroy sat alone in the council chamber, waiting for the others to arrive. The silence pressed on him like a weight. He rose, moved to the balcony, and looked down at the world below. The commonfolk filled the sunlit streets, drifting through their lives with the small concerns of markets and errands. From that height, they seemed very tiny, fragile, unknowing.

  He remembered being one of them once. A young soldier. An orphan. Nothing but a fists, a will to fight, and a hope so thin it could be mistaken for desperation.

  Those years had been the darkest for the commonfolk. The Mainland was no longer a homeland—it had become a barracks, a breeding ground for war. Every youth could be summoned at a moment’s notice, torn from hearth and family, hurled onto the frontlines to aid the superhuman legions in their endless struggle against the League of the Transcendent.

  Leroy had been twenty-six when the summons reached him.

  “Leroy! Stay focused!”

  The voice of the Seventh Company’s major still echoed in his memory like a hammer on iron.

  He saw himself again, younger, descending into the suffocating embrace of the rainforest with three companions at his side. The air was wet, heavy, stinking of rot. They carried only what they could bear, stripping their gear to the essentials before slipping deeper into the green abyss. Thorns snagged at their uniforms. Broad leaves closed above them, blotting out the light, cloaking their trail.

  Their mission: infiltration. To ghost through the jungle and spy upon the enemy camp hidden far within. A task that demanded silence, and the swallowing of fear.

  “Leroy,” whispered Bryan, the company’s sharpshooter, his voice a thin thread of sound between the rain-drips. Bryan always managed a joke or a half-smile, even with death crouching nearby. “How much longer do we have to keep living like this?”

  Leroy glanced at him, eyes on the shifting mud beneath his boots. His breath fogged in the damp air.

  “Honestly, I’m tired too,” he murmured. “If only I had the strength to change any of this.”

  Major Gary halted mid-step, his fist raised for silence. Through the thicket ahead, a faint glow pulsed—pale firelight leaking between the tangled leaves. Smoke drifted upward, a thread curling into the canopy. The four soldiers froze, instincts coiling tight. Their hands tightened on their weapons, every breath sharpened.

  Then the brush parted. A man emerged, dressed in rags that spoke more of the gutter than of war. His gun pressed cold and unyielding against William’s temple—the medic stiffened, his throat dry.

  “Drop your weapons,” the stranger growled.

  The order cut through the damp air like steel. Reflex overrode thought; Leroy and the others lowered their rifles, hands raised, faces carved with frustration.

  Gary’s eyes narrowed. He scanned the man’s stance, his weapon, his lack of insignia. “Local resistance,” he muttered, half to himself. Then louder: “Take us to your leader. To Mateo.”

  The bandit-looking guard sneered, then jerked his head toward the trees. “Follow me.”

  Through the tangled greenery, a hidden camp revealed itself—a scatter of wooden huts, rough and temporary, housing no more than fifty souls. Smoke rose from crude fires. It was no soldier’s garrison but a refuge for fighters who lived one heartbeat from ruin.

  They were brought before a broad-shouldered man, his dark hair streaked with age, his eyes sharp with command.

  “Mateo,” Gary said, his voice low, almost softened. “It’s been a long time.”

  A rare smile broke across Mateo’s face. He waved a hand; his men returned the confiscated weapons. The two clasped forearms, then embraced like men who had shared blood and ghosts.

  Leroy watched silently. Even here, alliances had the texture of war—old friends meeting not with laughter, but with necessity.

  There was no room for pleasantries. Within minutes they were bent over a crude map table in the strategy hut. Candles guttered, their light warping the sketches inked on torn parchment.

  “What are we facing?” Gary asked.

  Mateo’s voice dropped. “A superhuman. He’s entrenched himself in a facility, something that reeks of a laboratory. Locals whisper of strange movements. We fear it’s more than a base. It’s… an operation.”

  Gary’s eyes narrowed, gears turning. “A laboratory, you say?"

  "So we are facing one of the Cogworks faction.” Leroy interjected. His tone was firm, carrying the sharpness of deduction rather than question.

  Mateo nodded with approval. “You see the truth quickly. And there is worse. At night, we hear screams. Human screams. They rise out of the jungle like the cries of the damned. Tell me, soldier—what else would such a place be, if not a house of experiments?”

  The silence after his words weighed heavy.

  The door creaked, breaking the moment. A young woman entered with a tray of drinks—wine dark as blood. Her hair fell in long curls, catching the firelight as though spun of copper. She moved with practiced grace, though her eyes never met theirs.

  “This is my sister,” Mateo said softly as she placed the cups before them. “Mia.”

  She left as quickly as she had come, yet her presence lingered. Leroy’s gaze, along with the others, followed her to the door without meaning to. Youth and war made such distractions dangerous.

  Mateo caught their stolen glances and smirked. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Gary’s voice cracked like a whip. “Eyes back on the map!”

  Shame flushed the soldiers’ faces, and they forced their attention downward, to lines drawn in ink, to the future paths of blood.

  The plan took shape. Tonight, under cover of darkness, they would approach the facility. Not to assault—yet—but to watch, to learn, to peel back the veil of secrecy.

  The council broke. The young soldiers were escorted to a wooden hut on the camp’s fringe. The fire outside guttered low, shadows stretching across the walls. Leroy lay awake, listening to the night beyond—the insects, the distant drip of water, and perhaps, if he let his imagination run too far… the echoes of human screams Mateo had spoken of.

  Later that day, Leroy and his companions spotted Mia alone at the edge of the camp. She was striking a tree with her bare legs—again and again—until the thick trunk itself shuddered under the blows. The rhythm of her strikes was not practice, but power restrained.

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  The four soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, then stepped closer.

  “You’re a superhuman, aren’t you?” Leroy asked.

  Mia halted mid-kick, her chest rising and falling with quiet strength. She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes cool, her voice edged with disdain.

  “And if I am?”

  “Hey, calm down. We just curious,” Bryan chimed in with his usual grin.

  Leroy, ever the one who probed further, added, “If your brother isn’t superhuman, then you must be a relic user, right?”

  Her lips curved into a sly smile. “Clever. No wonder you’re the alpha.”

  “What kind of relic do you wield?” Leroy pressed, unable to smother his curiosity.

  Mia said nothing more. She turned and walked away, curls shifting in the evening breeze, leaving Leroy with silence and unanswered questions. His comrades snickered behind him.

  “Looks like you got ignored, commander,” Bryan laughed.

  William joined in, shaking his head. “Don’t waste your breath. Relic users are full of secrets.”

  Even Hugo, busying himself with cleaning the edge of his blade, allowed himself a grin.

  They returned to the hut, exhaustion settling over them. William dropped heavily onto his bedroll, muttering, “The world’s gone mad, relic users sprouting up everywhere.”

  “And this damned war of superhumans,” Hugo growled, laying out his weapons with grim precision. “It’ll grind us all into the dirt before it’s done.”

  The door creaked. Major Gary entered, his shadow falling long across the floor. His eyes found Leroy at once.

  “Tonight, you’ll lead the mission.”

  Leroy felt the weight of the words settle on him, heavier than his rifle. He gave no excuse, no hesitation. He simply nodded. At last—his first command.

  Night bled into the sky as they set out. The jungle swallowed their movements whole, until the looming silhouette of the laboratory emerged like a wound in the wilderness. Bryan scaled a tree, rifle slung across his shoulder, scanning the perimeter from above.

  But the Cogworks were no fools. They had filled the shadows with machines. Small, insect-like drones flitted between branches, their glass eyes pulsing red. One whirred too close. The moment shattered.

  Metal screamed in the night. Sirens wailed.

  From the steel doors of the facility, five figures emerged—human once, but no longer. Their flesh was grafted with metal, their joints replaced with pistons, their eyes glinting like glass. Cyborg soldiers carved into something less than human, and more.

  The squad barely had time to react. Bryan was dragged down from the trees, his rifle wrenched away. William’s cry cut short as iron hands crushed his arms.

  “Fall back!” Gary barked. His voice was a weapon in itself. But the enemy was too fast, too relentless.

  Leroy raised his rifle, heart pounding, torn between fight and retreat. Gary’s hand seized his shoulder, iron-strong.

  “Listen to me. You’re the one who must carry word back. The resistance needs to know. If you fall here, it’s over.”

  “I won’t leave you!” Leroy snarled. “I’m the commander tonight”

  “You’ll save us later, or you’ll die with us now,” Gary cut him off. His gaze burned with absolute conviction. “You’re worth more alive. I trust you.”

  For a heartbeat, Leroy hesitated. Then the world forced his choice.

  He ran.

  Branches whipped his face. Mud sucked at his boots. The forest blurred into shadow and panic. He did not stop, not even to breathe, not even as his chest screamed. Only when the dim lights of the rebel camp flickered before him did he collapse to his knees, lungs aflame.

  The camp erupted. Mateo barked orders, men seizing weapons, forming lines. Scouts scattered into the night to sweep the jungle.

  Leroy rose again, his heart still hammering, his mind replaying the moment he left them behind—the flash of steel eyes, the weight of Gary’s hand, the screams swallowed by the dark.

  Mateo summoned Leroy to his quarters, but Leroy’s thoughts were already elsewhere—burning with urgency, consumed by one need only: to save his men before it was too late.

  “Patience,” Mateo urged, his voice even, his presence commanding. “Charging blindly will cost you nothing but death.”

  He called for his sister. Mia entered, carrying a small satchel of bandages and salves. She knelt beside Leroy without ceremony, dabbing the cloth in a pungent tincture before pressing it against his torn skin.

  “What did you see out there?” she asked, her tone sharp, clinical, as though demanding a battlefield report.

  Leroy’s breath came ragged. “Cyborgs. It’s true, the Cogworks are experimenting on human beings.”

  The thought twisted in his mind, bile rising. He slammed his fist against the table, wood shuddering under the blow. His voice cracked, raw with guilt. “If I wait too long, they’ll… they’ll turn my men into those things.”

  He rose, half-ready to storm out, but Mia’s hand pressed firmly against his chest, halting him with surprising strength.

  “Mia,” he rasped, forcing the question through clenched teeth, “is there a superhuman here, someone who can help me?”

  Mia’s eyes flickered as she wound the bandage tight around his hand. “There is one. Zaragoza. But he’s a pirate. Unreliable. He fights for himself, not for others.”

  Leroy exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging. For a moment, silence pooled between them, broken only by the tearing of cloth as she secured the knot. Then his voice, quieter, but edged with curiosity and a shadow of accusation:

  “Your relic. Where did it come from?”

  This time, Mia answered. “My brother found it. Among the wreckage of an old vessel, one belonging to the Extraterrestrial faction.”

  Her gaze grew distant, as if repeating knowledge. “There are only two places where relics gather in number. The Stargate, where the House of Star holds dominion. And the Temple of Morsalem, home to the Sorcerer Supreme.”

  At the word, something seemed to pass through Leroy. He clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm. “Stargate…” he muttered, the name striking him like an echo of fate.

  Mia paused in her work, studying him. In his eyes she saw something forming—not just determination, but a design, a plan stitched together from grief and fury. Something dangerous.

  Leroy’s thoughts dissolved the moment the council chamber doors swung open. Starmist entered, her azure eyes catching the flicker of torchlight. For an instant she seemed surprised to find only him there.

  “Hey… are you all right?” she asked softly, her gaze lingering.

  “I’m fine,” Leroy replied with a faint smile. “Just… remembering.”

  Before either could say more, three portals tore open across the chamber floor, shimmering with arcane light. From them stepped Cygnus, Lucretius, and Bjorn, each taking his seat. Bjorn slumped heavily into his chair, yawning wide enough to draw a few smirks.

  “Come now, Bjorn,” Cygnus muttered, adjusting the brass fittings of a strange device in his lap. “Stay awake. The Colosseum begin soon.”

  Leroy shuffled the dossiers laid out before him. His eyes flicked toward the silent figure across the table. “Lucretius, have you spoken with Amaterasu… about her brother?”

  The fallen knight face remained as cold and unreadable as carved stone. “No.”

  “I did,” Cygnus interjected smoothly, stirring his tea as though they were discussing weather instead of scandal. “After the incident, I spoke with her directly.”

  Bjorn grunted. “Keeping him in the Vanguard was the mistake since the beginning. He should’ve been guard his faction’s border.”

  Starmist cast a worried glance toward Leroy. “Let’s hope she isn’t too angry when she arrives.”

  They had barely opened their dossiers when the doors crashed open with a force that rattled the chamber. Flames surged in, wrapped around a woman’s form—Amaterasu, eyes burning, fury cloaking her like armor. She strode forward and slammed a folded paper down on the council table.

  The headline blazed in bold letters: “Title of the Thunder God Revoked.”

  Her glare locked onto Cygnus. “What is the meaning of this? You used the transmitter to announce my brother’s removal from the Vanguard? Without my voice in it? Without me?”

  Cygnus did not flinch. Bjorn and Lucretius barely stirred—this was not the first time Amaterasu had stormed in, fire in her veins.

  “Amaterasu,” Starmist said quickly, her tone careful, “Let us speak of this with calm.”

  The fire dimmed around her shoulders, reluctantly. She took the seat beside Starmist, though her jaw was tight, her anger unspent.

  Her voice cracked like a whip. “This punishment is excessive. A suspension would have been enough. But dismantle him of his Vanguard title? That is humiliation, not justice.”

  Cygnus set down his cup, his eyes like polished glass. “Your brother’s actions cannot be overlooked. He clings to shadows of the past war, letting them poison his judgment. He has endangered lives.”

  Bjorn nodded, folding his arms. “Susanoo may be a samurai without equal—a general, a champion of the Colosseum undefeated for years—but he is also offhanded. We can no longer conceal the damage he causes. This decree is necessary.”

  Leroy sat in silence, the weight of leadership pressing hard against his shoulders. In truth, he agreed with them—Susanoo had become too unstable, too unpredictable. Yet as head of the council, his words could not lean to one side too strongly, not here. One wrong phrase could fracture what fragile unity remained.

  When he finally spoke, his tone was careful, balanced as a blade’s edge. “The decision was not made lightly. We all carry the burden of war, some more than others. What matters now is ensuring our course does not divide us further. We will discuss this with fairness, for the sake of the realms.”

  The chamber stilled, but beneath the surface, fire still lingered. Atmosphere at today's agenda was full of inevitable tension.