Three Dragonflies sliced silently through the night sky. Inside, the crew were finally able to relax after the literal firestorm we’d just escaped. For once, the tension had eased—until Jerry’s voice crackled over the comms.

  “Alright, boys. Congratulations. But we’re not done yet. We need to retrieve Core Data-4 ASAP.”

  “What?!” The complaint erupted from every Dragonfly at once.

  “I’m sorry, boys,” Jerry continued, his tone firm but apologetic, “but the Empire just declared Red Alert. Within twenty-four hours, every sector will be on full lockdown—heavy guards, patrols, the works. We have to move now, before they start flanking every approach.”

  Murmurs and frustrated grumbles rolled through the hulls of all three craft.

  I sighed into the mic. “Copy that.” Then, louder for the team: “Okay, boys. Just breathe. I don’t want us shooting each other out of frustration, alright?”

  Gina’s voice cut in sharp and dry. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  Before I could reply, another voice broke into our channel—Marcus.

  “Alright, I’m sorry, but the admiral’s right. Time is short. Besides…” A hint of mischief crept into his tone. “I’ve got a new toy for you. I’m pretty sure you’re going to like it.”

  I snorted. “What, another set of pajama armor?”

  “Better. Much better. Pick up the access key from James at the Capitol Palace. He’ll point you to it.” The line went dead.

  More groaning filled the cabin, but we pressed on in tense silence.

  We touched down in Sector 2—the Empire’s agricultural crown jewel, sprawled across what used to be the Indonesian archipelago. Endless rows of towering three-story greenhouses glowed under climate domes. Hydroponic spires pierced the sky. This is the Imperial food basket, feeding the Empire and secretly, the Union

  We settled onto the palace landing pads. As we stepped out of the Dragonflies, there he stood: Sector Head King James—tall, effortlessly charming, the spitting image of his late mother. Second son of Arthur I. Behind him loomed a wall of heavy blue-armored guards and marines.

  “Jericho,” he greeted me first, voice warm. “Long time no see.”

  “James. Your Highness.” I gave a small nod. “You really on our side this time, or are you about to sell us out to Daddy Arthur?”

  He let out a soft, genuine laugh. Gina blinked, caught off guard. I felt a stupid spike of jealousy.

  “I’m doing this for Faye,” James said seriously. “I don’t fully trust Marcus—and neither should you—but he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  He held out a slim access card. “Here’s the key. And the ‘new toys’ he promised arrived last night.” He nodded toward a nearby hangar just beyond the palace grounds.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  We followed his gesture. When the hangar doors rolled open, jaws hit the floor.

  Ten towering mecha walkers stood in perfect rows—the Raptors. Ten feet tall. Digitigrade legs. Thick alloy plate armor. Dual gatling cannons mounted on each arm. Missile pods bristling from the shoulders.

  Tony reached out instinctively and ran his hand along the nearest leg. “Wow… this is so cool.”

  Nearby crates held another surprise: the Flatliner rifles. Two meters of sleek barrel. Rounds made from refined advanced alloy—lightweight but devastating. They could punch through heavy plating like it was cardboard.

  James handed me a data chit with coordinates. “North of the palace, up the hill. Looks like an ordinary greenhouse from outside. Inside is the supercomputer that analyzes the Blue Gem’s core. It’s been mapping its' magic to revive dead soil. Time to pull the data.”

  Tony, Malone, and eight other crew members climbed into the Raptors. The rest of us shouldered Flatliners. Ten walkers marched out in formation while the Dragonflies hovered overhead, providing cover.

  Marcus’s voice returned over comms. “Be careful, boys. That facility is heavily guarded—by the most brutal robotic walker I've built. The Nephilim. Gigantic. I placed them there myself to protect the data. Quick tip: aim for the joints. That’s their weak point.”

  Yeah, thanks for the last-minute heads-up, Marcus—the paralyzed prince in his wheeled throne.

  We reached the target. Everything was eerily silent. Gina dropped down, swiped the access key. The massive doors hissed open.

  “Blasting time!” Tony whooped.

  The Raptors stormed inside first.

  A swarm of small tracked drones met them—fast, numerous, weapons hot. Gatlings roared; drones shredded.

  Then came the flying variants, swooping low and dropping grenades. The Raptors shook but held firm, answering with shoulder-launched missiles. One by one, the drones fell.

  Another door. Gina swiped again.

  And there it was—the Nephilim.

  A monstrous version of our Raptors, three times the size. Every weapon scaled up to nightmare proportions.

  The ten Raptors fanned out, circling it. Agile.

  The giant struggled to track them all. Its

  cannons thundered; each shot rocked a walker like a sledgehammer.

  But we were faster.

  Until a missile from the Nephilim slammed into Malone’s Raptor. The armor absorbed most of the blast, but the cabin rattled violently. Malone’s head cracked against the console.

  I sprinted to the fallen walker, popped the emergency hatch, and dragged him out. He was dazed, bleeding from the scalp, but breathing. I hauled him behind cover.

  The fight raged on. Flatliner rounds from the ground team either sank uselessly into armor or ricocheted off—until I remembered Marcus’s tip.

  I took cover behind debris, aimed at the Nephilim’s digitigrade knee joint, and fired.

  The joint exploded in sparks. The giant swayed.

  Gina caught on instantly. She lined up her own Flatliner and squeezed. Another joint ruptured.

  I didn’t hesitate. I climbed into Malone’s damaged Raptor, powered it up, HUD flaring to life.

  Time to finish this.

  I bounded across the chamber—point to point—dodging sweeping cannon fire. Found my angle. Gatlings spun up. Missiles streaked out.

  Direct hit. The Nephilim’s knee buckled. It crashed to one side—still fighting, still deadly.

  Gina seized the opening. She dashed to the central console, slotted the data chip, and started the download.

  The rest of us kept pouring fire into the Nephilim. Even Malone—groggy, armor dented—managed to limp forward and add his rifle to the barrage.

  One lucky Flatliner round slipped through a cracked plate and punched the central processor. The giant’s lights flickered… then died. It collapsed in a thunderous heap.

  Gina yanked the chip free, slapped a demolition charge in place, and we ran.

  We burst outside—and froze.

  Imperial reinforcements had arrived. Dropships, armor, troops.

  But the cavalry never fails us.

  Tethers shoots down from above, clamping onto us and yanks skyward toward the waiting Dragonflies. At the same moment, a new cloaked behemoth—the Ladybug—unmasked nearby, six rotors humming, and fired its own tethers to secure the Raptors and extracted them.

  Dragonflies and Ladybug streaked away from Sector 2.

  Minutes later, the greenhouse erupted in a fireball that lit the horizon.

  As I watched the flames climb, I realized something: right now, the Empire had no idea who’d just hit them.

  And that was exactly how we wanted it.