The interior walls of the lone homestead, seemingly hewn from a single piece of white stone and adorned with decorative corbels made of meticulously arranged blocks, bore the marks of Arnorian craftsmanship. Sparse yet meaningful decorations adorned the interior, depicting Arnorian motifs and banners over windows in shades of blue and white.
In the center of the room, a young boy of five years stood proudly, his small hands clutching two runic messer swords in their scabbards. Despite his tender age, there was a sense of determination in his eyes, a reflection of the spirit that permeated the household. Nearby, his pregnant mother moved with grace, assisting her husband as he donned his clothes.
In the dim light of the homestead, the wife's blonde hair was partially braided into intricate patterns, while the rest cascaded down her back. Despite her advanced pregnancy, she wore her militaristic attire with pride and purpose. Her high-low grey skirt swayed with each movement, complemented by sturdy boots. Leather vambracers adorned her arms and pauldrons her shoulders. A crisp white blouse and an open dark grey jacket completed her ensemble, each piece crafted with precision and functionality. At her side, a runic arming sword rested in its scabbard.
Beside her, her husband stood tall, his short raven hair framing a face marked by scars. Like his wife, he wore a blouse, jacket with sturdy sleeves. As he slipped into his sleeveless padded coat which was enclosed over his chest and stretched under his knees, his gaze met hers, a silent exchange of solidarity and determination. Together, they were a formidable pair, bound by love and duty.
As she finished assisting her husband with his clothing, she paused, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "I have something for you Angbor," she said, her voice soft but filled with anticipation. Before he could respond, she disappeared into another room, leaving her husband to wonder what surprise awaited him. "Bainwen," Angbor called out after her, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet homestead.
"Just a minute," Bainwen called back from the other room. With that, Angbor turned his attention to his young son, Estelion. With practiced hands, he fastened the runic messer swords to his own belt using sturdy leather strips and belts. As he secured the weapons and various leather armour, he offered a word of gratitude to his son. "Thank you, Estelion," he said, his tone firm yet affectionate.
Bainwen returned moments later, holding a metallic grey-silver pauldron adorned with intricate runic protection sentences. Etched into the metal was the crest of the Damcuyar family, depicting an apple tree with a hammer in place of its roots. She presented it to Angbor with a solemn expression, her eyes reflecting both pride and concern.
Angbor's gratitude was evident as he accepted the pauldron from Bainwen, but a furrow formed on his brow as he examined it closely. "Bainwen, we agreed that you wouldn't engage in smithing while you're pregnant," he reminded her gently, his concern evident in his tone.
Bainwen began to buckle the pauldron onto Angbor's right shoulder, her expression serious but resolute. "I haven't been smithing, Angbor," she explained patiently. "I merely carved the runes onto the pauldron. The metalwork itself was done by another runesmith." She paused, meeting his gaze with determination. "I wanted to ensure your protection, especially now with the tensions rising across the stars".
Their foreheads gently touched, a silent exchange of love and determination in the midst of the nation's turmoil.
"Promise me you'll return," Bainwen's voice commanded with urgency and fear. "Don't you dare join the goddess unless it's absolutely necessary."
Angbor's resolve remained unshaken as he met her gaze. "I promise, Bainwen," his words carried the weight of his determination. "No matter the dangers that lie ahead, I will find my way back to you."
Bainwen's eyes glistened with unshed tears, her heart heavy with worry yet filled with pride. Angbor pressed on, "But, promise me that when our child is due, you'll be prepared."
Bainwen nodded in understanding. "I promise," her voice was soft, a mix of love and care. "When the time is right, I will leave for the house of healing, ensure Estelion receives the best care from the mentors, and be fully prepared."
Turning to his son, Angbor held him close. "Look after your mother and our home until that time," he spoke, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't forget to listen to the mentors carefully and learn as much as you can. You're growing up fast, my boy."
Estelion stood tall, a reflection of his father's strength. "I will, Father," his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "I'll make you proud."
With a final glance at his cherished family, Angbor stepped into the orchard which spaned around the homestead. His heart heavy with the promises made, he waved back at them, a silent vow etched upon his lips as he embarked on his journey.
While Angbor traversed the well-kept path through the orchard, his thoughts were filled with a mix of determination and concern. The crisp air carried the scent of apple blossoms, mingling with the faint tang of metal from the newly crafted pauldron adorning his shoulder.
With each step, he contemplated the responsibilities awaiting him upon his return to serve the realm. His wife, Bainwen, has been runesmithing for longer then is common, but these were desperate times. Her skill and dedication were undeniable, but Angbor couldn't shake the worry that came with knowing she was exerting herself while carrying their child.
As he passed through the well-maintained sections of the orchard, the rows of apple trees stood tall and proud. But soon, Angbor encountered the neglected areas, where weeds threatened to choke the life from the soil and branches hang overgrown. With preparations for the expedition, there was no time for proper care.
As Angbor left the orchard and journeyed through the forest, the path beneath his feet shifted from soft earth to well-trodden dirt. The surrounding woods, though dense and wild, seemed to offer him solace as he made his way deeper into their embrace. Along the way, he passed by remnants of past settlements, their crumbling ruins weathered by long years.
Eventually, Angbor came upon a clearing where the land opened up into a sprawling meadow. In the distance, he spotted the modest dwellings of a newly established Morwen settlement, its fields teeming with activity as the inhabitants diligently tended to their tasks, orchestrating the intricate dance of springtime's renewal. A pang of ambivalence washed over Angbor as he observed the scene before him. While part of him harbored reservations about the presence of outsiders in Arnor's heartland, he also recognized the necessity of their presence.
With a heavy sigh, Angbor pushed aside his lingering doubts and continued along the path, his mind filled with thoughts of duty and his own task.
Emerging from a valley, Angbor beheld a panoramic view of the sprawling Westwall fortress and the modern Forge nestled against its ancient walls. The fortress, with its imposing grey stone battlements, stood as a bastion of Arnorian strength and heritage, its towering walls a silent sentinel against the backdrop of the rugged mountains.
At the heart of the Forge, amidst the gleaming white stone walls, lay the central hub of Arnorian industry and innovation. Central elevator shaft belched plumes of steam into the sky, while the rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils and crackling of arcane powers echoed through the air. The Forge hummed with activity, a hive of creativity and productivity where witchers, wiches craftsmen and engineers toiled to push the boundaries of technology and craftsmanship.
Boarding the train at the local station, Angbor glanced towards the sky, where a sleek covertoplane shuttle soared overhead, its sleek silhouette cutting through the clouds with effortless grace. Angbor knew that within its cargo hold lay the future of Arnorian space fleet – the components and supplies destined for the construction of the frigate Nárrambar, the third ever Arnorian ship, which was nearing completion in orbit.
With a sense of awe and determination, Angbor settled into his seat, his gaze fixed on the horizon as the train rumbled onwards towards the Sanctuary. Angbor watched the landscape shift from rugged mountains and hills to sprawling plains and dense forests. To the east, the land stretched out before him in an expanse of untamed wilderness. Unlike the somewhat populated west, the east remained sparsely inhabited, its wild beauty untouched by the hand of civilization.
Finally, the train arrived at the Sanctuary, a formidable fortress-town carved into the very heart of the mountain. Towering walls and imposing battlements rose high above, their weathered stone bearing testament to centuries of vigilance and defense. Layer upon layer of fortifications surrounded the town, each one designed to withstand even the most determined assault.
Disembarking from the train, Angbor made his way to the upper courtyard, his steps echoing against the ancient stone as he ascended towards the inner sanctum of the fortress. Here, amidst the towering towers and mighty keeps he was greeted warmly by the priestess of Yáraitalë and the witcher who had been his mentors for the past several months.
The priestess wore a white blouse, a militaristic gown adorned with scarfs at the hip, shoulder, and arms, as well as various leather armor pieces. Contrary to common Arnorian attire, her clothing was predominantly red, symbolizing her devotion to Yáraitalë. She wielded a runic bastard sword, a sign of militarism even within the faith.
The witcher, dressed in attire similar to Angbor's but much more intricately adorned with runic symbols and black accents, stood beside her. His elegant runic thin longsword hung at his side.
"Angbor, it's good to see you," the priestess said warmly, her voice carrying a sense of urgency. "Your timing is impeccable, as always."
The witcher nodded in agreement. "Indeed. The paths seem to align in your favor today."
Angbor returned their greetings with a respectful nod. "Thank you, both. I trust all is well?"
The priestess exchanged a glance with the witcher before replying. "We've received a word of a vision from Ainaneth. Yárcarniel has spoken, and it seems urgent."
Angbor's brow furrowed with concern. "What did the vision reveal?"
"The details are still unfolding," the priestess explained, her voice tinged with urgency, "but it seems a cult somewhere in the galaxy is on the verge of unleashing a significant threat."
The witcher chimed in, his tone grave. "We must act swiftly. The Denebolians have agreed to expedite departure of DX-405, but it will still take a few hours."
Angbor nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I'm ready to go. My belongings are already aboard?"
"Yes, everything is prepared," the priestess confirmed. "May Yárcarniel watch over you and guide your journey."
The priestess touched the communication device provided to the Arnorians by the Denebolian Republic during their last meeting in preparation for this expedition. She selected the receiver designated for the DX-405 Xenon to request transport aboard.
"This is Adaneth Gilwen Gonnion, requesting transport for Evocatus Damcuyar," she spoke with calm authority.
The ship's communication officer's voice crackled in response: "DSS Xenon flight control, request confirmed. Prepare for transport in five seconds."
With their blessings, Angbor looked up to the sky, feeling a sudden rush of light envelop him as he was transported onto the spaceship.
Angbor had to blink twice as he appeared on board the DX-405 Xenon. He was greeted by a tall, lean crewmember with a warm smile. Only a head shorter than Angbor.
The name tag read "Lt. Rylan Marsden", Marsden's face was marked with glowing cyan tattoos, shaped like a solar systems with orbiting planets. Thin metal lines traced along his jaw and temples, subtly disclosing his enhancements.
He wore the standard Denebolian uniform, a sleek and tactical ensemble designed for both combat readiness and command efficiency. The grey color of his form-fitting jacket contrasted sharply with the bright LSC (Logistical Support Corps) insignia emblazoned on his shoulders. The jacket, made from a resilient, high-tech fabric, hugged his frame, highlighting his athletic build while allowing for complete freedom of movement.
The high collar of the jacket framed his face and his matching pants, equally durable, featured cargo pockets on the thighs, adding to the practical nature of his attire. They were tucked neatly into sturdy black combat boots. A utility belt cinched his waist, laden with various compartments and holsters for weapons and communication devices.
"Welcome aboard DSS Xenon, Evocatus," Lieutenant Marsden said, his tone friendly yet professional. "I'm Lieutenant Marsden, in charge of logistics for this mission. I apologize for the rush, but we're currently in the midst of final preparations for departure."
Angbor nodded in understanding, noting the efficiency in Lieutenant Marsden's demeanor. "No need to apologize, Lieutenant," he replied, his voice calm and measured. "I appreciate your efforts to ensure swift departure. Also, call me Angbor."
Lieutenant Marsden led Angbor through the ship's corridors, pointing out key features and offering brief explanations along the way. "Here's your assigned room," he said, gesturing toward the door. "The ship's quarters are designed to adapt to your preferred style of accommodation. After the briefing, you'll receive a special neural device to access the ship's systems, including holographic projectors that can recreate any design, furniture, or essentially anything you require. For now, you'll have to settle for the default setting."
With that, Lieutenant Marsden concluded his explanation and moved to leave Angbor alone. "Make yourself at home, and feel free to reach out if you need anything. We'll do our best to make your stay as comfortable as possible."
With a nod of thanks, Angbor stepped into his room, taking in the sleek, minimalist design and the soft ambient lighting. It was a far cry from the rustic charm of his homestead, but he found himself appreciating the sense of efficiency that permeated the space. He knew he wouldn't allow them to install the device in his brain and was prepared to make do with whatever accommodations they assigned to him.
Standing at attention against the wall, the exoskeleton loomed over him, its battered armored plating gleaming faintly through the gaps in its white-grey-blue coat, scarves, and waist cape under the room's subdued lighting. Angbor felt a surge of reassurance at the sight of the formidable suit, knowing it would offer him the protection he desperately needed for the trials ahead.
Angbor knelt beside his trunk, which laid next to the armour, and began to unpack his essentials, each item carefully removed and placed in its designated spot within the room.
In the trunk, a small picture of his family lay nestled among his other belongings, a cherished memento of the loved ones he had left behind. Angbor paused for a moment, his fingers brushing against the image as he silently offered a prayer for their safety and well-being.
Turning his attention to a worn book of rituals,
Angbor retrieved it from its place among his belongings. Though he knew the contents by heart, the familiar weight of the tome brought him a sense of comfort and reassurance.
With his belongings unpacked and arranged to his satisfaction, Angbor turned his attention to the window, where the distant stars twinkled in the vast expanse of space. He took in the sight of the sprawling Denebolian space station, its metallic structure gleaming in the soft glow of distant stars. Despite the limited view of the station from the angle of his large window, Angbor could still sense the magnitude of its expansion and reconstruction efforts, easily dwarfing those of the Arnorians.
Lost in thought, Angbor was abruptly pulled back to reality by the insistent beeping of the door. With a sigh, he made his way to the entrance, normal sized doors adding an imposing presence to his already tall figure.
As Angbor opened the door, he was met by the sight of a Shield agent standing before him. The agent's attire immediately identified him as a member of the organization, clad in a dark blue tactical overall with high boots and a sleek black coat. His ensemble was adorned with peculiar rings and a necklace, the majority of which gleamed with a golden hue.
"Angbor, I presume?" the agent greeted, his voice firm and authoritative as he extended a hand in greeting. "I'm Agent Harken. We'll be departing from the dock shortly."
Angbor accepted the handshake, noting the agent's conspicuous appearance. "I must admit, I expected Shield agents to be less conspicuous," he remarked with a hint of curiosity.
Agent Harken offered a wry smile in response. "No need for secrecy aboard the ship," he explained. "And besides, not all agents operate undercover."
With a nod of understanding, Angbor followed Agent Harken as they made their way through the corridors toward the bridge. Along the way, the agent engaged him in conversation, discussing their respective roles and responsibilities on the mission.
"I regret that we couldn't enlist the help of a witch or witcher," Agent Harken commented with a hint of disappointment.
Angbor shook his head slightly. "Witchers and witches are in short supply as it is," he explained. "I was chosen for my versatility on the battlefield and potential for greater than average subdimensional power. As an Evocatus, I have a wide range of expertise at my disposal."
Their conversation continued until they reached the bridge, where Angbor's attention was immediately drawn to the array of monitors and control panels that filled the room. As he looked around, He found himself confused by the sight of many people seemingly looking into nothing and waving their hands through the air. However, the memory quickly returned to him. It was because Denebolians use hidden cybernetics, allowing them to view and interact with virtual displays projected directly onto their cybernetic implants.
Harken, being a Shield agent, immediately noticed Angbor's confusion despite Angborn's stoic expresion and offered an explanation. "It's the cybernetic technology that we use," he explained. "We have panels displayed directly through our cybernetics. Arnorians were offered this technology, but you refused."
Angbor nodded, understanding the situation. "Augmentations should be done out of necessity," he remarked, recalling his own prosthetic lung. "Not for mere convenience."
"Either way, as I'm sure you've been informed, you'll receive a portable neural device," Agent Harken explained, "which will allow you to operate the ship's systems and view holographic monitors. Don't worry, this device isn't invasive. You can remove it anytime you want, and it won't cause any inconvenience during combat or other normal activities. It's quite small and unobtrusive."
"Even if it's not invasive, I don't want some device reading my mind," Angbor replied, his voice firm.
"Rest assured," Harken said calmly, "once calibrated, the device will only interpret thoughts related to the ship's systems. It will emit a weak EM frequency that adjusts your visible spectrum to see the holographic displays, but it won't interfere with your vision in any other way. You won't even notice the difference."
Just then, the ship's commander noticed their presence and interrupted Angbor's reluctant grumble. Rising from her command chair, she approached with a confident stride, offering a welcoming nod to Angbor.
Her uniform was practically identical to Marsden's, except for the dark navy blue color, the SDD (Security and Defense Divison) emblem, and her rank displayed on the shoulders. Unlike the younger generation of Denebolians, she bore no glowing tattoos like Marsden's, and her cybernetics were more crude and visible. A thick metal line ran above her left brow, evidence of the older technology integrated into her body.
"Welcome aboard the Xenon, Evocatus Damcuyar," she greeted, her tone authoritative yet welcoming. "I am Colonel Lyra Halden, and I will be leading this mission. You're just in time for departure."
Before Angbor could respond, a crewmate interrupted, drawing Colonel Halden's attention to another urgent task.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I must address another matter," Colonel Halden said, nodding apologetically. "I'll see you both at the briefing. Enjoy your stay before the mission." With that, she departed with the crewmate, leaving Angbor and Agent Harken alone.
The two moved toward the back of the bridge, observing the organized chaos as the crew busily prepared for departure. Colonel Halden soon returned to her command chair, her posture confident as she issued commands with a clear and authoritative voice. "Begin disembarkation procedures. Hail Infinity Gate and request permission to leave orbit and enter hyperspace."
The communication officer immediately complied. "Infinity Gate, this is Xenon control. Disembarkation procedures engaged. Requesting permission to clear orbit and enter hyperspace."
"Infinity Gate to Xenon control, you're cleared for departure. Safe travels," came the reply through the speakers.
With confirmation received, Colonel Halden activated the ship's intercom, her voice echoing through the vessel. "Attention, all personnel. We are departing Panthal orbit. Stand by for hyperspace entry."
The ship shuddered slightly as it disengaged from the docking clamps and begun to silently humm as the sublight engines were activated. After few moments, the view outside the windows shifted, stars stretching into elongated lines as the ship entered hyperspace. The hum of the engines stabilized, and the crew settled into their routines.
Colonel Halden, satisfied that everything was proceeding smoothly, turned to Harken and Angbor. "Everything looks good here. Let's move to the briefing room for further instructions."
Angbor and Harken followed Colonel Halden through the corridors to a secure briefing room. As they entered, they found the room already occupied. Lieutenant Marsden, the logistic officer, Captain John Miller, leader of Gold Squad
and the leader of Silver Squad, Captain Sarah Jerkins, were seated around a large, interactive table that dominated the center of the room. Holographic displays flickered as they changed shapes, casting a soft glow over the occupants.
Colonel Halden gestured for Angbor and Harken to take their seats. "Now that we're underway," she began, "let's discuss the details of our mission. But first, introductions are in order. This is Evocatus Damcuyar, a delegate for Arnorian side. He will be advising Silver Team. And this is, as you already know, Agent Harken from SHIELD, who will be advising Gold Team."
"Just Angbor is enough outside of ceremonies and formalities." added Angbor with a faint smile.
The assembled officers nodded in greeting.
Lieutenant Marsden pulled up a holographic map of the sector. "We've identified several planet candidates that match the environmental conditions described in the vision from Arnorians. However, these planets are dangerously close to Ingerdimnar territory. We will be far from resupply points and reinforcements."
Captain John Miller, leader of Gold Squad, leaned forward. "If the cult is operating on an Ingerdimnar planet, it could complicate things."
Harken glanced at Angbor, then spoke up. "SHIELD has already picked up on some suspicious activities. We believe a small faction within the Ingerdimnar might be using the cult to gain power."
Angbor's expression hardened. "I don't care who is playing with dark forces," he stated firmly. "My mission is clear: to eliminate any enemies of Yárcarniel, no matter where they hide."
Colonel Halden nodded understandingly. "That's the spirit we need, but remember, our primary objective is to gather intelligence and stop any major threat from this cult. Don't lose your temper, and we'll see this through."
Captain Sarah Jerkins, leader of Silver Squad, spoke next. "As the primary field squad, I'd like to spend as much time as possible getting accustomed to working with Angbor and my team. How long until we arrive?"
Colonel Halden moved her fingers in the air as if typing, her eyes lightly glowing blue. Only now did Angbor realize that he had seen this happen with all Denebolians.
"Less then three weeks. Ship is fresh from the docks and had limited stress tests. The engine room will gradually increase the power of the hyperdrive along the way."
"Understood," nodded Captain Jerkins. "That should be enough."
With the briefing concluded, Colonel Halden stood. "Let's get to work. We have a mission to complete. Dismissed."
Captain Sarah Jerkins took Angbor through the ship's corridors toward the common room of Silver Team's quarters. Her brown hair was pulled into a tight bun beneath a dark navy blue cap, matching her uniform adorned with the IEF (Interstellar Expeditionary Force) insignia. Although her face bore no tattoos, a light glow emanated from beneath her neck. Her cybernetics were of the newer sort, with thin metal lines tracing the sides of her chin.
As they walked, she handed Angbor his neural transmitter along with a tablet displaying the device's basic settings. She began explaining how it worked before transitioning into a description of her team.
"You've probably already heard most of the details about the device from Harken. I'll just cover the settings for you. The tablet controls which thoughts the device will read, adjusts the brightness of the screens, and has a few other functions. I recommend looking through it thoroughly so nothing catches you off guard later."
With that, she smoothly shifted to describing her team.
"We're a newly formed unit," she started, her tone professional yet approachable. "I don't know them as well as I'd like yet, but they're a capable bunch."
She glanced at Angbor, gauging his reaction before continuing. "First, we have Corporal Daniel 'Danny' Reeds. He's our technician. Arrogant and bit cocky, but he knows his stuff. Brilliant with anything tech-related. Fair warning, though—he doesn't think much of Arnorians. Thinks you're all brutes."
Angbor raised an eyebrow but stayed silent, taking in the information.
"Then there's Sergeant Laura Mitchell. She's our linguist and culture expert. Very kind and curious. She's got a bit of a naive streak but has a genuine interest in Arnorian culture since she heard of you."
"A refreshing change," Angbor commented.
"Absolutely," Jerkins agreed. "Next is Sergeant Emily Carter, our medic. Brave and always ready to jump into action to help her teammates."
"Medics are sometimes the bravest soldiers," Angbor remarked.
"Couldn't agree more," Jerkins said. "Then we have Private Michael 'Mike' Harris. He's a rifleman and the team's joker. Keeps morale high, even in tough situations."
"Any more?" Angbor prompted.
"Private James 'Jim' Walker," Jerkins replied. "Another rifleman, but he's the quiet type. Doesn't say much, but he's reliable and focused."
They arrived at the common room, and Captain Jerkins pushed the door open, motioning for Angbor to enter. Inside, the team members were gathered, chatting and going over their equipment. Danny Reeds was lounging in a chair, lazily levitating a ball with telekinesis.
All of them wore dark navy blue, and Angbor realized that the logistics division might be the only ones in different colors. As he glanced at the young team members, he took note of their appearances. Danny was a classic ginger intellectual with freckles. Laura caught Angbor's eye with her dreadlocks and dark skin, a rarity for Arnorians who were all of near identical pigmentation. Emily was the only one not in a matching uniform; her sleeves were pure white, and the rest of her uniform was even darker than the navy blue of the others. She had one side of her head shaved, with many metal lines curving around her ears. Michael and James were almost alike, yet very different. James had a few metal spots on his nose and chin, along with a few small tattoos, while Michael's skin was almost invisible beneath its glow.
"Silver Team," Jerkins called out, drawing their attention. "This is Angbor, our new advisor. He'll be working with us on this mission."
Danny didn't bother getting up. Instead, he continued to play with his ball, his expression cocky. "Nice to meet you, Angbor. Heard you're the magic expert," he remarked sarcastically.
As soon as he spoke, blood began to trickle from his nose, the strain of using telekinesis taking its toll. "Fuck," he muttered, wiping it away casually, as if it were a daily inconvenience.
"Stand at attention, soldier! And clean yourself up before you bleed out from playing with that ball," Jerkins ordered, her authoritative tone intended to cut through Danny's arrogance.
Laura Mitchell stepped forward first, her expression warm and welcoming. "Welcome, Angbor. I'm looking forward to learning from you and understanding more about Arnorian culture."
Emily Carter gave a nod, her eyes reflecting determination. "We're glad to have you with us."
Mike Harris grinned, giving a mock salute. "Hey there, Angbor. Hope you can keep up with us."
Jim Walker offered a brief nod, staying silent as he observed their new advisor.
Angbor took a moment to look at each of them. "I am grateful for your help with this cult hunt," he said sincerely. "I will make sure you all make it home."
With introductions complete, the team settled back into their routines, though a few continued chatting with Angbor. Laura, Mike, and Emily walked him to his quarters, opening the door for him.
"Everything here runs on the implants or the neural device you received," Emily explained, brushing her hair back. "There's no way to function properly here without it. This isn't a civilian ship, you know."
"She's right," Mike chimed in with a grin. "It'd take you hours to get anywhere if you relied on manual overrides!"
"I've been informed of that on numerous occasions," Angbor replied, shaking his head. "Doesn't mean I like it any more."
Laura tried to soothe him. "I know you Arnorians aren't fond of it, but trust me, it's harmless. Just give it a try and see." She gave him a playful, exaggerated pout, adding, "Pretty please?"
Angbor chuckled, resigned. "I can't believe I'm doing this. See you all later."
With farewells exchanged, Angbor entered his quarters and sat on the bed, contemplating the neural device.
He skimmed through the manual on the tablet and was overwhelmed by the sheer number of settings. Taking a deep breath, he placed the neural device behind his left ear. It immediately morphed, adjusting to his skull and forming a small extension along his temple, like a thin, straight snake. He shook his head, trying to dislodge it, but it held firm. What surprised him most was not just the stability, but the weight—or lack thereof. If he hadn't placed it there himself, he wouldn't have known it was even there.
He activated the device and began scrolling through the options. "Social crew net? Definitely not," he muttered, switching off the option. "Crew statuses? No. Psychological AI assistance? Absolutely not. Health monitoring? No. Report notifications? No."
On and on he went, disabling everything except the technology access, which would give him control over doors and other systems, and display access, which allowed him to view information on monitors and holograms.
The last option was room personalization. He flipped through the choices: a hotel room, a wooden shack, a sleek skyscraper suite. Then, something familiar appeared before him. White smooth walls, and a beautiful view of a forest from a hillside. An Arnorian room.
He inhaled deeply, feeling a brief sense of peace wash over him—until his expression darkened. "Lies," he growled under his breath. With that, he switched it back to the default settings and gazed out of the window, where hyperspace bent and twisted around the ship.
Over the following weeks, Silver Team and Angbor worked to find a symbiosis of sorts. Angbor had to adapt to Denebolian tactics and mission strategies, which were far more cautious and diplomatic compared to the aggressive methods of the Arnorians. Captain Jerkins stressed the importance of subtlety and negotiation, skills vital for the team's survival and success in volatile situations. Despite their peaceful inclinations, the Denebolians were not averse to combat, and their schedule also included combat simulations.
In return, Angbor shared his extensive knowledge of magical threats, ensuring the team became well-versed in recognizing and neutralizing curses and dangerous creatures.
The team's integration was gradual but steady. Angbor attended briefings and training sessions led by Captain Jerkins, who demonstrated the importance of stealth, negotiation and precise strike over brute force.
Though challenging, Angbor found the approach tolerable. His adaptability impressed the team, though Danny remained skeptical.
The cultural exchange was significant. Angbor explained the nature of demons, magical creatures, and how to counteract them. Laura, fascinated by Arnorian culture, asked numerous questions, her genuine curiosity creating a bond between her and Angbor. In return, the team shared their own experiences and knowledge with Angbor.
By the second week, team integration exercises began. They participated in simulated missions where Angbor had to rely on Denebolian tactics and the team had to deal with magical threats. These exercises were crucial in building trust and understanding within the team. The simulations highlighted the strengths and weaknesses of each member, and Angbor's battlefield flexibility proved invaluable.
During one of their training sessions for the mission, Angbor and Jim found themselves at the shooting range, an air of friendly competition brewing between them. Mike, ever the enthusiast, suggested a wager to determine who had the better aim.
"Alright, how about a little bet?" Mike proposed, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Who do you think is the better shot?"
Most of the team immediately backed Angbor, with his impressive combat reputation. Danny, however, placed his credits on Jim, confident in the superiority of his cybernetics.
"You are biased, Danny," teased Laura. "I've seen footage of Arnorian ground combat, and Angbor was confident he could take on each one of us when I asked. And I believe him."
Danny just shook his head. "I don't know Angbor's arcane capabilities, and they vary greatly, but what I do know is that Arnorian genetic capabilities are inferior to full cyber boost. Jim, like any of us, has sensory receptor boosters and artificial muscle fibers linked to his stem. You know that we're basically shooting in slow motion with auto-aim, but bet as you wish. I'll just have more credits to enjoy."
The contest began, and Angbor moved with mechanical precision, taking out targets left and right with astonishing speed. His movements were fluid and rapid, each shot hitting its mark with a quick efficiency. Jim, in contrast, was slower but exhibited remarkable accuracy, each of his shots landing squarely on the bullseye.
When the timer buzzed, the team eagerly awaited their winnings from Danny. However, he shook his head with a smug smile.
"It was a shooting competition," Danny pointed out. "Angbor might have been quicker, but Jim was more accurate."
Laura, hoping to win back her credits, suggested a new wager. "How about a swordfight? Best two out of three."
Danny, still confident in Jim's technological enhancements, agreed. "I'll take that bet. Jim's cybernetics will give him the edge."
Angbor and Jim took up practice swords and faced each other. The first round started, and Angbor immediately lunged, his thrust disarming Jim and winning the round in an instant.
The second round began differently. Jim immediately activated his sensory receptor booster, and time seemed to slow for him. He could see Angbor's muscles tense before his sword moved. Although Jim's own movements were slow, he managed to parry Angbor's strikes, pushing him back with calculated precision. It didn't take long for Angbor to adapt to Jim's apparent foresight. Despite Jim seemingly predicting his every move, Angbor was still faster, and the fight began to slowly shift in his favor. What came as a surprise to Angbor was Jim's strike at his throat. Angbor stepped just out of reach of Jim's sword, prepared to lunge forward with a thrust. However, Jim morphed his sparring weapon from a sword to a spear, something Angbor couldn't react to in time, and he lost the second round.
"You got me there," Angbor said, stretching. "This feature is new to me. How did you do that?" Danny chuckled. "With his mind, obviously. But since you don't have the implant, it's no use to you, portable device does not allow use of Denebolian advanced weapons." Angbor raised an eyebrow before taking a fighting stance. "I'll do without it, then." Other team members tried to prohibit weapon morphing in this round, something Danny was heavily against, but Angbor was eager to accept the challenge. "You have your advantages; I have mine. None of our sparring should be fair. There is no fair play on the battlefield."
The third round began the same as the second. In this one, Angbor had to adapt to the possibility of weapon morphing instead of Jim's foresight, which he was already prepared for. This caution nearly stalemated the round. However, the boost to Jim's perception began to fade, designed to prevent overheating and subsequent damage to his brain and body.
A few more strikes passed as Angbor got closer and closer to Jim. When Jim saw Angbor's fist coming towards his face, it was too late; he realized he was too slow to avoid it. The punch landed with a force that would have killed an unaugmented human, sending Jim to the ground.
Jim lay there for a moment, dazed, before accepting Angbor's offered hand. Angbor pulled him to his feet with a respectful nod.
"You fought well," Angbor said.
Jim smiled ruefully, shaking off the last of his disorientation. "You too. I guess there's no substitute for raw power and experience."
The team gathered around, the earlier tension dissipated, replaced by camaraderie and mutual respect. Laura, taking her credits from Danny and leaving the room, couldn't help but laugh.
"Looks like we'll need another competition soon," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief, "this was fun."
Captain Jerkins noted the growing cohesion of the team. Even Danny, with his sarcastic remarks, started to appreciate Angbor's strategic mind and unyielding resolve. Laura's enthusiasm for learning about Arnorian culture led her to create scenarios in the simulations that incorporated cultural nuances, making the exercises more realistic and challenging.
As the final week approached, the team's preparations intensified. They reviewed mission plans, ensured their gear was in top condition, and continued to hone their skills. Angbor spent time with each team member, offering advice and learning more about their individual strengths and weaknesses. His sessions with the medic, Emily, involved discussing the potential effects of curses and how to treat them, while his time with Mike and Jim focused on combat strategies.
On the morning of the last day of their travel to the destination, Angbor was in his chamber, preparing himself in his daily ritual. He knelt before an idol of Yárcarniel, eyes shut, focusing on charging his body and runes with power. The practice was as much a spiritual exercise as it was a practical one, ensuring he was ready for whatever lay ahead.
The doors to Angbor's chamber swung open, interrupting his thoughts. Laura burst into the room, her face alight with excitement.
"Angbor! I finally solved the riddle!" she exclaimed joyfully.
However, her enthusiasm quickly turned to embarrassment as she saw Angbor kneeling in his ritual. She froze, her cheeks flushing. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she stammered, "I didn't mean to intrude."
Angbor, his focus momentarily disrupted, took a deep breath and then faintly smiled at her. "It's fine, Laura," he said reassuringly. "You didn't know."
Laura, her curiosity piqued by the sight of Angbor praying, immediately forgot about the riddle. "What exactly is that ritual?" she asked, her eyes wide with interest.
Angbor settled back into a more relaxed position and began to explain. "I'm focusing my thoughts on Yárcarniel, our goddess. By giving her power through my devotion, she returns it to me as a safe, filtered energy. This energy refreshes my body and charges the runes tattooed on my skin, which offer protection and other benefits."
Laura's eyes sparkled with fascination. "So it's like a form of meditation?"
"Yes," Angbor nodded. "It's not just about focusing thoughts. In my mind, I am in the presence of Yárcarniel. And I don't mean figuratively. Her presence brings a calm, ecstatic feeling to my spirit. It's this connection that gives us Arnorians our will to never stop, no matter the challenges we face."
Laura absorbed his words, clearly moved by the depth of his faith. "That's incredible. I've read about Arnorian devotion, but hearing it in person... it's something else."
Angbor didn't change his expression, though her genuine interest in his culture pleased him.
"It is a practice that sustains us, both spiritually and physically. It's as much a part of our identity as anything else."
Laura nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you for sharing that with me, Angbor. It's... beautiful, in a way."
Angbor's smile slightly widened. "It is. And it's something that can't be fully understood until it's experienced. Perhaps one day, you'll see it for yourself."
Laura grinned, the initial embarrassment of her intrusion completely forgotten. "Perhaps," she said, wrinkling her nose.
Angbor chuckled softly and asked, "What was it you wanted to tell me about the riddle?"
Laura's eyes widened. "Oh, shoot! I completely forgot." She fumbled for a moment, trying to recall her excitement.
Angbor smiled warmly and repeated the riddle for her.
"I stand in rows, but not a soldier,With limbs outstretched, I grow older.My arms bear gifts, both sweet and bright,Changing hue in the warming light. What am I?"
Laura furrowed her brow before her face lit up with realization. "A fruit tree!" she exclaimed, her voice triumphant. "The answer is a fruit tree!"
Angbor nodded. "Exactly. Well done, Laura."
She beamed with fake anger. "I was so stumped at first. I really thought there was a catch, but you gave me a riddle for kids!"
Angbor's smile grew almost to a laugh. "You did well. Truth is, I actually don't know many challenging riddles."
As Angbor and Laura conversed about the riddle, the ship's intercom crackled to life with Colonel Halden's voice. "Attention, all crew members. We will be exiting hyperspace shortly. Please mount your positions."
Angbor looked at Laura and smiled. "Looks like it's time. I'll see you later, Laura."
"Good luck, Angbor," Laura replied, giving him a supportive nod.
Angbor made his way to the bridge, arriving just as the ship transitioned out of hyperspace. The crew busied themselves at their stations, and Harken stood nearby, already focused on the task at hand.
"Welcome to the bridge, Angbor," Harken greeted. "Just in time."
The ship's sensors beeped as the planet appeared on the main view screen. The crew began their reports to Colonel Halden.
"Colonel, we have entered orbit around the planet," one of the officers reported. "Surface scans indicate a rural society with technology equivalent to the early 19th century. There are also traces of Ingerdimnar technology and activity, suggesting past interactions, possibly for taxation or oversight."
Colonel Halden evaluated the information, her expression thoughtful. "Understood. Prepare a recon mission. Angbor, you'll join Silver Team and descend to the planet in a puddle jumper."
Angbor nodded. "Yes, Colonel."
Harken offered a quick nod to Angbor as he headed to suit up and join Silver Team. In the hangar, the team was already assembling, checking their gear and preparing for the mission.
Captain Jerkins looked up as Angbor approached in his power armour. "We've got our orders. Ready to head down?"
"Verily" Angbor replied.
As the team boarded the puddle jumper, Captain Jerkins briefed them. "Despite the planet's tech level, Prime Directive is not enforced here. However Influence Directive is, Angbor. There's evidence of recent Ingerdimnar activity. Stay sharp and try to notice anything out of ordinary."
The engines of the puddle jumper hummed to life, and soon they were descending through the atmosphere toward the planet's surface.
The jumper glided smoothly over fields of crops before descending into a small, secluded forest. The team disembarked quickly, and Captain Jerkins activated the cloaking device, rendering the jumper invisible to any prying eyes.
"Alright, team, let's move," Captain Jerkins instructed, leading the way through the trees towards the nearby town.
As they approached the town, Laura took the lead, utilizing her skills and the assistance of the AI translator to communicate with the locals. She approached several of the townspeople, engaging them in conversation and piecing together the basics of their language.
With each interaction, Laura and the AI translator worked to decode the local dialect. After several successful conversations, Laura had a breakthrough. "Got it," she announced, turning to Danny. "Uploading the language data now."
Danny's device beeped as the new language information was transferred. "Got it," he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. "Let's go find the mayor."
As they moved toward the center of town, Mike couldn't help but comment on Angbor's presence. "Man, you're loud in that armor." Danny quickly followed, "Yeah, I noticed too. If it were up to me, I'd redesign the hell out of it. We're supposed to be discreet, you know."
Angbor's voice resonated from within his armor comms, calm, but slightly annoyed. "This is as quiet as it gets and it serves it's purpose well, Danny. You'll just have to get used to it."
The townspeople were a unique sight, short and stocky, barely reaching Angbor's waist. Their skin was covered in a soft, velvety fur that ranged in color from deep brown to lighter, sandy hues. Their large, round eyes glowed faintly with an amber hue. They possessed strong, clawed hands and feet, while their noses seemed to be their most sensitive and vulnerable spots.
Many of them wore garments made from durable, earth-toned fabrics, adorned with intricate beadwork and embroidery featuring patterns of roots, small animals, and subterranean rivers. Some wore long tunics with wide belts into which they tucked tools and small devices. These belts were made of tough leather and were sometimes decorated with metal buckles and insignias. Others wore flowing dresses or skirts paired with blouses, also richly decorated with traditional motifs. A few layered these with shawls or wraps that could double as blankets or carrying slings. Wide-brimmed hats or leather caps with protective goggles were worn by all of them.
Built partially underground, their structures were supported by wooden beams and decorated with woven tapestries. Brass and iron machinery hummed softly, likely providing heat, light, and ventilation to the subterranean parts of their homes.
They arrived at the town center, where a larger building stood, likely the town hall. The team paused, waiting for Laura to make the initial contact.
Laura approached a local elder, her posture respectful. "Excuse me, we're looking for the leader of your city. Can you help us?"
The elder nodded, pointing towards the town hall. "The mayor is inside," he replied in the local tongue, now comprehensible to the team thanks to Laura and the AI translator.
Before they could reach the town hall, they were met by the mayor, a statesman, and several guards. The townsfolk gathered cautiously around the group, curiosity and hesitance evident in their statures.
Laura and Captain Jerkins stepped forward, initiating the conversation. "Greetings," Laura began, her voice calm and diplomatic. "We're visitors here and would like to speak with you about some important matters. We're particularly interested in any recent encounters with foreigners and any unusual religious activities."
The mayor's eyes narrowed as he noticed Angbor's imposing armored figure. "And what business does someone like him have here?" he snapped, his tone dripping with disdain. "This is a peaceful town. We don't need his kind."
Laura tried to defuse the tension. "We come in peace. We're simply here to gather information."
The mayor's rudeness escalated. "Information, huh? You bring a savage like him into my town and expect us to welcome you? You're no better than the troublemakers who come and demand tributes, let alone his kind!"
Angbor's patience wore thin. He stepped forward, his presence even more intimidating. "Watch your tongue," he growled calmly, his voice resonating with authority. "You forget your manners. Do not make me enlighten you of whom you're speaking to."
The situation quickly escalated. Angbor's hands clenched, and it was clear he was on the verge of taking physical action. The mayor stepped back, his face pale with fear, yet he continued with his rhetoric.
"Angbor, stand down!" Captain Jerkins commanded firmly, stepping between Angbor and the mayor. "That's an order. Harris, escort Angbor back to the Jumper."
Angbor's eyes burned with barely restrained anger, but he reluctantly stepped back. "As you wish, Captain," he said through gritted teeth.
Captain Jerkins turned to the mayor. "I apologize for the misunderstanding. Let's start anew. I have something that could bury a war axe."
The team was visibly confused by the encounter, surprised by the dark intensity Angbor had displayed. Laura exchanged worried glances with her teammates as they watched Angbor and Mike walk back towards the jumper.
Waiting at the jumper, Angbor's mind was a storm of thoughts. He knew he had to control his customs under Denebolian command, but the mayor's disrespect had pushed him. As he waited for the team to return, he calmed himself, focusing on the Yárcarniel to regain his composure, but in her service, he would have teached him a lesson.
Mike stod in front of a jumper watching the surroundings, giving Angbor space to think.
The team returned to the jumper where Angbor was waiting, his demeanor now calm but clearly introspective. Captain Jerkins approached him, her expression stern.
"Angbor," she began, her voice firm, "this is a Denebolian mission, not Arnorian. And even if it were, your actions are unnecessarily hostile. We can't afford to let personal feelings dictate our behavior."
Angbor nodded, his gaze steady. "My believes remain unchanged, but I understand, Captain. It won't happen again."
Captain Jerkins softened slightly and continued, "The mayor mentioned religious strangers from distant lands and told us approximate area. We need to investigate further."
They boarded the jumper and flew in instructed direction, where they found a towns similar but distinct from the one they had just left. As they flew on, Danny informed the team, "I'm picking up some energetic readings—Arnorian readings."
Upon landing, they were met by a group of armored Arnorians. Unlike Angbor's silver-grey colorscheme, these soldiers bore gold-grey armor. One of the figures stepped forward, his voice proud and defiant. "We are the exiled of Arnor, the Varangians and this place is under our protection."
Danny's eyes widened with anger and disdain. "Terrorists," he spat, "we should capture them immediately!"
Captain Jerkins raised a hand to halt him. "We can't take them on, Danny. Silver team isn't equipped for this and we cannot arrest them on foreign soil, we are not Guards. I'll report them to Colonel Halden."
The Varangians remained unyielding but eventually provided crucial information about a hidden Ingerdimnar base on a moon in a nearby solar system. However, tension simmered as the conversation dragged on. Danny, unable to restrain himself, let a derogatory comment slip. "You Varangians are nothing but cowards preying on the weak."
Colonel Jerkins shot Danny a sharp, disapproving look, silently warning him to stop.
One of the Varangians, his face darkening with rage, stepped forward. "Your earlier trespasses were ignored in the faith of good will, but this is too much! You insult our honor, and I will not let it stand."
Captain Jerkins quickly intervened, "We don't have time for this. We need to stay focused on the mission. Angbor, little help?"
Angbor held his ground but kept a wary eye on the Varangian. "This isn't the place for infighting," he said, his voice steady. "Danny, you have to apologize."
Danny stood his ground, defiant and unrepentant. "I'm not apologizing," he said, his tone firm. "What I said is a fact."
"Dammit, Danny, apologize! This is a serious matter to them. Shut it before you screw up the whole mission!" Laura snapped, concern clear in her voice.
But before Captain Jerkins could follow up on that, the Arnorian preceeded her.
"I will not let this insult pass." The Varangian glared at him, refusing to back down.
Captain Jerkins stepped forward, her voice firm. "An attack on Danny is an attack on our entire squad. Think carefully before you act. There is no need for violence here."
Seeing the escalating tension, Angbor stepped in. "There is Captain. I'll fight on Danny's behalf for the sake of others. An all-out fight would be a slaughter for Silver team."
Captain Jerkins tried once more to calm the situation. "The mission is in the interest of your goddess and we need to complete it."
But her words fell on deaf ears. The Varangian drew his bastard sword and arm shield. Angbor unsheathed his messer swords. Both combatants locked their close-combat visors and activated their blades, the hum of energy filling the air as the swords took on a blue tint. Runes on their armor glowed with power.
Laura moved closer to Captain Jerkins, "There's nothing you can say to make them stop, Captain. Angbor listened to you earlier only because of his duty."
Danny, however, saw no need for a savior champion. "I will fight my own battles," he declared, morphing his short roll of programmable matter into a long rod and assuming a fighting stance.
"Danny, you'll force us into a fight if you lose," warned Captain Jerkins, while Angbor moved expressionlessly aside. "You will lose, but not in shame."
Danny remained confident, having meticulously planned this fight. Unknown to the others, he activated his neural capacity amplifier for a short time, calculating all possibilities based on his experiences watching Angbor's swordfights on the ship.
The second Varangian moved forward. Danny activated his sensory receptor booster and went for a parry. Immediately, he noticed that the Varangian was substantially faster than Angbor during training. The impact of their weapons sent sparks flying, but something was wrong. The Varangian was not only faster but also stronger. Danny's planned parry turned against him, despite him being confident he would have the upper hand. It didn't make sense to him.
The Varangian advanced, forcing Danny to retreat. Each strike from the runic sword cut off, chipped, and scorched parts of Danny's rod. Desperately, Danny morphed his weapon into different forms—a spear, then a sword—but nothing worked. The Varangian's sword hit with searing intensity, miasma burning around its edges. Danny, forced to morph his weapon into a shield, tripped and fell. With two hits, the Varangian sent his shield flying to the side, prompting Silver Team to draw their weapons to engage.
But before the final blow could land on Danny, a runic messer sword blocked it. Angbor moved beside Danny. "This is enough."
"Not until he has a scar to remember," the Varangian growled.
Angbor sheathed his sword. "I ask you this in my name."
The Varangian sheathed his sword as well. "For a favor, then."
"For a favor," Angbor replied.
As the Varangians departed, Danny swatted away Angbor's offered hand and got up on his own. "What the hell was that?!" he shouted. "You said we should fight with what we have during the training, yet this was totally different."
Angbor straightened. "I had neither my armor nor did I use my powers."
"And somehow you forgot to tell us that, right?!" Danny continued to shout.
Angbor didn't back down. "I thought it was obvious. If I used my powers, we could have used sharp weapons as well, and that would violate your regulations."
"This is a lame excuse, you hypocrite!" Danny fumed.
Angbor understood Danny's complaints but pushed back. "Hypocrite? I am not the one who modifies his body while forbidding it to others."
Danny threw his hands in the air. "Cybernetics are not genetics."
Angbor didn't accept that. "You forbid us from continuing our improvements while you change your capabilities, your looks, even your height. Don't think we are blind. The majority of city youngsters have already grown to Arnorian heights, and yet you call us hypocrites."
Danny grabbed his head, completely raving. "Are you deaf?! It's not genetic, and it's forbidden by the accord your king signed willingly. Why, if you could continue to be free—oh, I know—because without our help, you'd be nothing! I sometimes cannot understand why our people tolerate creatures like you, just a bunch of violent, stupid muscl—"
Danny's sentence was cut short, not by force but by shock, as Angbor suddenly gripped his neck with full strength. The shield around Danny's neck flickered intensely, straining to hold against the iron grip.
Captain Jerkins moved her hand to her pistol. "Stand down, both of you, we don't have time for this!"
Danny battered against Angbor's hand before grabbing his own pistol and aiming it at Angbor's head. Before he could shoot, Angbor twisted Danny's hand just enough to break a few fingers, causing another shield flicker. Danny shrieked in pain as Captain Jerkins and the rest of Silver Team tried to talk some sense to Angbor and stop him before it is too late.
"That's enough!" Captain Jerkins practically screamed when reasoning failed. "I gave you a chance, but this is going into the report. Colonel Halden will deal with you."
She turned to leave, her voice firm. "Now, Angbor, release him. I won't say it again."
After a moment, Angbor released Danny from his grip. "Very well," he said, stepping back.
They boarded the Jumper in heavy silence, the atmosphere thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions. As they flew back to the ship, Laura and the rest of the team quietly reflected on Danny's impulsiveness, frustrated at how he had escalated the situation by not knowing when to keep his mouth shut. But equally unsettling was the glimpse they had seen of the darker side of the Arnorians. Until now, their experience with Angbor had been largely positive, and they had dismissed the grim reputation and rumors surrounding Arnorians as exaggerations. Now, they were beginning to understand the complexities and the underlying truths behind those stories.
Once they landed on the ship, Angbor, Danny, and Captain Jerkins made their way to the briefing room to report to Colonel Halden. Harken was already there, waiting for their arrival. Throughout the entire report, Colonel Halden's presence radiated authority and calm, maintaining control of the situation.
At the end, she shifted her focus to Angbor and Danny. "Corporal Reeds, you will face consequences for disobeying a direct order, escalating a dangerous situation, and endangering your teammates. Report to the infirmary to get your injuries checked, and be prepared to receive your punishment once we return to Panthal. Now dismissed," she ordered with cold authority, turning her back as Danny left.
Once he was gone, Colonel Halden turned her attention fully to Angbor. "I know Corporal Reeds can be stubborn and arrogant, and I'll have to punish him for that. But now the question is, what do we do with you?" Her gaze sharpened. "Do you realize that attacking one of my officers could be considered a crime against the Accord?" she asked calmly, yet her words carried weight.
"Indeed, I do," Angbor replied, a flicker of disappointment in his voice. "I was reckless, and I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions."
Colonel Halden's expression remained firm. "I won't arrest you or drag you back to Panthal; we are too deep into a mission of high importance, according to your priesthood. It seems neither you nor Corporal Reeds fully grasp that." She paused, eyes narrowing. "I have no jurisdiction to formally punish you, and I won't throw you in a cell. But I believe gaining back the trust of your teammates will be punishment enough." She stood in front of Angbor, her gaze locking onto his with mild anger.
Angbor held her stare with resolute calm. "You have my thanks, Colonel. I will do my best to make amends."
Colonel Halden stepped closer, her voice dropping to a threatening whisper. "However, if you ever threaten one of my officers again, I will put you in the brig without hesitation. And if you ever harm any of them, I will personally jettison you out of the airlock. Is that clear?"
"It is, Colonel," Angbor responded respectfully, still meeting her gaze, though her tone sparked a flash of his earlier anger.
Colonel Halden took a step back, her commanding presence still looming. "You will continue to serve with Silver Team for now—if they accept you."
She turned to Captain Jerkins, who shifted slightly before speaking. "I can't speak for the rest of the team, but I'll take you back if you give me your word never to act without my approval again. This is your last chance."
Angbor straightened up, pounding his fist against the center of his chest. The deep clank of metal resonated with the force of the impact. "You have my word. I vow not to fail you or your principles. If ever your order conflicts with my goddess or my realm, I will surrender immediately, without causing any harm."
Captain Jerkins raised both eyebrows, clearly not pleased with his exact wording, but she waved her hand toward the door. "You can go to the team. If even one of them doesn't want you back, you won't rejoin."
"And Angbor," Colonel Halden added, her tone cold but measured, "make no mistake, I will ensure both of our superiors hear about this." Her words carried the weight of finality.
With that, Angbor bowed his head slightly and left. He managed to hear some of the conversation that started as he walked away.
Colonel Halden began, "We will proceed to the coordinates you provided. It's crucial that we approach this mission with caution and stealth. We were too bold last time."
Harken stepped forward, his demeanor thoughtful. "I recommend we exit hyperspace further away from the moon to avoid detection by their sensors. Perhaps there's an asteroid belt we can use for cover."
Colonel Halden considered this for a moment before nodding. "Good advice, Harken. We'll do just that. We don't have much detail on Ingerdimnär space, though, and it..."
Angbor met with the whole team in their quarters once he got out of his armour. He started with Laura, who seemed the most understanding and accepted him almost immediately. One by one, the others followed suit, though with more hesitation. All except Danny. Angbor saved him for last.
Angbor approached Danny, who had been ignoring him so far, using his telepathy to play with his ball. "How's the hand?" Angbor began.
Danny simply showed him his fixed fingers, now encased in an elegant contraption. "How long until they're healed?" Angbor continued.
Danny rolled his eyes, stopping his telepathy and turning to Angbor. "With the care I get? A couple of days at most. You want back on the team; I'm not surprised the Colonel let you go."
Angbor adjusted his swords and sat down next to Danny. "I'll face court when we return, but I want to continue the mission. To do that, I need your approval to rejoin the team."
Danny chuckled sarcastically before Angbor continued. "I'll start with an apology, not just an official one, but a true apology. I failed, and now I ask for your forgiveness."
Danny's gaze softened slightly, though he remained resolute in his anger. "You know what annoys me the most? The training and the fight. You purposely held back, and because of that, I chose the wrong strategy against that so-called Varangian. I was supposed to defeat him."
Angbor sighed. "I accept my failure in that too and apologize. But in a real duel, there's little chance for most, perhaps even all Denebolians, to defeat an Arnorian."
"What?" Danny practically shouted, but Angbor continued.
"I know it's hard to hear, and believe me, anyone from the Guard would put an average Arnorian in their place in no time. But an Arnorian is a warrior first and foremost, even when we are smithing, rune-carving, gathering fruit, hunting, or enchanting. All that is secondary. You fought well, and losing to one bears no shame. We've pursued prowess in arms, while you've pursued peace and progress. It's not surprising that we excel in what we've chosen."
Danny contemplated Angbor's words, measuring the sincerity in his tone. After a moment, he finally spoke, "I can't believe this, but you sound right... and I'll forgive you, just don't break any more of my fingers," he added with a light smile.
Angbor stood up, seeming almost relieved. "You have my most sincere gratitude."
As soon as he left the room, Laura slipped in to take his place. "So, did you forgive him?" she asked, crossing her arms and looking at Danny.
Danny let out a resigned sigh. "I guess so. He was genuine and heartfelt. It was hard to stay angry."
Laura raised an eyebrow. "And did you apologize to him?"
Danny blinked, confused, clearly indicating he hadn't. "C'mon, are you kidding me?" Laura asked incredulously. "He apologized to you. Now it's your turn."
Without hesitation, Laura shouted into the hallway, "Angbor, come back!"
Angbor returned, not sure what was happening. "Danny here has one last thing to say to you," Laura said, her tone passive-aggressive as she practically forced the apology out of him.
Danny shifted uncomfortably but finally spoke. "Angbor, I think I owe you an apology too. I should've been more respectful and understanding toward you. And I'm sorry for the way I acted—it escalated everything back there."
Angbor accepted Danny's apology with a respectful nod. "Bad blood settled," he said, turning to leave again. "See you later, then."
Laura grinned, watching him walk away. "So," she said, turning back to Danny, "you finally get it now?"
Danny gave her a puzzled look, prompting her to continue.
"That they're not just brutes. That's why our nation never gave up on them. They're tough to deal with, but once you understand how to handle them, they're surprisingly easy."
Danny raised his hands, cutting Laura off. "Hold on now. Just because he has a strange code of honor doesn't mean he's not a brute. But I'll give you this—he's not an animal, so let's call him a good, sophisticated brute."
Danny grinned, and Laura playfully pushed him, laughing. "You're terrible."
After a day of hyperspace travel, the ship exited behind a gas giant, its massive form dominating the view from the hangar. Angbor stood with the Silver team in the relatively small hangar, which housed only six jumpers. The energetic field at the hangar door held the atmosphere in, offering a breathtaking view of the swirling gas giant.
As they boarded their jumper, the bridge granted them clearance. Danny took the lead, informing the team, "I've got the coordinates. We're set." With that, the jumper turned invisible and silently left the hangar.
Captain Jerkins initiated the briefing, her tone calm but focused. "Xenon will give us a twelve hours and then move cloaked into orbit. We need to minimize the chances of detection. Our information is limited, based mostly on long-range scans. There's unknown interference messing with the ship's detection systems around the moon's area. We'll know more once we land. Remember, stealth is our primary objective."
She turned to Angbor. "Angbor, given your armor's energy readings, you'll have to stay in the jumper. We can't risk detection. Don't leave the jumper until I tell you to. Your armor will reveal its location as well."
Angbor frowned but nodded. "Normally, I'd storm the base head-on, but if you want stealth, I'll stay as backup."
To keep Angbor involved, Danny affixed a small camera to Emily's shoulder. Her white sleeves were now covered in straps with pockets, while the dark chest part of her jacket was concealed under a practical black vest, laden with medical bags. A green crystal, embedded in the center of her chest piece, remained unlit, signaling her shield was currently turned off. Most of her hair was tucked neatly beneath a cap that matched the color of her uniform. "This way, you can monitor our progress from the jumper," Danny said.
The flight was tense and quiet. After a few hours, they approached the moon and landed a few kilometers away from the base. The jumper remained cloaked as the team began analyzing the scans.
Captain Jerkins spread out the data on a holographic display, the flickering images distorted by the unknown interference plaguing their scans. Even with the AI's assistance, the information remained unreliable, patches of static obscuring key details.
"We need to approach from the north," she said, her tone focused as she pointed to a section of the base perimeter that appeared less guarded. The AI highlighted the area on the map, the outlines faint but discernible. "There seems to be a gap in their defenses here. It's not much, but it's our best chance."
Silver team moved silently through the dense forest. The ground was rocky and covered with a layer of sand, making their steps careful and measured. The towering conifer trees with many sharp shrubs and bushes provided ample cover as they approached the Ingerdimnar base.
Angbor, watching from the jumper, soon lost visual contact with the team. Not long after, all communication with the rest of the team went dead. The signal had been gradually deteriorating, so neither Angbor nor Captain Jerkins considered altering the plan. They assumed it was merely interference from the unknown source surrounding the moon's area, and the mission continued as intended.
As the Denebolian team arrived at the base, they moved in with practiced precision. Each member slipped from corner to corner with fluidity, effortlessly hacking doors and disabling sensors. Their ability to expertly hide from guards was a testament to their rigorous training. However, compared to the elite Shield operatives or, even more so, the legendary Guard, the Denebolians' movements seemed almost sluggish. They wasted precious seconds waiting for the perfect moments, a luxury neither the Shield nor the Guard would afford in a high-stakes mission.
Nevertheless, the Denebolian team was highly skilled in their own right. They reached the base's command center with minimal difficulty, where they encountered several Ingerdimnär troops and officers. A swift, silent skirmish ensued, the Denebolians striking from the shadows. Their adversaries were neutralized with brutal efficiency, unable to raise an alarm.
Danny, the tech specialist, immediately moved to the command terminal, his fingers flying over the controls as he began downloading critical data. The dim light of the command center flickered ominously as the download bar slowly filled. Just as the data transfer was nearing completion, alarms blared throughout the base.
Danny remained unfazed, his focus unbroken despite the sudden chaos. "Almost there," he muttered under his breath, furiously tapping keys. The alarms grew louder, red lights flashing in every corridor, but he managed to disable the base's defenses, securing as much information as possible.
Finally, the data was transferred. "Got it!" Danny shouted, his voice cutting through the blaring alarms. "Let's move!" commanded Captain Jerkins.
The team regrouped quickly, navigating the base's corridors with orchestrated precision. The once silent operation turned into a symphony of tactical movement and gunfire as they took down guards who rushed to intercept them. Each movement was calculated; every shot hit its mark. It was an intense dance of combat prowess, the Denebolians demonstrating their training in every encounter.
Despite their skill, the pressure was mounting. The alarm had compromised their stealth advantage, and the base was now on full alert.
The early detection had given the Ingerdimnär ample time to mobilize their forces, though their deadliest assets were still imobile from Danny's work in command center. As the Denebolian team emerged from the base, they found themselves already flanked by the defenders. "Move, move, move!" Captain Jerkins shouted, urging the team to advance in an orderly manner. They sprinted across the overgrown terrain, taking cover where they could and firing back in retaliation. Plasma shots and particle bolts lit up the night as the team pushed forward.
They were halfway to the jumper when a cry of pain broke through the chaos. "Status?!" Captain Jerkins called out as she continued firing.
"I'm hit! I can't walk!" Mike's voice was strained with pain. His shield had taken multiple hits and was now completely depleted. He was crouched behind a boulder, clutching his leg, where a deep burn sizzled through his tactical pants.
Emily, the team's medic, sprinted over to Mike, dodging enemy fire. She reached him and quickly dragged him further into cover behind a cluster of large rocks. "Come on, Mike, get yourself together," Emily urged, her voice calm and steady despite the situation. "Just like we trained—suppress the pain and let me get you up."
Mike gritted his teeth, focusing hard on controlling the pain, much like Danny controlled his telekinesis. "Yeah, yeah," he managed to joke through the pain, "You're just too lazy to carry me, right?"
Emily couldn't help but crack a smile despite the tension. "And what if I am?" she shot back as she wrapped his wound with a quick bandage. "You're too heavy anyway. Maybe avoid dessert next time."
Mike chuckled, the pain subsiding just enough to stand. With Emily's help, he got to his feet, though his steps were still unsteady. "Alright, Captain," Emily called out, "He's up, but we're moving slower."
Captain Jerkins nodded, quickly assessing the worsening situation. The enemies were closing in, their numbers growing as more Ingerdimnär soldiers joined the fray. The team's progress was grinding to a halt under the sheer volume of incoming fire. She made a quick decision. "Danny, try to break through the interference and get us on the Xenon!" she ordered.
Danny ducked behind a tall pine tree, his fingers working furiously on his handheld device. "This interference is too strong," he muttered, frustration evident in his voice. "I need a stronger transmitter—something like what we have in the jumper."
Captain Jerkins' face hardened with resolve. "Then try to call Angbor," she commanded.
Danny hesitated for a moment, then quickly switched frequencies and focused on his task. The team was running out of time, and the walls of gunfire were closing in on them.
Angbor paced inside the jumper like a caged lion, every fiber of his being urging him to act as he listened to the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions echoing from the battlefield. The confined space of the jumper felt suffocating, the urge to leap into action nearly overwhelming. Suddenly, the jumper's communicator crackled to life, though the message was barely decipherable through the static.
"We... call Xen... ... extraction... ... interference..." Danny's voice was distorted, barely audible, the desperation in it unmistakable.
Angbor rushed to the console, his large armoured hands fumbling with the controls as he tried to respond, but the interference was too strong. He tried again, switching channels, attempting to reach the Xenon, but each effort ended in failure. The static was relentless, blocking any communication. His frustration mounted with every unsuccessful attempt, until finally, in a surge of anger and helplessness, he slammed his fist into the console. "By the blood!" he cursed, his voice a low growl of frustration.
In that moment, Angbor faced a dire choice. He had given his word to Captain Jerkins that he would stay back, that he wouldn't act without her approval. His honor and duty were intertwined with that promise. But he could hear the distant battle, the sounds of the Silver team struggling against overwhelming odds. The weight of his oath felt like a chain around his neck, pulling him in two directions.
He stared out at the distant flashes of gunfire, his fists clenching and unclenching as he fought with his inner turmoil. Would he break his word by going to help them? And if he didn't go, would they make it back? Afterall, he gave them his word that they will return home. The questions tore at him, each one weighing on his soul.
Angbor released a breath, a deep, almost growling exhale, his body trembling with the effort to contain his instincts. He had always been a warrior, trained for combat, to protect those he cared for. The conflict within him raged—duty and honor on one side, loyalty and comradeship on the other.
Finally, Angbor made a decision. His resolve hardened, his eyes narrowed with determination and his visor closed shut. He had to act, even if it meant facing the consequences later.
He bolted from the jumper, nearly breaking the ramp as he sprinted towards his comrades. His armoured form tore through the forest, the ground trembling under his powerful strides.
As he closed the distance, he saw the Ingerdimnar forces tightening their encirclement. Drawing his messer swords, Angbor threw himself into the fray with a fearsome roar. His armor gleamed in the dim light, runes glowing as he unleashed his fury on the enemy's left flank.
Angbor tore through the Ingerdimnar light infantry like a force of nature, a whirlwind of death that left destruction in his wake. The soldiers, unprepared for the sheer ferocity of his assault, faltered and broke, their morale shattered by the sight of this armored giant cleaving through their ranks with terrifying efficiency. Angbor's presence on the battlefield was like a thunderstorm rolling over a defenseless plain—devastating, unstoppable, and utterly terrifying.
"Move! Now!" Angbor commanded, his voice booming over the chaos of the battlefield as he cut his way into the center of the Ingerdimnar forces, pushing them back with brutal efficiency.
Captain Jerkins, eyes wide with shock and disbelief, turned her gaze to where Angbor was laying waste to the enemy. Anger flared in her chest as she realized what was happening. "What are you doing here?! You should have called Xenon!" she shouted, but Angbor was too far ahead, too deeply engaged in the battle to respond.
With Angbor cutting a path through the enemy, the rest of the team rallied, shaking off their fatigue and injuries to follow in his wake. They pushed back the flanking forces with renewed determination, but the fight was far from over. As they advanced, a plasma bolt shot out from the enemy's ranks, striking Laura's hand. She cried out in pain as her fingers sizzled away, but, like Mike before her, she suppressed the pain and kept moving, refusing to slow the team down.
They moved as one, a tightly-knit unit, advancing through the firefight until they finally reached the point where the jumper was in sight. But as they approached, the situation grew even more dire. The Ingerdimnar forces had mobilized their heavier troops, and the tide of battle began to turn against them. Angbor, despite his best efforts, was forced to fall back toward the team. He had sheathed his swords and now wielded his bolter pistols, each shot tearing through enemy limbs or blowing torsos apart with devastating precision.
"Can't hold them any longer," Angbor shouted over the noise of battle, "They've brought heavier equipment, and it's only a matter of time before they start piercing my armor."
Captain Jerkins moved closer to him, a mix of fury and concern on her face as she returned fire on the advancing enemy troops. "They know the location of the jumper, and they're not closing in. Something must be wrong—why didn't you call for help?" she demanded, her tone turned sharp despite the chaos around them.
Angbor took a few more shots, covering the team's flanks before he responded, "Because it's not within my ability to do so!" His voice was raw with frustration. "I won't stand by while you might die!"
Captain Jerkins's anger softened, replaced by a grim understanding. She nodded, accepting his reasoning even if she didn't fully agree with it. As they fired back at the encroaching enemies, she couldn't help but notice the effectiveness of Angbor's bolters. "Those bolters of yours look useful," she commented, trying to focus on the task at hand.
"They are," Angbor replied as he took down another few enemies, but then he paused, a note of finality in his voice. "But I'm out of ammunition."
Captain Jerkins barely had time to process the situation. She had been about to question Angbor about his lack of ammunition and state of Arnorian firearms. Denebolian weapons were renowned for their efficiency, holding hundreds of shots before requiring a reload. It gnawed at her as she noticed the empty spare magazines on either side of Angbor's back. But before she could voice her concerns, she also saw something else that troubled her—several Ingerdimnar soldiers she had shot down earlier were slowly getting back up. Their protective attire was far more advanced than she had initially assessed, clearly absorbing or deflecting a significant portion of her shots aimed at center of their chest pieces.
But all these observations were rendered moot by the sudden, terrifying whistle that cut through the air like a knife.
"Incoming!" someone yelled, but the warning came too late.
The next moment, a deafening explosion rocked the area. The place where the jumper had been cloaked moments before was obliterated by a massive plasma shot, likely from a heavy artillery cannon. The blast tore through the forest, sending shockwaves that flattened trees and scattered debris like deadly shrapnel. The ground trembled under their feet as the team was thrown to the ground by the force of the explosion. When Captain Jerkins looked up, the jumper was gone, reduced to nothing but smoldering wreckage.
The realization hit her like a cold wave: there was no escape now. Their one chance of getting off this forsaken moon had just been annihilated.
Quickly, the team scrambled back to their feet, instincts and training kicking in. They assumed defensive positions, forming a tight circle with their backs to each other as the Ingerdimnar forces began to close in again, their confidence renewed by the destruction of the jumper. The air was thick with tension, the smell of scorched earth, and the distant but growing sound of marching troops.
Captain Jerkins's mind raced. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and surrounded with no apparent escape route. That is when she potted the damaged panel amid the wreckage, realizing it might be their last hope. The jumper's shields must have absorbed a significant portion of the plasma shot, preventing it from being completely vaporized. This realization sparked a desperate plan.
"Danny, see if you can get us a connection to the ship using that panel!" she shouted, pointing at the twisted but intact piece of machinery.
Danny nodded, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He sprinted towards the panel, diving into cover with it, shielding himself from the incoming fire. The rest of the team instinctively tightened their formation, creating a defensive circle around him. They took cover behind the largest rocks and boulders available, though the plasma fire was relentless, with each shot chipping away at their makeshift barricades.
As the firefight intensified, the Ingerdimnar forces were bringing in even more heavy weaponry. The heavier troops Angbor had mentioned earlier appeared, armed with heavy plasma rifles, plasma machine guns, and hand cannons that obliterated sections of the rocky cover with each burst. The situation was deteriorating rapidly.
But Danny was oblivious to the chaos around him. He had activated his neurotic amplifier, a piece of Denebolian technology that allowed him to interface directly with the damaged control panel, enhancing his cognitive abilities to process information and problem-solve at an accelerated rate. In this state, Danny's perception of the real world faded, his mind fully immersed in the digital landscape of the panel's systems.
Inside his mind, Danny faced a labyrinth of corrupted code and broken connections. The damage to the panel had caused severe errors and missing data, turning the task into a near-impossible challenge. But Danny was undeterred. He visualized the data streams as a network of tangled wires and shattered circuits, working with intense focus to reroute signals, bypass broken pathways, and reconstruct the necessary functions to send a transmission.
Outside, the situation grew more desperate by the second. The Ingerdimnar soldiers were closing in, their plasma fire shredding the team's cover. Angbor, now armed with Captain Jerkins pistol, continued to fire back, his particle shots were spread and inefficient as he was used to limited, but powerful ammunition. He knew it was only a matter of time before they were overrun.
The battle had reached a fever pitch, and the air was thick with the smell of scorched earth and the high-pitched whine of energy weapons. Captain Jerkins, her eyes scanning the battlefield, fired relentlessly, her jaw clenched in determination as she barked orders to her team. Every second counted, and she knew that if they faltered for even a moment, it could spell the end for all of them.
"Hold the line!" she shouted, her voice rising above the cacophony of plasma fire and the shouts of her comrades. The Ingerdimnar forces were relentless, but so were they. Danny was still working on securing the transmission, and they needed to buy him more time. But as she turned to fire another shot, something in the corner of her eye caught her attention—movement, too fast, too fluid.
Before she could react, her particle rifle was wrenched out of her grip with brutal force. Her body twisted, and she found herself facing a massive figure—a hulking, fully armored Ingerdimnar soldier. The creature's armor was a grotesque mockery of the standard Ingerdimnar uniform, bulkier, more menacing, with a hunched back that made him look almost animalistic. This was no ordinary soldier; this was an Ingerdimnar Reaper, a supersoldier feared by even the most elite Denebolian operatives.
The Reaper's twin talon blades, mounted on his wrists, hummed with a deadly, sizzling plasma coating. The air around them shimmered with heat, the plasma crackling ominously as the Reaper advanced on her with terrifying speed. Captain Jerkins had heard of these monsters—warriors enhanced with combat drugs, turning them into near-unstoppable killing machines. They were the bane of any Denebolian unit unlucky enough to face them.
In a desperate move, she gripped her programmable matter rod, but the Reaper was faster. With a brutal swipe, he knocked her back against a jagged rock formation, her shield flickering and dying as it absorbed the impact. The force of the blow left her dazed, her body screaming in pain. Her mind raced—she knew she was no match for this creature alone.
But she wasn't alone. Angbor was there in a flash, his messer swords a blur as he engaged the Reaper. Jim wasn't far behind, his programmable matter short sword ready. They moved in unison, a well-practiced dance of steel and fury, but the Reaper was too fast, too powerful. It was like trying to fight a storm.
The Reaper's talon blades struck out with terrifying precision, and only Angbor's preternatural reflexes saved him from losing an eye as the twin plasma-coated blades slashed through his outer and inner visor. Sparks flew, and Angbor reeled back, momentarily blinded but far from defeated. Captain Jerkins, struggling to stay conscious, saw her moment.
With a surge of adrenaline, she forced herself to her feet, transforming her rod into staff, she griped it tightly. Summoning every ounce of strength, she swung the staff low, striking the Reaper hard in the knee. The impact was enough to stagger the beast, just for a moment, but it was all the opening Angbor needed.
With a roar, Angbor brought his messer sword down in a powerful, decisive arc. The blade, glowing with a miasma of heat and arcane energy, sliced through the Reaper's armor and buried deep into his shoulder. The blade's enchantments erupted, spewing flame and dark energy that began to consume the Reaper from the inside.
But the Reaper wasn't finished yet. The creature's energy readings spiked dangerously as its combat drugs and failing systems pushed it into overdrive. Angbor saw the signs immediately—the Reaper was going to explode.
"Get back!" Angbor bellowed, and with a final, desperate burst of strength, he grabbed the Reaper's twitching body and hurled it away. The Reaper's body flew through the air, crashing into a rocky formation.
For a brief, agonizing moment, there was silence.
Then the Reaper detonated, the explosion obliterating the rock formation in a massive fireball. The shockwave rippled through the area, sending debris flying and causing the ground to tremble beneath their feet. Angbor staggered back, shielding his face from the heat and debris, his armor barely holding against the force of the blast.
Captain Jerkins, breathing heavily, steadied herself against a boulder. Her ears were ringing, and every muscle in her body ached, but they were still alive. She looked at Angbor, who was already scanning the battlefield, his expression grim.
As Angbor scanned the battlefield, he spotted a walker tank taking aim at Danny through a blown opening where a rock had been. Without hesitation, he rammed his shoulder into Danny, knocking him to the ground just as the tank's shot hit the spot where Danny had been. Now, it was Angbor's shoulder in that place.
Angbor managed to sign an arcane shield, but it was no use. The impact sent Angbor flying through the air, crashing through several trees before he landed, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.
Angbor's vision swam as he lay on the ground, his body a twisted wreck of pain and malfunctioning armor. The walker tank's shot had obliterated his arcane shield, and the impact had left him barely hanging on, alarms blaring in his helmet like a chorus of doom. He could barely hear Captain Jerkins' desperate shout over the ringing in his ears, but he knew he had to move, had to act before it was too late.
As Emily and Jim reached him, Angbor's mind raced through the haze of pain. He felt Emily's hands on him, trying to assess his injuries, but he didn't have time for that. With a surge of willpower, he grabbed her wrist, his mangled fingers trembling as he forced the words out.
"Is... Is he... done? The call...?" Angbor's voice was a rasp, each word a battle against the agony wracking his body.
Emily, her voice steady despite the chaos around them, tried to calm him. "He's working on it. Don't worry, just let me do my job."
But Angbor couldn't afford to let her. The battle was turning against them, and he knew what needed to be done. "Last stand... I have to do it... Too many of them." He reached into a hidden pocket in his battered armor, pulling out a small vial filled with a shimmering, viscous liquid. "Inject me... this."
Emily hesitated, her eyes searching his, trying to understand. "What is this?" she asked, her voice tinged with skepticism.
Angbor's grip tightened on her hand, his eyes burning with a fierce determination despite his broken body. "Listen to me... Do it, and then run... Do not cross my path... It will get me to my feet... Once they get us to the ship, you have to leave me in the cell. I might... hurt you. Wait until it wears off... Now do it!"
The urgency in his voice left no room for argument. Emily's face hardened with resolve as she grabbed the vial from his hand. There was no time for second-guessing. She uncapped the vial and injected its contents into Angbor's neck, watching as the liquid disappeared into his bloodstream.
As soon as the vial was emptied, Angbor's body convulsed, his back arching off the ground as the substance took hold. His breathing grew ragged, his eyes dilating as the drug coursed through his veins. Emily could only watch for a moment, fear and uncertainty gnawing at her, before she forced herself to turn away. She had to trust him.
"Jim, let's go!" she called, her voice tight with urgency. Jim, still covering them, nodded and helped her retreat back to the others, leaving Angbor behind as ordered.
Back at the makeshift defense line, Captain Jerkins, Laura, Mike and Danny were holding on by a thread. Plasma fire streaked through the air, the ground around them shaking from the relentless bombardment. Danny was deep in his neuro-amplifier, oblivious to the battle raging around him, his mind focused on breaking through the interference to get their distress call out to the Xenon. Captain Jerkins was doing her best to keep the Ingerdimnar forces at bay, but they were closing in fast, the walker tank leading the charge in steady phase.
Just as Emily and Jim made it back to the others, a low, guttural growl echoed across the battlefield. Angbor, now on his feet, was a terrible sight to behold. The drug had done its work, filling him with an unnatural strength and vitality. His wounds still bled, his armor still cracked and broken, but he stood tall, his eyes glowing with hunger and menace. The pain was still there, lurking beneath the surface, but it was dulled, buried under the surge of raw power that now fueled him.
Meanwhile, Danny's fingers twitched as he worked feverishly, his mind racing against the clock. He could feel the pressure of the team relying on him, the weight of their lives on his shoulders. Just as a sense of hopelessness began to creep in, he found a breakthrough—a way to patch the transmission signal through the panel's remaining functional circuits.
His consciousness locked onto the solution, and he sent the signal.
"Come on, Xenon, pick it up..." Danny muttered to himself, praying that the makeshift signal would be strong enough to break through the interference.
Back in the real world, Captain Jerkins continued to fire at the approaching enemy. "Danny, status?" she shouted, not taking her eyes off the encroaching forces.
Danny's voice broke through, strained but hopeful. "I think I've got it! The signal's weak, but it's transmitting!"
Angbor did not registered Danny's victorious shout and became a force of raw, terrifying power as he tore through the Ingerdimnar soldiers with a savagery that defied comprehension. The ground trembled beneath his feet as he became a whirlwind of destruction, each movement fueled by the berserker rage that had consumed him. His once sophisticated combat technique had given way to pure, primal brutality.
One soldier, foolish enough to stand in his way, was grabbed by the throat and slammed into a tree with such force that his armor shattered, and his body was left a mangled ruin. Another attempted to strike him with a plasma mace, the weapon's energy crackling violently as it connected with Angbor's forearm. The plasma seared through his armor, burning deep into his flesh, but Angbor barely flinched. With a guttural roar, he struck the soldier down, the enemy's body crumpling under the sheer power of his blow.
His eyes, now glowing with an unnatural light, locked onto the walker tank that had been suppressing his team with relentless firepower. In his berserk state, there was no room for strategy, no thought of self-preservation—only the overwhelming need to destroy. He charged at the tank with an inhuman speed, slamming into one of its massive legs with enough force to topple the mechanical behemoth. The tank crashed to the ground, its crew disoriented and vulnerable.
Angbor leaped onto the fallen tank, his hand crackling with volatile arcane energy. With savage determination, he began to pound his fist into the tank's visor, each strike sending bolts of lightning arcing wildly in all directions. The force of his blows was immense, and though the arcane energy was tearing through his own flesh, ripping silver wounds into his arm, he didn't stop. He didn't care. He only wanted to destroy.
The tank's armor buckled and shattered under his relentless assault, and with one final, devastating strike, the energy within the tank reached a critical point. The tank erupted in a colossal explosion, the shockwave tearing through the forest, obliterating everything in its path. The explosion sent Angbor flying through the air once again, his body limp as he crashed into the ground with a bone-shattering impact.
But even this wasn't enough to keep him down. Despite the unbearable pain, despite the blood pouring from his numerous wounds, Angbor rose again. He was a grotesque sight—a living corpse, held together by nothing more than sheer willpower, drugs, and the remnants of arcane power still flickering within him. His breath was ragged, his movements slower, but the fury in his eyes burned as hot as ever.
Ingerdimnar soldiers, witnessing the destruction he had wrought, converged on him, their fear overridden by their orders. Plasma maces rained down on him, and bolts of plasma tore into his already battered armor. They struck his knee, and he fell to the ground, but even then, he continued to fight. His hands, twisted and broken, still grabbed at the soldiers, crushing bones and ripping limbs with a strength that should not have been possible.
The Ingerdimnar forces were overpowering him, swarming him like vultures on a carcass. Angbor was nearly buried under their assault, his strength finally beginning to wane. But just as the darkness was about to close in, as the final blow seemed inevitable, a brilliant light engulfed the battlefield.
Danny, against all odds, had truly broken through the interference. The signal had reached Xenon and Xenon arived.
In an instant, the battlefield was empty. The Ingerdimnar soldiers were left standing in stunned silence as their prey vanished before their eyes, transported to the safety of the Xenon. The only remnants of the Silver Team's presence were the charred, smoking remains of the battlefield and the ruined walker tank that lay in pieces where Angbor had destroyed it.
Onboard the Xenon, the Silver Team materialized in the medbay, battered, bruised, but alive. Angbor collapsed as soon as they arrived, but his body was not giving out. Emily and the medics rushed to his side, avoiding his dangerous grip. They injected him with sedatives and roughly stopped the bleeding through the cracks in his armor, but they knew the real work was just beginning.
Captain Jerkins, still catching her breath, looked down at Angbor with a mix of gratitude and sorrow. He had saved them, but at what cost? She could only imagine what the berserker drug did to a person, how it ate away at their mind and body, leaving them a shell of who they once were.
As the medics worked to save Angbor, Captain Jerkins turned to Danny, who was still slumped against the wall, exhausted but relieved. "You did it, Danny," she said, her voice filled with both pride and weariness. "You got us out."
Danny nodded, too drained to speak. He looked at the unconscious Angbor, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what he had sacrificed to ensure their survival.
"We're not done yet," Captain Jerkins said, her voice hardening as she looked at the rest of her team. "But for now... we rest. We survived, and we owe that to each other."
Captain Jerkins clutched the side of the medbay as the Xenon shook violently out of nowhere, the ship's metal walls bending unnaturally, only to snap back into place with alarming force. Her senses were overwhelmed—her trained mind and body, honed through countless battles, were no match for the unnatural forces assaulting the ship. Gravitational pulls yanked her in multiple directions at once, causing her to stumble as nausea churned in her stomach. The motion was unlike anything she had ever experienced, disorienting and sickening.
Suddenly, Colonel Halden's voice blared through the intercom, her tone urgent and laced with tension, "Brace yourselves!"
The warning did little to prepare them for what followed. The shaking intensified, sending unsecured equipment and personnel crashing into walls. Sparks erupted from several consoles as the ship groaned under the strain, the lights flickering ominously. Those who could, pressed themselves against walls or grabbed onto anything bolted down, struggling to stay upright in the chaos.
Then it hit them—a wave of something far more insidious than the physical turmoil. A terror so primal, so utterly consuming, washed over everyone on board. Captain Jerkins felt it flood her mind like an unstoppable tide, drowning out all rational thought. She had faced death before, stared it in the eyes without flinching, but this fear was different. It was as though every horror she had ever known had come to life, multiplied tenfold, and was now bearing down on her with an intensity that left her paralyzed.
The room was filled with cries of panic and terror. Some of the crew screamed, others ran without direction, desperate to escape the overwhelming dread. A few, like Jerkins, remained rooted in place, their minds trapped in a nightmarish loop. The fear was so absolute that she could no longer remember who she was, what her mission had been—there was only the fear, and the certainty that it would consume her entirely.
And then, just as suddenly, the fear mutated into something else: joy. But it was not the relief of escaping danger, nor the warm glow of happiness—it was a manic, uncontrollable euphoria. Captain Jerkins found herself laughing hysterically, the sound alien to her ears, as though it were coming from someone else entirely. The laughter bubbled up from deep within her, so intense that she could hardly breathe. Tears streamed down her face as she convulsed with laughter, her body shaking uncontrollably.
The shift was abrupt and cruel. The joy vanished, replaced by searing, indescribable pain. It was as if every nerve in her body had been set ablaze. Captain Jerkins collapsed to the floor, her body writhing in agony. She could feel every muscle spasm, every joint ache, every bone scream as if it were being crushed. The pain was all-encompassing, an assault on her very existence. She was dimly aware of others around her—some crying out in their own agony, others already unconscious, their bodies unable to endure the torment.
As the pain peaked, it became too much to bear. Captain Jerkins felt her consciousness slip away, the darkness offering a merciful escape from the torment. Her last thought before everything went black was that this was something beyond the natural, something that should not exist in any universe she knew.
The medbay fell silent as the crew members, one by one, succumbed to the overwhelming sensations. The ship was now a place of madness, the walls still groaning as whatever had assaulted them continued to exert its influence.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the ship stilled. The unnatural forces vanished, leaving the Xenon floating in the void of storm, eerily quiet. The crew lay scattered across the ship, unconscious or barely clinging to the edges of sanity, the ship's systems flickering weakly as they struggled to stabilize. But for now, there was only silence, and the unknown terror that had passed through them, leaving behind nothing but broken bodies and minds.
Several days had passed since the horrifying events on the Xenon, and the mood on the ship was somber. Captain Jerkins found herself seated in a meeting room with Colonel Halden, Agent Harken, Lieutenant Marsden, and Dr. Amira Saeed. She felt a deep, lingering dread whenever she remembered the ship's encounter with that nightmarish force. Her body had experienced the horrors of that moment, but the true scars were etched in her mind. Even now, as Dr. Saeed gave her report, Captain Jerkins struggled to focus, haunted by the memory of overwhelming fear and pain that seemed to have no end.
Dr. Amira Saeed, the ship's chief medical officer, stood at the head of the table. Her olive skin contrasted sharply with the crisp white of her medical uniform. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her even darker eyes reflected the gravity of the situation. She was speaking about the condition of the crew, her voice measured and professional.
"...Both of them should therefore require only minor cybernetic replacements," Dr. Saeed concluded her report on the ship's standard crew and the members of the Gold Team. Most of the Gold Team, including their leader, were in critical condition. The area of the ship where they had been stationed was struck hardest by the strange, murderous rage that had overtaken them, leaving them in a state far worse than anyone else.
Captain Jerkins felt a pang of guilt; she had escaped the worst of it, but the memory of those feelings still haunted her. She shook her head slightly, pushing the thoughts aside as she focused on what Dr. Saeed was saying.
"And Silver Team?" Captain Jerkins asked. She already knew about Laura's cybernetic fingers and Mike's patched-up leg, but she was more concerned about Angbor. It had been two days since his injuries, and there had been no reports of improvement.
Dr. Saeed gave a report on Silver team and sighed as she got to Angbor. "Angbor is a tough situation. By all rights, he should be dead. The data we have from his armor suggests he should have died not long after he was struck by that walker tank. His hand is barely connected to his body by a single strand of muscle, and yet, that hand still clings to life. But when placed in a tissue reconstructor, it's not healing faster than it is dying. It could be due to his lack of nanites, which Arnorians refuse to accept, or it might be something inherent in Arnorian biology."
Agent Harken, a seasoned operative, leaned forward. "He must be held together by his goddess. That's the only explanation. Arnorians aren't normally this durable."
Dr. Saeed nodded in agreement. "It's truly strange, and that's why I need a decision from you, Colonel."
"A decision?" Colonel Halden asked, tilting her head slightly.
Dr. Saeed took a deep breath before explaining. "Leaving him like this leads to nothing. I presume that his body wants to safe its entirety, but even with the reconstructor, it could be described only as a stalemate. If I were to replace his damaged body parts with prosthetics, it might help, but it might also go against his beliefs. I'm not very well-versed in Arnorian dogma, and I don't want to disrespect his culture."
Colonel Halden glanced at Captain Jerkins, who straightened in her seat. "Do whatever is necessary. Continuing his duty is what matters to him."
Dr. Saeed inhaled deeply and nodded, though she looked troubled. "He will lose his right hand, right leg, most of his ribs, and numerous joints and bones, including his chin. Many of his organs will have to accept cybernetics to overcome functionality loss caused by severe scars," she explained. The weight of the decision hung heavily in the room. "It will be difficult, and his survival is uncertain. I'd better get started while his body remains in its current status."
As Dr. Saeed left the room to begin the arduous procedure, Colonel Halden turned her attention to Agent Harken. "Did you figure out what happened to us?"
Harken, who had been quietly contemplating, finally spoke. "I believe I did. We were sent into a subdimension—a place Arnorians sometimes refer to as the Pleroma."
Captain Jerkins felt her breath catch as she listened. The thought of being trapped in such a place, even momentarily, sent a shiver down her spine.
"We encountered several types of energy, and based on their complexity, it's safe to assume we were deeper in the subdimension than almost any Arnorian has been before," Harken continued. "To put it simply, Arnorians usually stay near the 'shallow waters' of the subdimension when they jump between places in our galaxy. They once ventured into what they call 'Hell'—that was considered a travel through a deep ocean. But we... we were in the deepest trenches, far beyond what any of us were prepared for. It might have happened by our hyberdrive activation when we tried to escape pull of the rift. As a result, we're experiencing waves of complex pure energies. In this moment, it is wave of time. We could be stuck here for days, months, years—there's no way to know."
Colonel Halden, ever the practical leader, asked the crucial question. "And what can we do about it?"
Harken's response was grim. "Until I speak with Angbor, nothing. He's the only one here who can interact with the subdimension in any meaningful way, and even then, it might not be enough."
Colonel Halden studied him carefully, noting the calmness in his demeanor, which stood in stark contrast to the shaken state of the other crewmembers. It was suspicious—he didn't seem to bear the same post-traumatic symptoms. "Is it just me, Agent Harken, or does this situation not seem to affect you as much as it does the rest of us?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
Harken maintained his calm, his expression unchanging. "I don't know what you're implying, Colonel," he replied, his tone measured.
A heavy silence filled the room. Captain Jerkins was the first to break it, standing abruptly. "Excuse me," she said. "I want to know if Angbor survives."
Captain Jerkins had spent countless hours in the medbay, watching the delicate and grueling procedure to save Angbor's life. Dr. Saeed and her team worked tirelessly, their expertise pushed to the limit by the severity of Angbor's injuries. Several times throughout the operation, it seemed as though Angbor would not make it. His vital signs would drop, and every person in the room would hold their breath, fearing the worst. But each time, just when all hope seemed lost, his body clung to life by some miraculous force, as if refusing to give in.
It was a torturous experience for Captain Jerkins, who felt the weight of responsibility for every life under her command. This was her first team where she was the sole leader, and she couldn't bear the thought of losing one of her team members. Throughout the long hours of the surgery, each member of her team visited the medbay, offering silent support and some even prayers for Angbor's recovery.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dr. Saeed emerged from the operating room, looking utterly exhausted. Her usually composed demeanor was worn down by the intensity of the procedure. Captain Jerkins, Laura, and Danny stood waiting, the anxiety on their faces evident.
"It's too soon to be certain," Dr. Saeed began, her voice heavy with fatigue, "but I believe he will make it."
Captain Jerkins nodded, relief washing over her. Laura, who had been holding back her emotions, seemed to stifle a tear, clearly overwhelmed by the news. The three of them took one last look at Angbor, who now lay inside a tissue reconstructor—a transparent coffin-like device with small metallic arms that delicately shot particles into his body, prompting it to regenerate tissue faster.
As Captain Jerkins and Laura began to walk away, eager to get some much-needed rest, Laura noticed that Danny wasn't following them. "Are you not coming?" she asked him.
Danny mumbled in response, his voice quiet. "I'll go shortly after, just a moment. You two can go."
Laura exchanged a knowing look with Captain Jerkins before they left Danny alone in the medbay. When Laura returned the next day to check on Angbor, she was surprised to find Danny still sitting beside the tissue reconstructor. His eyes were tired, and he looked like he hadn't slept much, but there was a determined set to his posture.
"You're still here?" Laura asked with a warm, understanding smile.
"Yeah," Danny replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's the first time someone saved my life—well, twice, actually. I suppose I should be here."
Laura smiled softly, understanding his sentiment. "I read what they did to him, and I still can't believe he survived,"
Danny added, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"That makes two of us," Dr. Saeed chimed in as she entered the room, surprising them both. "I served during the Great War, and I've seen my share of critical injuries. Then I was deployed during the Ciris, and all my experience was put to the test. Even there, I've never seen anyone survive such extensive injuries."
"You were there during the Ciris?" Laura asked, her voice full of awe and respect. "How was it? We were freshly graduated from training and stuck on home guard. We hardly saw anything."
Dr. Saeed's expression grew distant, her eyes clouded with memories as she recounted her experiences. "In short, it was hell—if hell were a walk in the park. Those waves of emotions we all felt here... well, some of the monsters we faced radiated them. So many ugly, disgusting, vile, and terrifying creatures. It's hard to describe with words. And those guys," she nodded toward Angbor, "stood against those things day and night, face to face. I found myself frozen by fear several times, and each time, it was harder to keep going. Even behind walls of steel, Arnorians gave us medics from their bodies. We were never truly safe."
Dr. Saeed paused, her gaze shifting to the floor as she continued in a quieter voice. "I lost many colleagues and friends there, and not just to the enemies. Some of the wounds on those poor bastards defended themselves—some sort of magic or whatever. You never knew which patient would be your last, and still, we did our job. Wild flame, curse of pain, crushed limbs... you name it, we saw it, and more."
Laura and Danny listened in silence, captivated and horrified by her words. Dr. Saeed took a deep breath before finishing. "Anyway, as I was saying, Angbor's survival is unique. And if Harken is right," she paused, her expression grim, "we'll need him to get us home."
True to Harken's words, the days turned into weeks and then into months. The Xenon remained trapped in that strange subdimension, the passage of time distorted and uncertain. During this time, the crew continued their duties as best they could, but the tension was palpable. The longer they stayed, the more desperate the situation became. Every day, Captain Jerkins checked on Angbor, hoping for any sign of improvement.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Angbor woke up from his coma. His body had been pieced back together with cybernetic parts, and though he was a shadow of his former self, his eyes burned with the same fierce determination that had carried him through countless battles.
Angbor's body felt foreign to him—heavy, slow, and uncooperative. His eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light of the medbay, and the lingering effects of the Last Stand serum fogged his memories. He remembered fragments of the battle, his team, and the raw, overpowering fury that had consumed him. But everything after that was a blur.
Captain Jerkins called for Dr. Saeed, but Angbor, stubborn as ever, tried to rise on his own. His legs, cybernetic and flesh combined, trembled under his weight, but he nearly managed to stand before Dr. Saeed hurried in, waving at him to sit down. Her olive skin and dark hair had become familiar to him after weeks onboard the space ship. The differences in appearance between people mattered little to him now—he had grown used to the diversity of Denebolians.
"Angbor," Dr. Saeed's calm but firm voice broke through his haze. "How do you feel? What do you remember?"
Angbor furrowed his brow, his gaze distant as he tried to piece together the events. "I remember the battle… most of it, at least. Everything after the Last Stand serum is a blur. I—" His voice wavered, uncharacteristically soft. "I shouldn't be here. My duty… should have ended that day. I was prepared for it."
Dr. Saeed continued her examination, checking his eyes, testing the reflexes in his new cybernetic limbs, and observing his breathing. "Well, you're still here. No one's time is up until it is." She offered a soft smile, her expression light despite the tension.
Angbor shook his head. "I made promises… to return. I have a great debt to repay."
Dr. Saeed raised an eyebrow, listening but continuing with her routine tests. "There's no debt to be paid. We did our jobs, Angbor. That's all."
"It's not to you," Angbor corrected, his voice quiet yet firm. "I am grateful to you, but I owe a debt to my goddess. I can feel her presence… more than ever before. I know she held me here—her power is the only thing that kept me from death. But the debt… I won't be able to repay it."
Dr. Saeed smirked, not hiding her sarcasm this time. "Well, then be sure to thank the great Red One for her divine intervention."
Angbor nodded solemnly, not catching the sarcasm in her tone. "I will."
He tested his new limbs as Dr. Saeed asked him more questions, observing his responses to the cybernetics. He took a few tentative steps, his weight shifting in an unfamiliar way. His movements were still clumsy, and his cybernetic parts felt awkward. As he reached the freshly sheeted bed, he sat down, looking at his cybernetic hand.
The design was complex, a blend of Denebolian technology and the Arnorian art style. The dark metal was smooth, with plated sections that hid the advanced machinery beneath. It was well-crafted—sturdy and functional. But even so, he couldn't shake the sense of loss. His hand, the flesh and bone of it, was gone. Where the cybernetic limb connected to his arm, long metal lines followed the bones under his skin, exceeding a smooth, gauntlet-like transition. It was a marvel of engineering, yet foreign to his sense of self.
As he laid back on the bed, fatigue overtaking him, Angbor closed his eyes. His body ached in a way that even his warrior training had not prepared him for. Still, Dr. Saeed had promised him more details tomorrow about his condition and his new cybernetics. Angbor felt an odd eagerness for that.
Drifting into a restless sleep, his mind wandered to the strange markings that now adorned his body. His arm bore silver, canyon-like wounds—deep, jagged gashes that cut into his flesh, glowing faintly with residual energy. These marks were not simply scars of battle; they were something more. They had appeared during his Last Stand, when he had tapped into arcane energies far beyond what his body could withstand. The wounds, silver and raw, were not healing, even with the advanced medical technology of the Denebolian crew. They ran across his flesh and onto his new cybernetic hand.
Yet, these markings on his cybernetic hand seemed out of place. They weren't a deliberate part of its design. The dark, metallic plating of the prosthetic should have been smooth, flawless. Instead, the silver gashes continued unnaturally from his flesh into the artificial metal as if the arcane energies that had scarred his body had fused with him, warping the metal to reflect their presence.
The following day, Dr. Shaeed stood by Angbor's bed, a tablet in hand, her calm, professional demeanor unchanged as she began detailing the extensive augmentations to his body. She didn't sugarcoat the truth—there was no point in that now.
"Let's start with the obvious," Dr. Shaeed said, her voice neutral but firm. "Your hand and your leg—full cybernetics. Denebolian craftsmanship of the highest order, designed to replicate movement and dexterity as naturally as possible."
Angbor raised his cybernetic hand, examining the intricately plated fingers. The dark metal gleamed in the light of the medbay. It was designed to reflect his Arnorian heritage, yet there was an unmistakable edge of futuristic technology that he could not ignore.
Dr. Shaeed continued, "Your bones, particularly in the limbs and spine, have been reinforced with a titanium-carbon alloy. It's incredibly durable. Many of your muscles, too, have been replaced or augmented with cybernetic counterparts to account for your physical injuries."
As she spoke, Angbor ran a hand along the thin, metalic lines crisscrossing his body. His rune and military tattoos, symbols of his Arnorian heritage, were now scarred and interrupted by these new augmentations. His hair had been cut short, and his body felt foreign to him—more a machine than a man, in some ways.
It wasn't until Dr. Shaeed mentioned "nanites" that his calm demeanor finally broke.
"You put nanites in me?" Angbor's voice was low, but the edge of anger was unmistakable. He didn't shout, but the weight behind his words hit like a hammer. His jaw tightened, and the muscles in his neck tensed as if the mere thought of such technology was abhorrent to him.
Dr. Shaeed, momentarily caught off guard by his tone, quickly composed herself. "Yes," she said firmly. "But they're older models—just for maintenance and minor repairs to your cybernetics. They manage the transfer of power and communication between your body and the cybernetics."
Angbor's eyes narrowed. "Are they necessary?"
Dr. Shaeed remained calm. "They are, yes. Without them, your cybernetics would eventually degrade. This is an older form of augmentation, Angbor—one without the control chip that we use now. Your augmentations have their own internal network, completely separate from any external control."
Angbor grunted. "A control chip would be unacceptable." He shifted slightly, still glaring at her. "But if these nanites operate independently, I'll tolerate them. Not happily."
"I understand," Dr. Shaeed responded, her tone softer. "I was informed you wouldn't accept anything that would compromise your autonomy. But rest assured, these nanites are entirely for your benefit."
Before either of them could continue, Harken's voice cut through the room from a sunken corner, startling Angbor despite his usual sharp instincts. Harken had been standing there silently.
"Alive, and still full of Arnorian fire. That's what I like to see," Harken said with a chuckle as he stepped forward into the light.
Angbor's eyes flicked to Harken, momentarily annoyed at how the SHIELD agent had blended into the room unnoticed. Dr. Shaeed, though unfazed, gave a nod to Harken, sensing he had something to discuss.
"Dr. Shaeed," Harken said respectfully, "could you leave us for a moment?"
The doctoress nodded. "Of course." She turned and left the room, her footfalls fading as the door slid shut behind her.
Harken moved closer to Angbor, his usual grin tempered by a more serious expression. "I suppose you've heard about the situation. And while we're at it…" he paused, gesturing toward Angbor's silver-scarred arm. "The doctors seem uneasy about those silver things. I'm convinced they're harmless, but can you explain what they are?"
Angbor straightened, sitting up more rigidly. His eyes dropped to his arm, the silvery, canyon-like scars catching the light. He flexed his cybernetic hand, the dark metal gleaming.
"From what I heard," Angbor began, his voice measured and thoughtful, "the energetic waves we've encountered? They're not ordinarily encountered by my people. They're deep forces, extensions of some complex energies. For us, it feels like months have passed, but for the rest of the universe? Barely moments should pass. Even the greatest witches or witchers would struggle against such forces."
Harken's usual smile faltered, his brow furrowing. "And the wounds? The silver?"
Angbor sighed, tracing the scar with a finger. "During the battle, I didn't just pull in arcane energy—I siphoned something else. A spirit. It's not complex, more like a primal essence, but it's fused with me now. I feel it. It's there, just beneath the surface. And separating it would be dangerous. Only a witch or witcher deeply versed in magic could attempt such a thing safely."
Harken studied Angbor for a moment before laying a hand on his shoulder. "Alright. Just keep that in check, yeah? I've seen enough to trust your instincts, but the last thing we need is you going rogue because of some ancient spirit."
Angbor met his gaze, his voice steady. "I'm Arnorian. No spirit, no matter how ancient, will control me. And if it tries, I shall end my life myself."
Harken chuckled, though there was a note of tension in his voice. "Good. Because I'd hate to have to go up against you." He straightened up, his usual smile returning as he gave Angbor a firm pat on the shoulder. "Rest up. We've got work to do, and we'll need you at full strength."
As Harken left the infirmary, he passed through the bridge, where Colonel Halden was scrolling through reports, her suspicions about him growing stronger with each passing day. "Agent Harken," she called, her tone firm, "can I have a word with you?"
Harken turned toward her, his expression unreadable. "I'm sorry, but I have somewhere I need to be," he replied, his voice unusually evasive.
Colonel Halden's eyes narrowed, surprised by how frequently Harken had avoided interaction with her recently. "Agent!" she barked, loud enough for the entire bridge to turn and focus on their exchange. "I think you don't understand the gravity of our situation. I am the commander of this ship, and I need to know everything—everything—that could either help or endanger my crew."
Harken stopped, staring silently at her, unreadable.
"Do you have any information or knowledge that could assist us, should we encounter another event like the one before?" she pressed, her voice edged with frustration. His lack of visible trauma from the incident made her certain he knew more than he was letting on. "If you have information regarding that event," she continued, her anger barely contained, "and I assume you do, considering how unaffected you were, I order you to share it."
The tension hung thick in the air. Harken met her intense gaze, unflinching. After a long pause, he slowly breathed in. "It's classified," he said calmly, before turning away.
Without another word, he walked off, leaving Colonel Halden and the rest of the bridge crew in stunned silence.
Shortly after, Angbor managed to limp his way to the bridge. Colonel Halden was visibly surprised to see him. After all, it was only his second day out of a coma, and he clearly struggled to control his cybernetics, evidenced by his unsteady movements and occasional jerking motions. She stepped forward, offering him her arm for support.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, a hint of concern lacing her stern voice. "Aren't you under strict movement restrictions from Dr. Shaeed? She said she needed more time to assess your condition."
Angbor, leaning against the wall for support, accepted her hand with a weary nod. "I am, but no one was around to ask for permission at the moment," he said, his voice strained but determined. "And besides, I seem to lack access to the files regarding our last mission. I need to be useful... and I need to know if we uncovered anything that poses a threat to my goddess."
Colonel Halden hesitated, silently debating whether she should share the troubling news with him now or wait until he was in a more stable condition. She knew Angbor's temperament well, and the longer they kept the truth from him, the more dangerous his eventual reaction could be. Before she could make a decision, Emily entered the room and rushed to Angbor's side.
"There you are!" Emily exclaimed, her face a mix of relief and mild exasperation. "Second day awake, and you're already breaking the rules. Dr. Shaeed is not pleased with you." She glanced at Colonel Halden. "Colonel, with your permission, I'll escort him back to medical before he causes more trouble."
Colonel Halden frowned, glancing between Emily and Angbor. "I'll come with you," she said after a moment. "But first, we're stopping by the briefing room."
With that, both women supported Angbor, each holding him up by one arm as they led him to the briefing room. His footsteps were heavy, his body clearly still struggling to recover from the ordeal. Once inside, Colonel Halden granted Angbor access to the mission files, then sat down beside Emily, silently observing him as he scrolled through the report.
"I'm sorry for what you're about to read, Angbor," Colonel Halden said quietly, her tone unusually soft and empathetic. "I wanted to wait until you had fully recovered... to protect you from interfering with your healing process."
Emily remained silent, though the concern on her face was evident. She watched as Angbor's expression darkened with each passing page. His lips tightened into a thin line, his hands gripping the tablet tighter and tighter. The more he read, the more his body tensed with barely contained rage.
The report detailed a chilling series of events regarding the stolen data. It confirmed the capture of a Varangian band, who had been subjected to brutal torture and inhumane experimentation. These experiments had enabled the enemy to achieve something previously thought impossible—contacting the subdimension through the tortured minds of the Varangians without their consent. It was a violation not only of body but of soul.
Among the grim findings was information concerning the worship of a dark force known as Sharak, an entity shrouded in mystery and menace. One of the faction within the Ingerdimnar, having long sought ways to extend their power, had made contact with this malevolent entity. According to the report, Sharak had offered them immense power in exchange for their servitude. The faction became secretive cult within the Ingerdimnar nation, believing they could manipulate Sharak, bending its power to their will, and in doing so, rise above the rest of the Ingerdimnar collective to dominate their entire race.
When Angbor finally finished, he didn't say a word. He simply sat there, frozen in place, staring blankly at the broken words on the screen. Emily shifted slightly, as if preparing to comfort him, but as soon as she moved, the tablet in Angbor's hands snapped in two with a sharp crack.
"They will pay for this," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Their worlds will burn, and their skies will fall down upon them. That is what's going to happen."
Colonel Halden straightened her posture, feeling a sense of relief. His reaction, though violent, was more controlled than she had anticipated. She had feared an outright outburst, something far more explosive. "We've been at war with them for some time," she said steadily. "Believe me, they will answer for their crimes. But they are a formidable foe, and it will take time to bring them to justice."
Angbor, still staring blankly at the shattered tablet, clenched his jaw. "War is one thing. Execution of prisoners is something that can happen in times like these. But to capture one of the Varangian witchers, an Arnorian, to brutally torture him with chemicals and drugs until he's reduced to nothing but a broken brain in a jar—and to use that brain as a weapon? That is not war. That is an abomination. A vile, blasphemous act beyond words." His voice trembled with fury as he looked up at Colonel Halden, his eyes burning with righteous anger.
"When the High King learns of this, forget the frozen mines of Narnos, forget those beasts. We will march, and we will set those degenerates ablaze. No mercy. No negotiations. Only fire and destruction."
Without waiting for a response, Angbor pushed himself to his feet, his movements swift despite his visible pain. He stormed out of the room, still unsteady, bumping into the walls as he made his way back down the corridor, rage propelling him forward.
"Sergeant," Colonel Halden called out sharply. "Check if he makes it to medical. I don't want him collapsing somewhere before Dr. Shaeed can see him."
Emily gave a quick nod and hurried after Angbor, her footsteps light but purposeful as she went to ensure his safe return to the med bay. Colonel Halden stayed behind for a moment, letting out a deep breath as she rubbed her temples. She had expected Angbor's reaction to be extreme, but there was something about his controlled rage that unsettled her.
Her thoughts drifted for a moment—toward Angbor, toward Harken, toward the war that had consumed their lives—before she finally forced herself to return to her duties.
As the days passed, Angbor's recovery continued. He pushed himself hard in rehabilitation, eager to return to his former strength. His cybernetics became more responsive, the integration between his body and the augmentations improving with each session. And while the Denebolian technology had done its job well, Angbor never allowed himself to fully embrace the machine within him.
The rest of the Silver Team welcomed him back into training, though there was a quiet wariness that hung between them. The strange silver scars, the talk of spirits, and the mysterious nature of the Pleroma weighed heavily on their minds.
Angbor noticed their hesitation but didn't let it deter him. He was a warrior, and his mission remained unchanged. Yet, each time he looked at his arm and the silvery marks, a question lingered in his mind.
What exactly had he brought back with him from that battle? And more importantly, would it remain dormant, or was there something far more dangerous waiting to awaken inside him?
Angbor grumbled under his breath as he inspected the Denebolian tactical uniform laid out before him. Danny and Laura had presented it to him with an air of casual authority, but to Angbor, the sleek, dark material felt woefully inadequate compared to his own armor.
"This is hardly a replacement for my armor," he muttered, his eyes narrowing at the fabric in his hands. "Was my armour really irreparable?"
Danny shrugged in response. "The engineering team tried. They can repair the internal electronics and mechanisms, sure. But the problem is the armor plating itself—especially that rune-carved mithril alloy. It lashes out with bursts of energy whenever anyone gets working on it. One of the engineers was even wounded."
Laura interjected, giving Danny a sideways glance as she noticed him picking up speed in his explanation. "Aaand we didn't want to disrespect the craftsmanship of your people," she added, elbowing Danny lightly. "Right?"
Danny staggered slightly from the nudge and rolled his eyes while Laura chuckled. "Anyway," she continued, "the effort it would take to fix it... well, it's beyond our current capability. Besides, this," she gestured to the uniform, "is what we all wear."
Angbor studied them both for a moment, taking in their dark navy blue uniforms, before he relented, albeit begrudgingly. "I suppose I can use the vest with its crystal-powered shield, but the rest of it? I'll stick with my own attire."
Danny blinked, momentarily taken aback. "You're serious? You'd rather wear plain clothes and some... leather instead of a proper Denebolian war suit? Are you sane?"
Despite Danny's apparent frustration, Angbor had already grown accustomed to the Denebolian's unreservess. He didn't take the remark personally. "It's not just leather," Angbor corrected, his tone even. "It's infused with arcane power, and protection runes are sewn into it. It's stronger than any of your 'super materials.'"
Danny crossed his arms, still skeptical. "Doubtful. The only thing that might be worth mentioning is that shiny pauldron."
Angbor straightened proudly. "The pauldron, a gift from my wife, is absolutely stronger than anything you can offer. But let's leave this pointless debate. I'll take the vest; you can keep the rest."
Laura stepped forward, holding out a standard-issue Denebolian sidearm with a smirk. "Since you didn't care to bring any spare ammo with you, we might as well give you this." She handed him the Particle Cartridge Magnum, her grin widening.
Angbor inspected the weapon with a faint frown. "I've never been fond of energy weapons."
Danny couldn't help but chime in again. "You might not like them, but this P.C.M. won't stop shooting after six rounds."
Angbor raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "No, but it won't pierce carapace chitin either, will it? Does it at least sever limbs?"
Danny rolled his eyes in exasperation while Laura tried to stifle a laugh. Before the conversation could continue, a sudden tremor rocked the ship. The floor lurched beneath them, and the three of them were flung hard into the nearest wall.
Angbor was the first to regain his footing, his warrior instincts kicking in almost instantly. His head swam for a moment, but he shook it off quickly, moving to help both Laura and Danny back onto their feet.
Without a word, Angbor was already moving. He stormed out of the room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor as he made his way toward the bridge.
Angbor sprinted through the chaotic corridors of the ship, dodging debris and Denebolians who were struggling to regain their footing after the violent impact. The air was filled with the crackle of burning electronics and the acrid smell of smoke. Some of the crew were helping each other to their feet, others frantically working to extinguish small fires that dotted the walls. He barely paid them any mind; his focus was on reaching the bridge.
As he arrived, the scene was already frantic. Denebolians with glowing, turquoise-lit eyes worked at their stations, their minds interfacing directly with the ship's systems. Their hands moved with unnatural speed, typing into the air as reports streamed in.
"Breaches on Decks 2 and 17. Hangar bay has suffered explosions—several jumpers lost. Damage assessments underway," one Denebolian reported, his voice calm but tight with urgency.
Another followed suit, his eyes darting as he processed data faster than any organic brain could. "Shields are holding. Minimal structural damage for now, but critical systems are compromised."
A third Denebolian chimed in, "We're currently laying on a small hillside. No life signs detected nearby, but sensors are picking up movement around the ship."
Colonel Halden, tall and commanding, stood up from her chair with a grim expression. Her uniform was still pristine, a stark contrast to the chaos around her. "Coordinates? Where are we?" she demanded.
One of the crew, his eyes glowing faintly as he interacted with invisible interfaces, quickly responded. "No recognizable location in our galaxy. Based on current data, it's likely we're outside of subdimension space. Possibly outside our own galaxy entirely. These reading do not make sence."
Angbor, his voice steady and cutting through the chaos, interrupted the flow of reports. "This isn't a different galaxy. It's a different dimension entirely. Pleroma is a sea—we've arrived on a land, and not a pleasant one as far as I can sense."
Halden turned to him, her sharp gaze narrowing. She didn't argue with his assessment; Angbor had experience in the arcane realms that none of the Denebolians could match. "Get this ship operational," she commanded her crew, her voice firm. Then, looking back at Angbor, she nodded. "Let's get to the briefing room."
Without another word, the two of them left the bridge, the weight of the situation hanging heavy between them. The ship's bridge continued to buzz with activity behind them, the crew working frantically to regain control of their systems and repair the damage.
As they walked briskly down the corridor toward the briefing room, Angbor could feel a deep unease settling in his gut. He could sense the ripple of arcane energies in the air, twisted and hostile.
Angbor and Colonel Halden entered the dimly lit briefing room, its metallic walls gleaming faintly under the flickering lights. In the center, the holographic table activated with their arrival, its surface shimmering with data streams and reports. Captain Jerkins, looking slightly disheveled, with a thin trickle of blood running down her cheek, and Agent Harken—silent, as he was for past several days—arrived right behind them. Despite his time aboard Xenon, Angbor could not get used to silent communication via Denebolian chips, that others used for calling briefings or changes to schedules.
Captain Jerkins spoke first, her voice carrying a slight edge of impatience. "What happened?" she blurted out, her expression strained. She winced slightly, bringing a hand up to her forehead, where the blood was beginning to dry. Despite her evident discomfort, her gaze was sharp, focused on Colonel Halden.
"We've left the subdimension and crash-landed on some unknown planet," Colonel Halden explained, her tone steady, controlled. She stepped forward and with a subtle wave of her hand, the holographic table flickered, projecting a large, three-dimensional image in the air above them. The ship was partially embedded in a jagged hillside, with large sections of its structure buried beneath the earth. The hologram displayed the sensor data: light pulses representing movement surrounded the ship like waves on a radar.
Angbor crossed his arms, his sharp eyes scanning the holographic display. Even without the advanced chip interfaces of the Denebolians, his battle-honed instincts told him all he needed to know: they were spotted.
As more of the terrain surrounding the ship was revealed by the holographic scans, Captain Jerkins leaned in closer, studying the rapidly updating map. It showed steep, rocky terrain stretching for miles, punctuated by sharp, almost unnatural-looking spires of rock.
Colonel Halden, stopped in her tracks and held a hand to her chin, turning her head to the side as a series of reports flooded into her neural interface. Her eyes glowed faintly, the metal tracing along the side of her face flashing by holographic flicker. She shifted the hologram with another gesture, zooming out to reveal a distant, distorted barrier on the horizon.
"This," she said, her voice calm yet commanding, "appears to be the only active structure within range. Ignore the scattered movement signals near the ship; this is where the real energy readings are coming from." She pointed to the barrier, which, on the hologram, shimmered faintly, like heat rising off sand in the desert. Beyond it, the image was distorted—blurry and unclear—but it vaguely showed what looked like a fortified city, its walls massive and imposing.
Harken, who had remained silent until now, frowned as he studied the flickering image. "That kind of barrier…" He shook his head slightly. "It must require immense energy to maintain. It spans the entire visible horizon and possibly more." His voice was calm but laced with concern. His sharp, analytical mind was already calculating the logistics of such a defense mechanism.
Colonel Halden shot Agent Harken an angry look, her suspicions mounting. She knew he was hiding something, but starting an interrogation now could sow distrust among the command crew, something she couldn't afford at this moment. Despite her frustration, she reluctantly agreed with Harken's assessment.
"True," she muttered, her eyes still narrowed, "that location sends out intense energy spikes. The barrier doesn't seem to have an end—or if it does, it's far beyond our scanning range. It might even span an entire continent."
Angbor, standing stoically at the table, finally spoke. "We're not just in another galaxy," he said, his voice low but full of certainty. "This place is in a different dimension and is heavily connected to the Pleroma as far as I can sence."
Colonel Halden turned her full attention to him. "And you can't get us back, right?"
Angbor's jaw tightened slightly as he looked at the Colonel. "That is correct. Even if I could gather enough power for a dimensional jump, I wouldn't be able to hold it together long enough to get us back. It would tear us apart—our minds, our bodies. We'd be ripped to shreds."
Colonel Halden exhaled softly, her eyes narrowing in thought. She absently ran her fingers along one of the metallic lines on her face, tracing the cold surface of her cybernetic enhancements. "Then we have no choice but to find something—or someone—that can help us. Whatever is behind that barrier might hold the key to getting us home." She glanced at the blurry image of the fortified city. "If there are people there, they may have the technology or knowledge to assist us."
Harken nodded, still studying the hologram. "If we can figure out a way past that barrier, we might have a chance. But we can't assume they'll be friendly."
Colonel Halden nodded in agreement, her mind already formulating plans. "You're right. We have to be cautious. But before we move forward, we need to secure our options."
She turned to Captain Jerkins and Angbor. "Are you operational?"
Captain Jerkins, still with her hand on her head but standing tall, snapped a salute. "Ready as always, Colonel." Her voice was steady, but her face betrayed a glimmer of the pain she was suppressing.
Angbor stretched his shoulders, rolling them slightly as if testing his body's integrity. "I am recovered," he said simply, his eyes gleaming with resolve.
Colonel Halden folded her arms behind her back, her posture resolute. "Good. I need you to gather your team and head to that location. Find out what's behind that barrier and if there's a way we can use it to get home."
Captain Jerkins dropped her salute and exchanged a brief glance with Angbor before she turned to leave. "I'll gather the team," she said, her voice confident but with an underlying sense of urgency.
As they exited, Colonel Halden turned her sharp gaze toward Harken, who remained fixated on the holographic display. "Harken," she began, her voice cold and commanding, "I swear, if anyone gets hurt because you kept vital information from us, you won't be able to hide from me. Not here, not back home, not in any galaxy on the other side of the universe."
Harken continued scanning the barrier and surrounding space, seemingly unaffected by her threat.
"Why are you here, Harken?" Colonel Halden pressed, her frustration breaking through her usual composure. "You're with SHIELD. You should be helping us get out of this mess."
At last, Harken looked up from the display, his expression steely. "Exactly. I'm with SHIELD," he said, his tone calm but defiant. "That means I have secrets—interests that affect not just this ship but the entire Alliance, the galaxy, and possibly the entire universe. I will do my job, and you do yours."
Halden's eyes narrowed, sensing his resistance but knowing she couldn't push further—yet. "Fine," she said icily. "So as a science expert, go help and secure this ship. That is one of your standing orders from your superiors, last I checked. If you want us to get out of here in one piece, make sure we're not caught off guard again."
Her voice lingered, the final note of authority unmistakable. Harken held her gaze for a moment, then, without a word, turned and left the room, leaving behind the tension that crackled between them.
With that, the room fell silent, save for the low hum of the holographic projector and the distant sounds of the ship's crew working tirelessly to repair the damage from the crash.
Angbor tugged at the Denebolian vest with crystal one last time, feeling its alien weight against his body. Despite being well-fitted, the Denebolian design wasn't one he was used to. For someone who valued his Arnorian heritage, the sleek, futuristic design of this vest felt like a stranger on his skin. His own attire, reinforced leather and arcane-weaved clothing, sat more comfortably against him. His silver-grey pauldron, a gift from his wife, was still dented and blackened from his last battle with the Ingardimnar.
The Silver Team was already on the move, exiting through the hangar doors of the downed ship. Danny, as usual, had something to complain about.
"Jumpers destroyed, and the functional ones are buried in the hangar under who knows how much rock. And you won't believe it—transport beam's busted too," Danny grumbled, his voice thick with frustration.
Mike, ever the joker, stretched out his arms and did a dramatic three-hundred-degree spin on his heel, mocking Danny's perpetual complaints. "Oh, c'mon Danny, you'd pass up this great opportunity to hike through paradise?"
He gestured at the landscape around them. Sharp, jagged black rocks littered the horizon, casting long shadows under the sickly green sky. There was no breeze to stir the dead air, and the ground was covered in the faint, scorched remains of long-dead plants—gray, brittle reminders of a world drained of life.
Angbor, having finally given up on adjusting the vest, turned his attention fully to their surroundings. His sharp eyes noticed faint, fleeting shadows moving in the periphery of his vision. His hand reflexively went to his sidearm, his instincts on high alert. "Do not stray too far from each other," he warned, his voice low but carrying weight. His expression tightened. "This place reeks of death."
Emily, walking a few paces behind him, tilted her head and sniffed the air, confused. "I don't smell rot… actually, I don't smell anything. It's like this place has no scent at all."
Angbor didn't stop walking, nor did he turn to look at her. His voice was grim and steady. "I wasn't talking about smell. This land is crawling with wights and I sence the undead. Things you won't see until they're already on you."
Jim, the team's quietest member, shot Angbor a wary glance but said nothing. He had learned over the course of several missions to trust the Arnorian's instincts when it came to the fight. Meanwhile, Laura subtly shifted her position, sidling a bit closer to Danny.
"Okay, yeah… I think I'm officially done sightseeing," she muttered under her breath, her earlier humor replaced by unease.
At the front of the formation, Captain Jerkins kept her gaze straight ahead, her stance authoritative and sharp despite the uneasy atmosphere. "Get yourselves together, people," she barked, her voice cutting through the rising tension like a whip. "We've got a long hike ahead of us, so stay alert and stay tight."
With that, the Silver Team fell into their practiced, disciplined movement. They moved as a well-oiled machine, the group alternating between fast walks and slow, overwatch rotations, keeping an ever-watchful eye on their surroundings. The oppressive silence of the land was only interrupted by the sound of their boots crunching over dead earth.
Every shadow felt a little too close. Every ridge in the landscape felt like it was hiding something.
As the barrier came into view, the distant sounds of clanging metal and thunderous explosions reverberated through the dead, stagnant air. Silver Team crested the final ridge, standing atop the highest hill in the desolate landscape. Below them sprawled a scene straight from a nightmare—a massive siege against the city encased within the shimmering magical barrier.
The barrier hugged the city walls tightly, its energy extending far beyond the horizon, forming an unbroken line of defense. Before the city lay an enormous, writhing mass of undead—an army that seemed to stretch on for kilometers, a sea of decayed flesh and animated bones. Floating above them, black ziggurats hovered ominously, their cruel, jagged architecture silhouetted against the dark green sky. From the ziggurats, green projectiles arced through the air, fired from grotesque trebuchet-like mechanisms, crashing into the barrier with explosive force, though the shield held firm.
Atop the largest of the ziggurats was a throne, a twisted creation of blackened stone and bone. Upon it sat a hooded figure, shrouded in tattered robes, clutching a staff crowned with a sharp, gnarled tip that glowed faintly with sickly green light. The figure remained still, a silent ruler presiding over the carnage below, clearly the architect of this unholy siege.
Laura, noticing Angbor's gaze sweeping the scene with a distant, unfocused look, nudged him gently. "You don't have any eye cybernetics, right?" she asked, remembering that the Arnorians refuse to enhance their healthy tissue with augments. "Let me save you the details then. Short version? There's a great necromancer up there leading an army of undead, and… a lot of them."
Captain Jerkins scanned the perimeter, her face a hardened mask as she took in the overwhelming enemy forces. "There's no way we're getting through that," she muttered, her voice edged with frustration. "We can't break through the undead horde, and even if we did, that barrier isn't something we're going to be able to penetrate. Not with what we have."
Angbor stood in silence for a moment, considering the scene. His senses hummed with the potent arcane energy permeating the air, the vibrations of magic thick and unsettling. "I'm more and more convinced," he began, his voice quiet but firm, "that we're on a material plane, or perhaps some kind of material layer. It would explain why my senses are heightened—why I'm so attuned to the arcane energy here."
Mike tilted his head, his usual playful smirk appearing despite the grim situation. "Well, if your senses are so in tune, why don't you go ahead and shoot some lightning, jump us right into the city. Easy peasy." His tone was light, but there was a hint of real curiosity beneath the joke.
Angbor, however, shook his head, his expression unamused by the quip. "Power doesn't come with skill to use it, Mike. I'm not a witcher, and I won't experiment if not necessary." His eyes flickered with a trace of irritation before softening again. "What I was going to say, before being interrupted," he added with a pointed glance, "is that if we are on a material plane, then that barrier is almost certainly magical. Judging by the differences in the land on both sides and the nature of the enemy here, it's possible—likely, even—that the barrier was designed specifically to keep the undead out."
Danny raised an eyebrow, considering the thought. "So you're saying the barrier isn't against us—it's just keeping the necromancer and his army from breaking into the city?"
Angbor nodded. "That would be my assumption. The arcane forces used to craft the barrier feel… neutral, for lack of a better word. We may be able to pass through it, assuming the magic sees us as 'living.'"
Captain Jerkins rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "That's a big 'if.' If you're wrong, we could just end up smacking right into that barrier like a bunch of idiots… or worse."
Angbor's gaze remained steady as he looked at the necromancer's forces below. "Perhaps. But we have no choice but to try."
The team gathered themselves quickly, taking a wide detour to skirt the bulk of the undead horde. The landscape around them was unforgiving—a barren, twisted expanse of jagged rocks and scorched earth, the oppressive green sky offering no comfort. The barrier loomed closer with each cautious step, its shimmering surface almost within reach. But before they could relax, a guttural howl echoed across the wasteland.
From the direction of the undead army, a wave of ghouls and zombies broke free, sprinting toward Silver Team with terrifying speed. The ghouls moved on all fours, their blackened claws tearing at the ground as they charged, while the lumbering zombies followed, their decayed bodies thrumming with unnatural energy.
"To the barrier!" Captain Jerkins barked, her particle rifle already spitting out bursts of energy, taking down several undead in the process. "Move, move, move!"
Silver Team shifted into a coordinated retreat, laying down covering fire as they sprinted for the barrier. Each member moved with precision, running to cover before firing on the advancing undead. Angbor, acting as the rearguard, wielded his Particle Cartridge Magnum in his left hand and his messer sword in his right. He fought with brutal efficiency, cutting down any creature that managed to get too close with vicious, gory strikes.
Despite their tight-knit training, Angbor's combat style still differed from the others. He was an Arnorian warrior, more accustomed to direct, brutal engagements. As a result, he began falling behind the rest of the team, still locked in fierce melee combat while the others neared the barrier.
"Silver Team, firing line!" Captain Jerkins shouted, her voice sharp with urgency. "Angbor, get here now!"
Angbor, mid-slash, turned and sprinted toward the team. His messer sword, sizzling with steaming blood, swung at his side as he fired the P.C.M. at the creatures chasing him. But as he closed the distance, his sharp eyes caught a flicker of movement behind Emily.
A shadow—a wraith, its dark form almost imperceptible in the dim light—was gliding silently toward her. Without hesitation, Angbor fired a shot from the P.C.M., but the energy blast passed harmlessly through the wraith, barely slowing its advance.
Emily screamed in pain as the wraith's claws sank into her side, its ethereal touch bypassing the protective fabric of her suit, leaving her vulnerable to its cursed attack. Angbor didn't hesitate. With a swift motion, he hurled his messer sword, the enchanted blade spinning through the air and piercing the wraith. The creature let out a terrible, otherworldly howl before disintegrating into nothingness.
Laura rushed to Emily's side, quickly assessing the situation. "She's bleeding heavily! Stay with me, Emily," she said urgently, her hands already moving to check for injuries.
Angbor, having reached the barrier, saw his sword lying on the other side. Without a second thought, he extended his right hand through the barrier and pulled it back quickly. "It's safe," he confirmed.
Captain Jerkins gave a quick nod. "Everyone to the other side, now!" she ordered, her voice calm but firm.
The team scrambled through the barrier just as the swarm of undead reached them. They clawed and scratched at the barrier's edge, but the magical shield held strong, preventing any of the creatures from following.
"Everyone here?" Jerkins called out, scanning the group.
Laura, still attending to Emily, slapped her face gently, trying to keep her conscious. "All here, one wounded."
Emily's uniform was intact, but it was quickly becoming soaked with her blood. Laura and Danny began stripping away the layers of Emily's suit to get a better look at the wound, preparing to bandage it.
"She's losing too much blood," Laura muttered.
Angbor stepped forward, his eyes darkening with resolve. "She will bleed out before you can help her. Step aside."
Laura hesitated, glancing at the messer sword in Angbor's hand. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice uncertain.
Without answering, Angbor hefted the blade and, with a swift motion, ignited it with his arcane fire—a pale flame that flickered unnaturally along the edge of the sword. Laura recoiled in shock, but before she could stop him, Angbor pressed the burning blade against Emily's wounds, cauterizing them with searing heat.
Emily let out a cry of pain, her voice echoing in the air. Danny moved forward in protest, anger flashing in his eyes. "We have equipment for this!" he shouted, furious at Angbor's crude methods.
But it was already done. Angbor sheathed his sword with a smooth motion, watching as the flames along the blade dissipated. "Who knows what curse that thing left in her?" he said grimly. "Burning the wound with holy fire was the safest option."
The team was silent now, watching Emily's labored breathing as the cauterization took effect. Though the method was harsh, the bleeding had stopped.
Mike gave a dry chuckle and shook his head. "Holy fire, huh?" he muttered.
Angbor said nothing, his face stony and unreadable. He stared back at the undead army clawing at the barrier, his mind already turning toward the city.
Danny and Laura quickly emptied the medical bag that Emily had been carrying and began tending to her wound. Despite their best efforts, it was clear they were struggling to properly dress the injury. Emily, wincing in pain, had to guide them through the process. Eventually, they managed to finish, packed everything back into the bag, and helped Emily to her feet. She grunted in pain, but with a moment of concentration, she suppressed it.
"All good?" Captain Jerkins asked, glancing back at Emily.
Emily nodded, her face pale but determined. "I'm fine. We can go."
The team resumed their trek toward the distant city, moving through dunes of scorching sand, the barren landscape dotted occasionally by small, almost surreal oases. The heat of the sun bore down on them relentlessly.
"I can't believe how hot it is," Danny grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow. "And this sand—it's everywhere."
Mike laughed, a bit too cheerfully given the circumstances. "Would you rather go back to that dead wasteland on the other side of the barrier?"
"He's got a point," Angbor interjected. "But there's something strange about this place too—just like the other side. There's an aura here, not of death, but of something burning and alive."
Laura, walking beside him, raised an eyebrow. "Back on Panthal, there are deserts too. This seems pretty normal to me. Maybe you're just paranoid."
"Maybe," Angbor mused, scanning the horizon, "but there's an aura nonetheless. This is only the second desert I've ever been in. The first time was on Panthala when the Eldar moved their operations closer to Denebol Prime. They left behind an enormous crater when we claimed the territory. Not a single structure standing."
Laura chuckled softly at his comment. "They do have a rather... dramatic culture. And for the record, it's Panthal, not Panthala."
Angbor's stoic expression gave way to a slightly grumpy look. "You should be grateful I'm calling it that at all. Believe me, I'm not changing my mind anytime soon."
Laura stared blankly at him, confused by the shift in his tone. Angbor continued with a sigh. "There was talk for years about a united name for our planet. Then, out of nowhere, you made a vote and started spreading 'Panthal' across the stars. Arnor wasn't invited to the discussion—neither were the Amaurëa. Sure, it would've taken months to get a response from those cryosleep-addicted Eldar, but it would have meant something. A common name for all of us."
Laura opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. Sensing the tension, Danny jumped in to defuse the situation. "We had a democratic transition from the Shield. It never even occurred to me—or to any of us— in the moment that you wanted to be included in that decision."
Angbor picked up his pace, his frustration evident. "Maybe it should have occurred when you kept sticking your noses into our affairs."
Danny was about to retort, but Captain Jerkins cut him off, her voice firm. "Let it go. He needs time to work through this. The surgery, the report... He's going to be on edge for a while. Focus on the mission. Stay alert. We don't know what lives on this side of the barrier."
With that, the conversation ended, and the team continued their march toward the distant city. The tall golden and yellow towers were now faintly visible on the horizon, shimmering under the sun, while the barrier to their right stretched endlessly in both directions.
As they arrived at the bottom of yet another dune, the city towers faded from sight. Suddenly, Angbor's keen senses picked up the sound of marching steps and the distinct clinking of metal. He halted abruptly and raised a hand to signal the rest of the Silver squad. "Someone's approaching," he said quietly.
Captain Jerkins quickly took command. "Right wedge formation. Laura, with me. Keep your weapons down—let's see if they're willing to talk first."
The team swiftly adjusted their stance, moving from their marching column into a wedge formation. Captain Jerkins stood at the front, Angbor on her left, while Laura and the rest of the team fanned out to the right.
Angbor kept his eyes fixed on the crest of the dune. Moments later, a band of soldiers appeared at the top, marching in a disciplined but relaxed formation. Their movement was deliberate, synchronized yet adaptable to the uneven terrain of the desert. As they descended, the soldiers' golden armor gleamed brilliantly under the harsh sun, casting blinding flashes of light across the dunes.
Their armor was ornate yet practical, composed of light golden chainmail that rippled with their movements. Over their armor, they wore deep yellow and burnt orange tunics, which contrasted against the pale desert sands. Each tunic was adorned with intricate, embroidered suns in gold thread—a clear symbol of devotion. Their round shields, slung across their backs, bore the same radiant sun motif, polished to mirror-like perfection.
The soldiers were armed with long golden glaives, their tips sharp and deadly, glinting ominously in the sunlight. Their helmets, also gilded, were partially covered by yellow scarves, shielding their faces from the desert winds while leaving their sharp, vigilant eyes exposed.
At the head of the formation strode a priest, his presence commanding yet slightly apart from the soldiers. His robes, in deep saffron with golden accents, billowed gracefully as he walked. In his hands, he carried a staff crowned with a radiant sun, the golden symbol catching the light and casting an ethereal glow across the sands. As he approached, his voice, harsh and raspy, broke the silence. "Under whose divine banner do you trespass upon our sacred land?"
The two groups now stood face to face, mere meters apart. Captain Jerkins was momentarily stunned that the priest spoke their language, but she quickly regained her composure. "We are men and women of the Denebolian Accord. We come seeking aid. We've been—"
The priest cut her off, raising a hand imperiously. "Whom do you serve?" he croaked, his voice filled with disdain.
Captain Jerkins glanced at Laura for assistance, uncertain of how to proceed. Laura gave her a nod of encouragement before stepping in. "We have many gods in our nations, and some of our people do not believe in any."
At this, the priest's face twisted in fury. "Unbelievers!?" he spat the word as though it were venom.
Sensing the escalating tension, Angbor took a step forward. "I am a believer. I serve Yáraitalë. Yárcarniel is my goddess, and I am her devoted servant. Tell us the name of your god."
The priest straightened, his posture becoming rigid with pride. "We serve the great Sol and his divine children. We do not tolerate the faithless. Though your goddess may be foreign to me, if she allows you to walk among such heretics, you too shall share their fate."
With that, the priest raised his staff high and slammed it into the sand. A resonant ring of light pulsed outward from the point of impact, and in an instant, the Silver team crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Angbor, his skin etched with protective runes, managed to resist the full force of the magic for a moment longer, holding onto his knees as the energy washed over him. The runes on his pauldron too glowed faintly, shielding him from the immediate effect, but eventually, the power of the spell overwhelmed him, and he too fell into a deep, unnatural slumber.
Angbor woke intermittently, slipping in and out of consciousness as they were dragged through the city. His blurred vision caught glimpses of their surroundings: towering sandstone walls and gleaming golden domes that loomed above them as they passed through a massive gate. He remembered the sound of chains dragging through the streets and the occasional murmur of distant voices.
At one point, they moved through the city itself, a place of tall sandstone buildings covered with vibrant orange, yellow, and saffron-colored awnings. Large, arched windows and intricately designed underpasses gave the city an air of ancient grandeur. The final image before sleep reclaimed him was that of a grand plaza surrounding an enormous oval-shaped arena, its colossal structure dwarfing even the tall city houses.
When Angbor finally awoke properly, it was in a deep, dimly lit cell. He was the first to regain full consciousness, quickly realizing that he had been stripped down and was now wearing nothing but a linen loincloth with red stripes. The dim light filtering in through small vents near the ceiling provided little comfort, and his mind was hazy from the effects of whatever had knocked him out. An unusual sensation on his skin caught his attention, and as he examined his arms, he realized his body had been coated entirely in oil.
Captain Jerkins was the next to stir, her grunts echoing in the cold, silent cell. Angbor glanced in her direction, noting that she, too, wore only the same loincloth. Glowing tattoos adorned her chest, starting at the center and forming a triangular pattern up to her collarbones. Thin metal lines traced over her ribs, something clearly alien to her usual appearance. Angbor quickly averted his eyes out of respect, focusing instead on the new, larger silver scars that marked his right arm, more spread than they had been before. He was also faintly aware of an almost imperceptible whisper, its source unclear but deeply unsettling.
Captain Jerkins' frustrated huff snapped Angbor back to reality. "What the hell?" she muttered as she quickly got to her feet, rushing to the bars of their cell with one hand covering her chest. She rattled the bars angrily. "Hey! What is the meaning of this? Get me the priest here and some proper clothing!"
Moments later, a guard with slightly more decorated armor entered the chamber. His expression was one of cruel amusement as he leaned casually against the cell's entrance. "You're finally waking up, infidels. It's been a while since we had such weaklings for the games. Thought you might miss your turn and have to wait till next month, but it looks like you're in luck."
Captain Jerkins' face turned red with fury. "Games? This is an act of hostility! I suggest you return our belongings and release us immediately."
The guard sneered, spitting onto the ground near her feet. His earlier amusement faded as he straightened up, his tone darker now. "The games are in honor of the great Sol, and you should be grateful you're still breathing. The likes of you—unbelievers—are the reason for the stinking corpses rotting outside our walls. If it were up to me, you'd be left to die in the sun. But Mythras Heliacal believes you're unspoiled enough for the arena."
With that, the chief guard turned and left, leaving Captain Jerkins to furiously rattle the bars again before she sank down against them, frustrated and fuming.
Her eyes fell on Angbor, who was still staring at his hand, lost in thought. "I shouldn't be surprised you're the first one awake," she grumbled. "Couldn't you have stopped him?"
Angbor's gaze shifted to the floor as he responded, "I could have tried, but I promised you no interference unless necessary. It wasn't clear that he would attack us."
Jerkins let out a resigned sigh. "Touché."
One by one, the others awoke. Emily and Laura reacted similarly to Captain Jerkins, enraged and humiliated by their situation, while Danny complained loudly about the oil covering his skin. Jim, as always, remained quiet, contemplating in silence. Mike, however, seemed to take a different approach, grinning as he took in their bizarre situation.
"Well, it could be worse," Mike quipped with a shrug. "At least we're not freezing. We'll play a few games and—hey, not a bad view either." He shot a playful wink at Laura and Emily.
Captain Jerkins quickly reprimanded him, "That's highly inappropriate, Private. Cut it out before I include it in my report."
Mike raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Just a joke, Cap. No harm meant."
Jerkins gave a curt nod. "Think before you speak next time."
After that, the team fell into an uncomfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts until the guards came for them.
They were escorted through a series of dim tunnels, their feet scraping against the rough stone floors, the oil on their skin making every movement feel sticky and strange. Finally, they emerged into the blinding sunlight of the great arena. Sand stretched out around them, the heat searing as they squinted against the sharp light.
Far in the distance, hundreds of meters away, they could barely make out other teams, but the glare from the sun made it difficult to discern much detail. In an instant, tall walls shot up around them, blocking off their view and trapping them inside a makeshift labyrinth.
The moment the towering walls shifted into place around them, the team realized something was horribly wrong. The labyrinth was deep, its stone walls oppressive, and its geometry disorienting. Yet, to their horror, the strangest thing wasn't the labyrinth's construction—it was the complete and utter silence. Captain Jerkins opened her mouth to issue orders, but not a sound came out. Her eyes went wide in shock, and she tried again, straining her voice, but nothing. Danny moved frantically, his mouth moving in a series of presumed curses, but again, no sound reached anyone's ears.
It wasn't just their voices that were gone; the team quickly realized their nanites—implants that connected them via an internal communication network—were entirely offline. For the first time, they were completely cut off, even from each other. Angbor, slower to recognize the problem, initially seemed less affected, having always relied less on technology. But soon, he too noticed his prosthetics were reacting sluggishly, their movements stiff and imprecise.
Captain Jerkins was the first to take control of the situation. With no ability to speak, she went around the team, tapping them each on the shoulder to get their attention. She resorted to military hand signals, a form of communication ingrained through rigorous training. Slowly, the others caught on, responding with a combination of hand gestures and silent nods.
They moved cautiously through the labyrinth, navigating its twisting paths while trying to remain as stealthy as possible. The atmosphere was oppressive, there wasn't even sound the soft shuffle of their feet against the sandy ground. Every so often, a fleeting shadow would catch their eyes, vanishing just as quickly as it appeared. In the distance, something moved—creatures with long, serpent-like bodies, gliding unnervingly over the sand. Their slick, scaled forms shimmered in the heat, blending with the sun's mirage-like haze. But what stood out were the limbs—grotesque, octopus-like tentacles, writhing and twisting in unnatural motions. Each tentacle was lined with small, barbed suckers that clung to the ground, leaving eerie, webbed imprints behind. The creatures' movements were fluid, almost hypnotic, but there was a lurking menace to their graceful slithering, as if they were watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. These creatures prowled the maze, their movements fluid and terrifyingly fast. The team managed to avoid several of them, their presence blending almost seamlessly into the shadows of the labyrinth's walls.
At one point, Laura saved Captain Jerkins just in time. Jerkins had been about to step on one of the monsters, its form camouflaged to look like part of the ground. Laura grabbed her arm and yanked her back, pointing to the barely visible creature embedded in the sand.
Later, they stumbled upon a pool of shimmering liquid, at the center of which lay a golden sickle. Captain Jerkins, enticed by the strange object, instinctively reached for it. Danny grabbed her wrist, shaking his head and pointing at a strange vapor rising from the pool. To test it, he tore a small strip from his loincloth and threw it into the liquid. Nothing happened. With a deep breath, Captain Jerkins decided to take the risk and reached into the pool, retrieving the sickle. It felt light in her hand, and though it was risky, she knew they might need it if they failed to avoid a direct confrontation with the monsters.
The team continued their silent trek, until they reached another pool, this one holding a heavily curved falchion. Angbor stepped forward, intrigued by the weapon, and reached for it. As soon as his metallic fingers touched the water, however, they began to smoke and hiss. He recoiled instantly, his eyes narrowing as he watched his once-polished fingers dull and roughen, the shine all but gone.
That was when one of the monsters entered the pool area, and the situation spiraled out of control.
It attacked without warning, its tentacles lashing out toward Mike. Captain Jerkins, moving faster than the rest, swung the sickle and blocked the creature's fanged mouth, just barely sparing Mike from a grisly fate. Angbor rammed into the beast with his full strength, but its tentacles coiled around him, quickly immobilizing him. Captain Jerkins, with a precise strike, slashed at the creature's head, carving out one of its eyes and severing a tentacle that held Angbor captive. The monster recoiled, momentarily stunned, but not for long.
The team fled, running through the labyrinth at full speed, their feet pounding against the sand as the creature gave chase. The walls of the maze seemed to close in on them, creating an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. It wasn't long before they hit a dead end, their backs against the cool stone walls as Captain Jerkins stood firm, wielding the sickle like a shield and pushing the monster back. She fought desperately to hold the creature at bay, her strikes becoming wilder as exhaustion crept in.
The beast lunged, disarming her in a swift motion that sent the sickle clattering to the ground. The team's hearts sank—it was all or nothing now. They had nowhere left to run.
But just when all seemed lost, luck smiled on the Silver Team. Angbor, spotting a faint opening past the beast, led the team through a gap as Captain Jerkins puched the beast to an eye, and they stumbled into a courtyard bathed in light. The walls were adorned with intricate hieroglyphs and ancient carvings, symbols of gods and stories long forgotten, each wall telling a tale in vivid detail.
As soon as Captain Jerkins crossed the threshold, the entrance slammed shut behind them, trapping the monster on the other side. Its furious roars—though still silent to the team—were evident in the violent thuds against the now-sealed wall. The courtyard was peaceful, but eerie. There was no sign of life, only the strange markings and symbols, which seemed to hum with a faint, otherworldly energy.
As the adrenaline from the chase ebbed away, the team gradually realized they weren't permanently deaf. Their labored breathing was the first sound Jim noticed, breaking his usual silence. "Sounds have returned," he said, his voice a little rough after the long silence.
The rest of the team paused for a moment, holding their breath to confirm it. Indeed, sound had returned, and the oppressive quiet was finally broken. Captain Jerkins quickly seized the opportunity. "Everyone okay?" she asked, surveying the group. "Emily, how about you?"
Leaning heavily against a wall, her expression strained, Emily nodded weakly. "I'm fine," she replied between breaths. "Just need to suppress the pain. I'll manage." She waved her hand dismissively, signaling to the captain not to worry.
Angbor used the brief respite to assess the damage to his cybernetic hand. Fortunately, there was no severe damage, but something more unsettling caught his attention. The silver scars on his arm had expanded, not by much, but noticeably. He stared at them for a moment, a flicker of concern crossing his face before he quickly looked away, not wanting the others to notice. Instead, he focused on his surroundings, ears now catching the distant sound of cheering. The audience was watching, but how, he could not tell.
Captain Jerkins, not one to waste time, quickly shifted into action. "Alright, everyone up. Laura, take a look at those markings. See if they tell us anything. The rest of you, find a way out."
The team nodded and dispersed, each falling into their familiar roles. Laura gave the captain a confident look. "On it."
It didn't take long for the others to return with bad news. "Nothing here," Angbor reported as he ran his hand along one of the walls. His cybernetic fingers scraped against the stone, but it was solid.
"These walls are like steel," Danny added, frustration in his voice. "No point looking. There's no way out."
Mike, raised his hand in mock enthusiasm. "Oh, I know! We'll use your head as a battering ram, Danny. You're stubborn enough to make it work." His grin was wide despite the situation.
Laura chuckled from across the room, and even Captain Jerkins cracked a smile. Jim's lips twitched slightly, though he remained quiet.
Danny rolled his eyes in exaggerated sarcasm. "Yeah, real funny, Mike. Maybe we should throw your head past the walls—it's empty enough to make it."
By this point, Laura was laughing out loud, and even Angbor shook his head with a rare smile. It was a brief moment of levity, but then the walls began to rumble ominously.
The laughter died immediately as the ground vibrated beneath their feet. Slowly, the walls started to move inward, closing in on them.
Danny's eyes went wide. "The walls... they're moving!" Mike, still trying to maintain his humor despite the growing panic, shouted, "They're alive!" though his voice trembled.
Captain Jerkins remained focused. "Laura?!"
Laura frantically moved around the room, scanning the symbols and markings on the walls. "I need more time!" she called out, her mind racing as she traced her fingers across the ancient carvings.
Angbor knew he had no means to decipher the puzzle of the markings, nor the time to try. Instinctively, he did the only thing he thought might help. Without hesitation, he charged forward and slammed his shoulder into the nearest wall, bracing himself against the cold, unyielding stone. The sound of the impact was a dull thud, and though the wall didn't budge, he dug his heels into the ground, gritting his teeth as he pushed against it with all his might.
Seeing his effort, Mike and Jim sprang into action. Without a word, they rushed to the other walls, throwing their weight against the advancing stone, their hands pressed flat as they strained to stop the inevitable. Emily followed their lead and joined them. Sweat began to bead on their foreheads as their muscles flexed and strained, trembling under the force of the relentless, moving walls.
Meanwhile, Laura´´ s eyes darted between the markings and the movement of the walls, her mind racing as she tried to focus amidst the chaos. Though her efforts felt increasingly futile, she refused to give up.
Angbor, his back and legs trembling from the pressure, began to feel something... different. A faint, familiar sensation stirred within him, faint whispers brushing against the edges of his mind. The voices grew louder the harder he pushed against the wall, a low, sinister hum that seemed to come from the scars on his arm. The air around him crackled faintly, and he glanced down to see silver sparks dancing across his skin. Small arcs of lightning leapt from his fingertips to the surface of the wall, leaving faint scorch marks.
The energy burned him, each spark feeling like a hot brand against his flesh, but he didn't flinch. He could feel the scars on his arm creeping, spreading further with every surge of power. The silver tendrils etched deeper into his skin like living veins, and the pain was sharp, but Angbor pushed it aside.
It didn't matter. Laura needed time, and he would give it to her.
The silver lightning flared brighter now, tiny arcs snaking across his cybernetic hand and crackling against the wall. The whispers became almost deafening, echoing in the back of his mind, but he blocked them out. His focus was unshakable. Angbor's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he channeled every ounce of strength he had, his body trembling under the strain.
Mike shot a glance at Angbor and faltered for a moment, startled by the silver arcs dancing around him. "Uh, Cap, you seeing this?" he asked nervously, but Captain Jerkins, watching Laura's frantic movements, barely acknowledged him.
"Hold the wall, everyone!" she barked, her voice sharp and focused.
Mike gritted his teeth and dug in harder, muttering under his breath, "Yeah, yeah, hold the wall. No big deal—just fighting a bloody moving fortress over here."
Jim, as stoic as ever, simply nodded and redoubled his efforts, his boots scraping against the floor as he braced himself harder. The three of them held fast, their combined strength barely slowing the walls' advance, but it was enough. Enough to buy a little more time.
Angbor let out a guttural growl as he felt the power within him intensify. The pain seared up his arm, but he didn't care. The silver scars continued to spread, and with them, the whispers became more urgent, more demanding. Yet still, he held his ground.
The walls crept closer, each rumble sending a spike of fear through the team. Desperation began to set in as the space between them and the crushing stone walls grew smaller.
Suddenly, Laura sprinted to the center of the room and collapsed into a limp heap when she activated Neural amplifier. Laura was using her implants, amplifying her brain's processing power. But they were running out of time.
The walls were dangerously close now, barely a few meters from crushing them and Angbor´ s lightning did not help. Then, as if possessed by a sudden burst of energy, Laura sprang to her feet. She moved with precision, touching specific symbols along the walls.
Danny, watching closely, noticed something with his eye implants—a subtle, indistinct shadow around the symbols Laura touched, just a few micrometers large, but a shadow nonetheless. Recognizing the pattern, he rushed to help Laura, moving counterclockwise as she moved clockwise.
Their hands worked in unison, touching symbols in a rhythmic sequence. The walls groaned in protest as they continued their slow march inward. Finally, Danny and Laura met at the same symbol. Their hands touched it simultaneously, the final key in the puzzle.
With a deafening rumble, the walls ground to a halt. For a moment, an eerie silence hung in the air as the Silver team collapsed to the ground, panting and trembling from the exertion. Then, one of the walls began to lower, the grinding stone revealing a passage ahead, offering a way forward.
Captain Jerkins exhaled, visibly relieved. "Well done," she said, glancing at Laura and Danny.
After acknowledging Laura's and Danny's accomplishment, Captain Jerkins turned her attention to Angbor, who was kneeling with his back to the team, his hand pressed against the wall. The silvery scars that had once been confined to his hand had now spread ominously, creeping up his neck, across his chest, and down his back like veins of corruption. She frowned, both grateful for his earlier effort and alarmed by its consequences.
"Angbor, good effort, but you nearly fried us back there," Captain Jerkins said, her tone both thankful and stern.
But Angbor didn't respond. His body remained rigid, his head lowered as if he were listening to something distant and incomprehensible. The loud whispers in his head, the parasitic voice of the spirit that had latched onto him through the scars, refused to recede. They filled his mind, suffocating his thoughts, their intensity increasing the longer he remained still.
Captain Jerkins tilted her head, concern growing. Angbor was never one to ignore her, no matter the situation. Something was wrong. She stepped closer, softening her tone. "Angbor, are you alright? Do you hear me?"
Still, there was no response. His silence now felt oppressive. She closed the distance and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
The reaction was instant—and violent. Angbor shot to his feet with terrifying speed, shrugging her hand off and pushing her back so forcefully that she stumbled to the ground. For a brief, alarming moment, it looked as though he was about to lash out at her further. But instead, he stormed past her, his steps heavy and angry, heading straight for the opening in the wall. His voice came out in a strained growl, his words fragmented and pained.
"Shut up before I make you! What do you care?!"
The entire Silver team froze, their mouths hanging open in shock. They had never seen Angbor act this way before—never seen him lose control over nothing. Captain Jerkins picked herself up off the ground, still stunned by the outburst.
Angbor stopped in the opening of the wall, the sharp light of the passage enveloping him. He stood there for a moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with labored breaths. Then, as if the fog of anger had cleared, he let out a long, regretful sigh. Slowly, he looked down at his hand, the silvery scars glowing faintly.
"Going back to my conversations on the ship regarding this spirit…" he said, his voice low and burdened. "I now believe it is indeed affecting me. And not pleasantly, I might add."
Turning his head slightly over his shoulder, he cast a somber glance back at Captain Jerkins. "Apologies, Captain. It was too strong. And I fear we can only assume it will get worse from here."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Captain Jerkins straightened and met his gaze, her voice firm with determination. "We'll get out of this together, Angbor. Don't even think for a second that we'll give up on you."
The rest of the team nodded in agreement. Laura stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on Angbor's back, her touch gentle but grounding. "We've got your back, Angbor. We'll get through this."
For the first time since the incident, Angbor seemed to relax, if only slightly. He gave a faint nod, his shoulders slumping as he allowed himself a moment of respite. Without another word, the team crossed through the open wall.
As the Silver team passed through the opening in the wall, the full grandeur of the arena unfolded before them. The vast oval-shaped coliseum was surrounded by towering stone walls, with massive tiers of tribunes rising above, packed with thousands of roaring spectators. The crowd's cheers echoed like thunder, shaking the air and making the ground beneath their feet seem alive. The uppermost levels of the arena featured opulent lodges connected by intricate bridges, where the city's elites and priests lounged, observing the chaos below with detached amusement. By the look of things, the Silver team had been the first to make it to this stage of the games.
The momentary reprieve was short-lived. Across the arena, another massive wall creaked open, grinding against its hinges with a guttural groan. What emerged sent a wave of tension rippling through the team. Giants—at least four meters tall—lumbered into their shared space. Their bodies were hulking and covered in tough, grayish skin, almost stone-like in texture, adorned with vivid blue, wave-like tattoos that pulsed faintly, as if imbued with energy. Each of them wore large loincloths similar to the Silver team's, though proportionate to their massive frames.
There were three of them—two male giants and one she-giant—and they wasted no time sizing up their opponents. Their wide, toothy grins radiated confidence, almost bordering on disdain. One male giant flexed his arms, his biceps bulging grotesquely, while another cracked his knuckles with bone-rattling force. The she-giant, taller and leaner than her counterparts, tilted her head and stretched her shoulders with an air of predatory grace.
The purpose of the arena was now unmistakably clear. This was a fight. No escape, no tricks, just combat. The giants were here to crush them, and the Silver team had no choice but to respond in kind.
Danny stepped forward, his usual bravado barely faltering. "Alright, we can take them. Their bodies seem to have several weak points," he said, scanning them with his augmented eyes.
Mike, however, wasn't so convinced. "I don't know, man. They're huge. Look at them. If one of them sneezes, we're dead."
Emily chimed in, her voice calm but analytical. "Size doesn't mean everything. Their mass might slow them down. Based on their proportions, they probably don't have reinforced bones or optimized muscle structure. Still, their sheer weight gives them a massive advantage."
Angbor nodded in agreement, his expression grim. "They underestimate us. We can't make the same mistake. If they catch you, it's over. Stay fast and keep moving."
Danny's earlier confidence wavered, and he took a hesitant step back. "Well, when you put it like that…"
Captain Jerkins finally broke her silence, her voice cutting through the tension like steel. "There's several fewer of them than us. Normally, we'd use that to our advantage fully, but Emily, you're still wounded. I'm not risking you out there alone."
Emily frowned, her hand instinctively brushing against her side. "I can manage, Captain."
Jerkins shot her a sharp look. "I won't take that chance. Laura, stay with her. You two with Mike take the she-giant. The rest of us will deal with the others. Spread out and keep moving. Don't give them a chance to corner you."
The team nodded, their focus sharpening as they quickly fell into formation. The giants, seemingly amused by the humans' attempts at strategy, let out booming laughs. Their grins widened as they watched their smaller opponents move into position, clearly eager for the clash.
Then, without warning, the giants began to charge, their massive footsteps shaking the ground like an earthquake. The Silver team didn't wait—they broke into a sprint, splitting into pairs to spread the giants thin. The crowd's cheers surged to deafening heights, their bloodlust palpable as the two sides collided.
Tribunes and lodges erupted in applause and shouts, their excitement growing with every second. This was what they had come to see—blood, sweat, and survival in the most primal form. The battle had begun.
The first to land a hit was Jim, who flanked right alongside Angbor. Despite his speed and skill, Angbor was noticeably slower. He was battling not only the giants but also the Spirit within him, using sheer discipline to keep it from spreading further. Angbor had learned the hard way that the Spirit fed off his emotions—every moment of unchecked rage, frustration, or pain allowed it to spread its influence through his body like wildfire. He forced himself to remain cold and calculated, but it came at the cost of his usual speed and fluidity.
Jim darted ahead, narrowly slipping under the giant's massive swinging fist. With precision born from years of training, he launched into a rotating kick aimed at the vulnerable spot just beneath the giant's knee. The strike landed true, staggering the giant and creating a critical opening. Angbor almost missed the opportunity, his restraint threatening to slow his response, but he pushed through and leapt onto the giant's head and neck. Clinging like a relentless badger, Angbor pummeled the creature's skull with his metal hand, each blow echoing with a sickening thud.
The giant roared in fury, thrashing wildly to dislodge him. Its massive hands reached up, slamming into Angbor's body with bone-rattling force, but he refused to let go. Jim seized the moment to maneuver around the chaos, targeting the giant's weaker spots. He delivered precise strikes to its Achilles tendon, ribs, and the back of its knees, making it even harder for the creature to maintain its balance. Together, they worked to overwhelm the massive foe.
Meanwhile, Captain Jerkins and Danny found themselves locked in a far more harrowing fight against the largest of the giants. This one was massive even by its own kind's standards, and though it appeared cumbersome, it proved to be unnaturally fast and terrifyingly agile. Danny dodged the giant's first sweeping hand and evaded a knee strike, but his luck ran out when the massive hand finally caught him by the hip, lifting him like a rag doll.
Captain Jerkins sprang into action. She leapt onto the giant's back, wedging its thick neck between her legs in a chokehold while raining down elbow strikes on its skull. The blows distracted the giant, but not enough to fully stop it. With a single violent thrash, the creature broke free of her assault, gaining just enough time to focus on Danny.
Danny scrambled to his feet, augmented reflexes kicking in as the world seemed to slow around him. He saw the giant's fist coming, its trajectory painfully clear, but no amount of processing power could save him. The first punch hit his chest, knocking the wind out of him. The second struck his face with devastating force, sending him sprawling to the ground, unconscious and with several fractures. Only his reinforced bones saved him from being crushed outright.
Captain Jerkins was left alone against the hulking giant. Despite her best efforts to keep up the fight, her odds were slim.
On the left flank, the she-giant charged Silver Team's trio with a predatory focus, her sharp eyes locking onto Emily. She had clearly spotted the weakest link—Emily's wounded state made her the easiest prey. Mike attempted the same maneuver as Jim, aiming for a low kick beneath the she-giant's knee, but she was far faster. With a feral snarl, she countered by kicking Mike in the abdomen, sending him flying several meters through the air.
Laura, however, had better luck. As the she-giant turned to swipe at Emily with a powerful backhand, Laura intercepted with a well-timed strike to the giant's exposed side. She capitalized on the moment, charging low and crashing into the giant's leg with all her strength. The impact was enough to drag the towering foe to the ground. Seeing their opportunity, Mike and Emily recovered and dogpiled the she-giant, delivering blow after blow to keep her subdued.
On the right flank, Angbor and Jim finally brought their giant to its knees. Angbor's relentless strikes and Jim's surgical precision proved too much for the hulking creature. As it collapsed, Angbor leapt off its body, but he was clearly drained, his breath ragged and the silver scars on his body visibly spreading.
The greatest threat still remained. The largest giant, now freed from Captain Jerkins' chokehold, caught her in its massive hand and slammed her into the ground with a sickening crunch. Blood spurted from her mouth, her body limp and unresponsive. The giant roared in triumph and raised both fists high above its head, ready to deliver a finishing blow.
But before the strike could land, Angbor hurled himself into the giant's side with the force of a battering ram. The impact staggered the beast, buying just enough time for Jim to use Angbor's shoulder as a springboard. Launching himself into the air, Jim latched onto the giant's face, grabbing its eyelids and tearing at its sensitive eyes. The beast howled in agony and fell to the ground, thrashing wildly.
The rest of the team rallied. Laura, Mike, and Emily joined the fray, striking the fallen giant relentlessly. It fought back with ferocious strength, landing several blows that sent members of the team sprawling, but their combined efforts were too much. Blow by blow, the Silver Team finally brought the great giant down.
When the battle ended, the arena erupted into deafening cheers, the bloodthirsty crowd reveling in the spectacle. The Silver Team, however, was far from celebratory. They collapsed to the ground, utterly spent and battered.
Mike clutched his abdomen, groaning in pain. Danny, still dazed and bleeding, muttered weakly, "I just want to get out of here already," as blood trickled from his face. Laura propped him up, her own face pale with exhaustion. Emily, despite her own reopened wound, limped over to Captain Jerkins, who remained unconscious. With shaking hands, Emily forced the Captain's dislocated shoulder back into place and did her best to straighten a few ribs, though tears streamed down her face as she worked.
"She'll make it, I think," Emily said, her voice trembling. She wiped her tears but couldn't stop them from coming, the fear of losing her comrades overwhelming her.
Angbor sat apart from the others, his hands shaking as he battled the whispers of the Spirit inside him. The silver scars now stretched across his cheek, glowing faintly as if mocking him. Despite his victory, the battle within him was far from over.
The team remained where they were, barely able to move. As the crowd roared and chanted for more bloodshed, Silver Team stayed silent, battered but alive.
Laura eventually pulled Emily aside, her voice soft yet firm, "How are you holding up?"
Emily looked shattered, her usually calm demeanor fractured, but she was trying to piece herself together. "I just… I've never lost anyone before. I've always worked under proper conditions, with the right equipment, proper medics by my side. And now—my first assignment—and look at this mess. Half the team is injured, the Captain's hanging by a thread, Angbor is having… whatever that is… and I can't help any of them. I feel useless."
Laura stepped closer, wrapping Emily in a warm hug. The gesture was brief, but it was enough to give Emily a moment to breathe. As Laura pulled back, she rested her hands on Emily's shoulders and looked her in the eye. "It's not your fault. You don't have the equipment. You've done everything you could, and more. Look at me, Emily. You're holding us together right now. You can't do more than you already have."
Emily shook her head, visibly calming as Laura's words sank in. She glanced over at her teammates—the battered, broken remnants of the Silver Team—and her eyes lingered on the dead giants sprawled across the sand. Her expression shifted, a faint spark of determination returning. "Actually… I can do more. Help me with the cloth."
Laura blinked, momentarily stunned. "The cloth?" Then it clicked, and she realized Emily's intent. Quickly catching up, Laura followed Emily to the nearest fallen giant. Together, they began tearing strips of cloth from the giants' loincloths to use as makeshift bandages.
A faint smile crossed Laura's lips. "See? You do have this."
Emily gave a small, relieved nod, her hands working quickly to tear and fold the fabric. "We can take more than we need and still leave plenty behind."
Jim noticed what they were doing and hurried over to help. Between the three of them, they salvaged strips of cloth from all three giants, leaving behind enough to avoid desecrating the bodies completely. Emily wasted no time and got to work, expertly bandaging her own injured leg before turning to the others. She carefully wrapped Captain Jerkins' torso, stabilizing her ribs and shoulder, and then moved on to Danny, bandaging his fractured face and head as gently as she could.
Meanwhile, Laura took a few strips of cloth to Angbor, who remained sitting apart from the others, utterly still. His silver scars glimmered faintly, their ominous glow now less pronounced in the shining sun. Laura crouched near him, her voice quiet but filled with concern. "If you need anything, just say the word. I know something's going on in your head, and I'll give you the space you need… but we're here if you want help."
Angbor didn't speak, didn't move for a long moment. Then, ever so slightly, he gave a faint nod—or at least, Laura thought he did. It could've been nothing, but it was enough for her to leave a bundle of cloth at his side before retreating to join the others.
After several minutes, Angbor finally stirred. Without a word, he took the cloth and wrapped it around both of his wrists, the white fabric stark against his scarred and trembling hands. His posture didn't change, and he still refused to look at anyone, but it was a small sign that he was still present—still fighting.
As Emily and Laura finished bandaging themselves and their teammates, they used the remaining cloth to create a stockpile for future injuries. Despite their exhaustion, they wrapped themselves with makeshift togas from the leftover fabric to shield against the cold or sand.
Then, the tribunes erupted into a deafening cheer, shaking the arena with their bloodthirsty enthusiasm. Before the sound could fade, a deep rumble echoed through the air. The walls of the arena began to slide down with an earth-shaking groan, disappearing into the ground until the entire space was transformed into a vast, open, sandy oval. Scattered bodies of fallen warriors and giants lay motionless across the sand, a grim testament to the battles that had unfolded.
But amidst the stillness, one figure stood apart from the carnage.
A lone humanoid emerged from the far side of the arena, walking with deliberate, unhurried steps toward the Silver Team. The figure was wrapped in layers of bloodstained cloth, its height matching that of a human, though its movements and appearance were anything but ordinary. Its black, scaly skin shimmered faintly in the light, and its body was streaked with patches of dried blood—red, green, and black. In its clawed hands, it carried a golden khopesh, the blade jagged and spiked in an impractical yet menacing design.
As it drew closer, its piercing green eyes became visible, glowing faintly against its dark, reptilian face. Though its body structure was humanoid, its scales, sharp claws, and small horns revealed it as something far removed from humanity. Its movements were slow, calculated, and unerringly confident, as though the creature was measuring every step with precision.
The Silver Team could only watch as the lizard-like being approached, its gaze locking onto them with an unsettling intensity. Whatever it was, it radiated an aura of both menace and intelligence—something far more dangerous than the brute force of the giants they had just faced. The arena, once filled with the roars of the crowd, now felt suffocatingly silent as the tension mounted.
Jim positioned himself as the first line of defense, stepping forward with determination to face the lizard-like creature. The lizard's body language shifted subtly as Jim approached—it almost seemed pleased, as if it welcomed the challenge. However, Jim didn't hesitate. He moved closer, his neural amplifier heightening his reflexes and perception, preparing him for the fight.
The lizard struck first, slashing at Jim with its golden, jagged khopesh. The blade sliced through the air in a deadly arc, but Jim's enhanced reflexes allowed him to dodge the blow with ease. Without missing a beat, he countered by lunging for the weapon, attempting to wrest it from the creature's claws. He almost succeeded—the khopesh was nearly out of the lizard's grasp—when the creature snapped its head forward, sinking its sharp, serrated fangs deep into Jim's hand.
The pain was immediate and excruciating. Jim cried out in agony as the venom began coursing through his veins. His body convulsed violently, and he clutched his wounded hand, collapsing to the ground. Tremors wracked his body as he writhed in the sand, his cries echoing across the arena. The lizard stepped over him dismissively, as though he were no longer a threat, and turned its attention to Laura, Mike, and Emily, who had formed a protective line in front of the unconscious Captain Jerkins and the barely conscious Danny.
The lizard advanced, its emerald eyes gleaming with malicious intent. It raised its khopesh, ready to strike, when a deep, commanding cry rang out, "Lizard!"
The lizard turned just as Angbor charged forward, his steps crackling with sparks of energy. He closed the distance in a flash, his movements a blur of precision and speed. The two engaged in a deadly dance, the lizard's slashes and bites narrowly missing their mark as Angbor evaded with agility born of discipline and power. With each sidestep, sparks ignited beneath his feet, leaving scorch marks in the sand.
The lizard, growing frustrated, lunged forward, attempting to bite Angbor as it had bitten Jim. But as its fangs neared Angbor's skin, a burst of electricity surged outward, striking the lizard's mouth and searing its flesh. The creature hissed in pain, momentarily stunned.
Angbor seized the opportunity. He grabbed hold of the khopesh with both hands, twisting the weapon free from the lizard's grip. With a fluid motion, he spun around and swung the blade in a powerful arc, cutting deep into the lizard's neck. The jagged spikes on the khopesh stopped the blade short of a full decapitation, but the wound was severe. Without hesitation, Angbor dropped the weapon, grabbed the lizard's head, and twisted it in the opposite direction of the cut. With a sickening crack, the lizard's head tore free from its body.
The lizard's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, its blood pooling in the sand. Angbor stood over it, holding the severed head, his chest heaving as he struggled to steady his breathing.
For a moment, the battlefield was silent, save for the sound of labored breathing. Emily, shaking off her shock, limped toward Jim, who was still convulsing on the ground. His face was pale, his body trembling uncontrollably as the venom coursed through his system. Mike, still clutching his stomach, sank to the ground, visibly exhausted.
Laura moved toward Emily but paused to address Angbor first. "So, you're still with us," she said, her voice both relieved and impressed. "I wasn't entirely sure, but I believed."
Angbor looked at her, his expression heavy with weariness. "It's… hard," he admitted, his voice low and strained. "I… don't know… the spirit is getting stronger. Stronger with each fight." He glanced at the severed head in his hand before letting it drop to the sand. "I need quiet."
Laura wanted to offer some words of comfort, but Angbor turned and walked away, leaving the golden khopesh and the lizard's head behind him. His steps were slow and deliberate, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight.
Laura then joined Emily, who was crouched beside Jim, examining his wound. "It looks nasty," Laura said, her voice tinged with concern. "The nanites should handle the venom, right?"
Emily nodded but didn't look up. "It appears the venom is corroding both the nanites and the tissue," she explained, her tone clinical despite the tension. "The nanites seem to be slowing it down, but it's just a guess. My connection to his vitals isn't great right now." She paused, her expression grim. "What I'm sure of is that Jim's going to lose a lot of nanites. He'll have enough left to operate his reinforced muscles, but some of his augmentations will lose efficiency."
Emily glanced up at Laura, her eyes filled with worry. "Wounds like the ones the others sustained could kill him now."
Laura knelt beside her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Let's get him to the others," she said gently. "Let's hope this is the last show for today."
As they gently laid Jim next to the others, his pale face glistened with cold sweat. Though his body still twitched from time to time, the spasms had begun to subside—a sign that the venom was losing its grip. Emily knelt beside him, brushing his arm lightly as she checked his pulse. It was weak but steady, and she let out a small sigh of relief. He would survive, though the toll on his body was clear.
Suddenly, one of the arena's towering walls rumbled open, revealing a gate that led to the cells. Through it marched a contingent of warriors clad in gleaming golden armor, their movements precise and intimidating. Following behind were several unarmored figures dressed in ornate robes, their flowing fabrics adorned with the same vivid colors as the banners and decorations that hung across the city. Each robe-bearer carried a gilded litter.
The golden soldiers fanned out into a circle around the Silver Team, their glaives pointed menacingly at the battered group. Their expressions remained stoic, offering no sympathy as they surrounded the weary fighters. Without uttering a single word, they began herding the team back toward the cells.
Thunderous applause erupted from the audience above, echoing throughout the arena as the Silver Team was escorted away. The crowd's cheers were deafening, a bizarre contrast to the somber march of the wounded combatants. The arena gates slammed shut behind them, and the echo of the crowd's frenzy faded into the oppressive silence of the cells.
Once inside, Emily turned toward one of the guards stationed outside their cell. Her voice was firm but pleading. "Could we please get our stuff back? At least the medical equipment. We have too many wounded to deal with."
The guard stood rigid, his gaze fixed forward as though she hadn't spoken at all. After a moment, he finally responded in a curt, emotionless tone. "The services of an apothecary are offered only to champions."
Laura stepped forward, gripping the bars tightly. Her voice carried a hint of defiance. "But we won! We survived! Doesn't that make us champions?"
This time, the guard turned his head slightly, his cold eyes meeting hers. "Tomorrow, you will face the Son of Sol himself. If he deems you worthy, then—and only then—will you be considered champions."
Emily refused to back down. "Come on! I don't need an apothecary, just my stuff. Please!" Her voice cracked with desperation, but the guard didn't even glance her way this time. He turned his back, ignoring her entirely.
Laura placed a hand on Emily's shoulder and gently pulled her away from the bars. "There's no point. We need to rest while we can."
Emily's shoulders sagged, and she allowed herself to be led to the corner of the cell, where they slumped to the ground.
The next day came too soon, and the Silver Team was forced back into the arena. As they stumbled into the sandy battlefield, a voice echoed across the massive space, announcing their entrance with a single, foreign word: Skrish-Iz. The meaning was unclear, but the tone made it clear that it wasn't meant as a title of honor.
Laura and Emily struggled to support Captain Jerkins, who remained barely conscious. Meanwhile, Mike and Jim helped Danny, though both were clearly pushing the limits of their own strength. Behind them walked Angbor, his steps heavy despite his lack of visible injuries. He had not slept the entire night, locked in his relentless battle against the spirit within him.
They were positioned on one side of the arena, their movements slow and labored. The guards left without ceremony, and moments later, the crowd erupted into deafening cheers as their opponent entered.
A single beam of sunlight pierced the open sky above, illuminating the figure that appeared in the arena. The Son of Sol. The man rose from one knee, his presence commanding and theatrical. His face was hidden behind a golden mask, shaped like the radiant sun, with gilded rays forming a crown around his head. His upper body was bare, revealing a muscular physique that glistened with oil, while his lower half was dressed in flowing white harem pants and heavy, gold-plated boots. In his hands, he held a spear adorned with intricate sun motifs beneath its blade. He moved with the confidence of someone who had never known defeat, and even though his mask hid his expression, there was no doubt he relished the adoration of the crowd.
The cheers grew even louder as he waved to the spectators, basking in their worship. Turning toward the Silver Team, he pointed his spear at them, his voice booming like the roar of a furnace, yet oddly smooth and almost playful. "Choose one to face me. Prove yourselves and live. Fail, and die."
The Silver Team exchanged weary glances before gently lowering Captain Jerkins and Danny to the ground. They huddled together, trying to decide who would fight. Laura broke the silence. "Who should go? I mean, I could, but let's be honest—if it's for our lives, I'm not the best fighter here."
Emily shook her head. "Don't underestimate yourself. And even if that's true, look at us—we could barely make it out of the cell. It's not like we have better options."
Mike, still clutching his stomach, grimaced. "Gold boy clearly wants someone. Let's just give him what he wants before he decides to kill us all."
Jim, pale and trembling but still lucid, added, "I say it's either Laura or Angbor."
Laura's eyes widened. "Right! But Angbor… he still has that thing in his head." She looked around quickly, her stomach sinking. "Wait—where is he?"
They all turned their heads to see Angbor already standing at the weapon stand, his hands closing around the massive hammer. Laura rushed toward him, her voice filled with urgency. "Angbor, I can do this if you're not feeling well."
Angbor hefted the hammer, testing its weight in his hands. His voice was low and resigned. "Let me do this. I'm holding onto the edge of a losing battle… and they'll need someone unspoiled to get them home."
Laura hesitated, her eyes tracing the faint silver scars running across Angbor's skin. The scars had spread, now reaching his other hand. Yet, despite his unsettling appearance, she placed a hand on his arm. "Don't say that. We can still make it. We can still fight this."
Angbor's gaze remained fixed on the Son of Sol as he stepped forward. "Let me do this while I still can. I won't fall cowering on the ground."
With that, he moved closer to the golden warrior, hammer in hands, leaving Laura and the rest of the team behind to watch in tense silence. The crowd roared in anticipation, their voices filling the arena like thunder.
The Son of Sol executed one final theatrical spin, his golden form shimmering in the sunlight, before breaking into a slow jog. He moved with calculated ease, a predator savoring the anticipation of his audience. Angbor mirrored him, his grip tightening on the hammer as he ramped up to meet his opponent. The two combatants closed the distance, their footfalls stirring up clouds of arena dust until they collided in a clash of raw power and precision.
The Son of Sol toyed with Angbor at first, his movements effortless and deliberate. He was faster, stronger, and more experienced, wielding his spear with a grace that bordered on mockery. Angbor, however, moved as though on autopilot, his hammer striking out in fluid arcs, his mind elsewhere. Every ounce of his willpower was focused not on the fight itself but on suppressing the growing turmoil inside him—the battle against the spirit that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. His thoughts flickered between his duty, his family, and his battered team, who watched from the sidelines with pale, exhausted faces.
Angbor spun the hammer deftly in his hands, using its weight to roll over the golden spear and draw himself closer to his opponent. The maneuver was skillful, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though he might land a strike. Yet, the Son of Sol evaded with an almost playful ease, stepping out of range each time Angbor closed the distance. Despite his exhaustion, Angbor's performance was commendable—worthy of respect, even—but it was clear to all that the demigod warrior outmatched him in every way.
The fight dragged on, growing monotonous for the spectators. The Son of Sol, sensing the crowd's waning excitement, began to play to them, occasionally landing light strikes on Angbor to stir up their cheers. He raised his spear high after each hit, theatrically basking in the audience's adoration, while Angbor remained stoic, his resolve unbroken despite the accumulating bruises and cuts.
Finally, tiring of his game, the Son of Sol stopped holding back. In one decisive motion, he struck Angbor with the flat of his spear, a blow packed with such force that it sent the Arnorian warrior flying backward. Angbor tumbled across the sand, his hammer skidding out of reach as he came to a stop near the rest of the Silver Team. Laura was the first to rush to his side, kneeling beside him as blood trickled from the countless shallow wounds that marred his body.
"Angbor!" Laura called, her voice breaking with concern. She pressed a hand to his shoulder, shaking him lightly. "Angbor, stay with us!" Emily joined her side, bandages already in hands and began working on his wounds.
But Angbor didn't hear her, nor did he react to Emily's hands. His eyes stared skyward, past the towering walls of the arena and through the gaps between the grand tribunes. The sunlight above seemed distant, hazy. His mind was elsewhere, and the cacophony of the arena faded into silence as flashes of light and shadow flooded his vision.
Suddenly, he was no longer in the arena.
He stood on an endless, void-black plain, the ground beneath him smooth and featureless. The whispers in his mind were gone—silenced at last—and his thoughts felt his own for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. He glanced around, unsure of where he was or how he had arrived, when a large, blurred figure began to drift toward him from the darkness.
It was her. Yárcarniel.
The goddess's form was surreal and otherworldly, her body divided into two halves that mirrored yet contrasted each other. One half was a warrior, clad in radiant, blood-streaked armor that shone with an eerie light. Her pale, spotless skin glimmered beneath the intricate plates of her armor, and her wild, tangled hair was the color of fresh blood. The other half was naked, her skin equally pale but drenched in dark, dripping blood that fell from her limbs and pooled at her feet. Her black hair swayed unnaturally in the void, slick with the same crimson liquid. Her duality was unnerving—a perfect balance of beauty and horror.
Angbor dropped to one knee, bowing his head. "Has my time come?" he asked, his voice trembling but resolute.
Yárcarniel's voice was a paradox, smooth and loving yet heavy and predatory, as though a hunter was savoring the moment before striking. Both halves of her face spoke at once, overlapping in eerie harmony.
"It has come if you wish," said one voice."You are at my door," said the other.
Angbor raised his head, meeting her piercing gaze. Despite her intimidating presence, he was not afraid. "I wish to continue. I wish to finish my duty... and I wish to get home."
The goddess fell silent, her shifting form tilting its head in contemplation. Her two voices spoke again, sometimes overlapping and sometimes separate. Her body flickered, sometimes more armored, sometimes more bare.
"I won't save you again, and you won't return home," said one voice."You can finish your duty and save the others, but you might never be yourself again," said the other.
Angbor furrowed his brow, unsure of her meaning but unwavering in his resolve. "How?" he asked simply.
The goddess's voices answered in tandem, their tone both seductive and cruel.
"You can continue by falling to the spirit," said one."Let it consume your soul and become destruction," said the other.
"Or come with me and die," one voice continued."Or fail, and enter the hall of the true-born," overlapped the other.
Angbor rose to his feet, his resolve hardening. "I will finish what I started, no matter the cost."
The void around him seemed to tremble at his words. A polished stone flashed in his mind—a memory of a sacred chamber filled with portals. Then, an image of a crystal followed by the tallest tower of the city. They were not memories but fragments of something yet to come.
Yárcarniel's voices spoke again, their tone almost reverent now.
"Then rise, Son of Arnor," said one."Then rise, my warrior," intertwined the other.
Angbor blinked, and the void was gone. He was back in the arena, lying in the sand, his body aching and broken. Laura knelt above him, her face a mask of worry as she tried to get through to him. The whispers returned to his mind, a chaotic storm threatening to overwhelm him, but they were drowned out by a singular, commanding voice that cut through the noise like thunder.
"Rise, Arnorian," the voice boomed, the two tones harmonizing as one.
Angbor's fingers twitched, and he gripped the sand beneath him. His resolve burned brighter than ever. He would rise. He would finish this. He would protect them all.
Angbor struggled to his feet with Laura's and Emily's help, his movements slow and pained. His voice was hoarse but steady as he spoke."I don't know what's going to happen... but find a stone."
Laura frowned, her face a mix of frustration and concern. She grabbed his arm, trying to hold him back. "A stone? Angbor, come on, you've done enough! You can't—"
He cut her off, his grip firm yet gentle as he removed her hand from his arm. His gaze locked on hers, intense and unwavering."A stone. In a room full of portals. It will get you home. And now..." He turned back toward the golden warrior looming ahead of him. "I'll give you the chance to find it."
Laura's protests fell silent as Angbor limped forward, the weight of his battered body barely slowing him. The Son of Sol, standing proudly in the center of the arena, stabbed his golden spear into the ground with a dramatic flourish. A cruel, booming laugh echoed through the air as he stepped toward Angbor.
"You still stand?!" the Son of Sol jeered, his voice dripping with mockery. "My father told me of your nature... and of your goddess. Impressive, he said. But I am disappointed. He must have exaggerated!"
The two warriors closed the distance between them, their footsteps measured and heavy. There was no finesse now—only raw determination. The Son of Sol's first strike was a heavy blow, his fist colliding with Angbor's jaw. Angbor responded in kind, his hammer forgotten as he swung back with his bare hands.
"Is this really it?!" the golden warrior taunted as they exchanged punches, each of Angbor's strikes barely making him falter. The next blow sent Angbor staggering backward, rage building beneath his skin like a storm cloud ready to burst.
"Perhaps those infidels of yours will prove more entertaining," the Son of Sol sneered, his golden grin widening. He advanced, driving his fist into Angbor's stomach with bone-crushing force. "I'll make their deaths slow... and painful," he laughed, punctuating his words with another brutal strike.
Angbor's head hung low as his shoulders heaved with labored breaths. The rage within him churned violently, loosening the chains that held the spirit at bay. And then—he let go.
With a deep, guttural cry, Angbor's fist shot forward like a thunderclap, connecting squarely with the Son of Sol's face. The golden warrior was sent staggering back several meters, his body skidding across the sand. Angbor stood tall, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Silver scars spread across his body, glowing faintly as the spirit surged through him, consuming his soul and mind.
The Son of Sol lifted his head, his golden mask cracked and slightly ajar. A sliver of his face was visible, bathed in sunlight, and from his mouth, he spat a glob of gold-tainted blood. His expression, half-hidden behind the mask, twisted into a grin.
"There we go," he growled, his voice now laced with excitement. The grin vanished as his tone turned sharp and dangerous. "Now we will have some fun."
The Son of Sol shot forward with blinding speed, leaving trails of radiant sunlight in his wake. To the spectators, he was little more than a golden blur. But Angbor was ready. Fueled by the spirit and stripped of hesitation, he caught the golden warrior mid-charge. The two titans clashed like forces of nature—lightning crackling against sunbeams as they grappled, punched, and threw each other across the arena.
The ground shook beneath them. Dust and sand erupted in clouds with every impact as their battle raged across the battlefield. Angbor, his body a canvas of glowing scars, fought with reckless fury, landing devastating blows even as the Son of Sol matched him strike for strike.
Amid the chaos, Angbor's gaze flickered to the far edge of the arena, where the battered Silver Team huddled together, watching with wide eyes. For a brief moment, a fragment of himself—the true Angbor—surfaced. Buried deep beneath the spirit's control, that shard of his humanity saw his team, remembered his duty, and clung to it.
With a roar that reverberated through the arena, Angbor broke free of the Son of Sol's grip. He stumbled backward, the spirit pushing him to act. His eyes darted to the fallen hammer nearby, and he seized it with trembling hands.
Before the Son of Sol could react, Angbor propelled himself into the air with a series of ramping jumps. Each impact of his feet sent shockwaves rippling through the sand, his body moving with an unnatural, spirit-fueled strength. He soared toward the arena walls, his hammer gripped tightly in both hands.
The Son of Sol's laughter rang out behind him as he realized what Angbor was doing. With a snarl of rage, the golden warrior flung himself into the air in pursuit, a streak of sunlight trailing in his wake.
As the two warriors vanished beyond the arena walls, silence fell. The crowd and the Silver Team alike stood frozen, stunned by what had just transpired.
Then, with a deep, grinding noise, the walls of the arena split open once more, forming the same gates through which the Silver Team had been led earlier. Several squads of golden-armored soldiers jogged in perfect columns onto the sand, their polished armor gleaming under the harsh sunlight. They swiftly formed a circle around the Silver Team, lowering their glaives, sharp tips gleaming like fangs.
Laura and the others who could still stand formed their own protective circle, shielding the wounded at their center.
The ground trembled underfoot as the distant impacts of Angbor and the Son of Sol's battle echoed through the city. Dust trickled from the stonework, shaken loose by the sheer force of their clash.
"Call off that beast or be put to the sword!" the commander of the arena guards barked, his voice cutting through the tension.
"We cannot! He is possessed!" Laura shot back, her voice strong and unwavering.
The commander hesitated for only a fraction of a second before his expression hardened. He raised his hand, preparing to give the order.
"As you wish."
Before he could bring his hand down, the ground shook violently beneath them. A deafening explosion split the air, and from the heart of the city, a golden dust cloud billowed outward, shimmering like dying embers. A shockwave rushed across the arena, ruffling cloaks and sending loose sand flying.
All eyes turned toward the keep.
The massive energy barrier that had loomed over the city, stretching into the sky like an unbreakable wall, began to flicker. Cracks of light spread across it like fractured glass before, piece by piece, it collapsed, dissolving into nothing.
The golden-clad soldiers wavered, gripping their weapons tighter as uncertainty flickered across their faces.
The commander's composure faltered for the first time, his expression betraying a moment of panic before he steeled himself. "You two!" he snapped, pointing at a pair of guards. "Get them to the cells! The rest of you, to the walls! Move!"
Shouting erupted from the stands. Chaos took hold. Some spectators scrambled for the exits, desperate to flee, while others—warriors among them—rushed toward the armories, determined to take up arms. It mattered little. Panic reigned.
From the tallest minarets, alarm horns blared, their urgent cries rippling through the city.
The Silver Team wasted no time. Gathering their wounded, they moved toward the arena walls, the two guards at their backs urging them forward with sharp, hurried commands.
Upon reaching the cells, Laura activated her implant, silently relaying instructions to the rest of the team. It wasn't a full conversation—just pulses of data, enough for them to understand what needed to be done.
Jim suddenly collapsed, hitting the ground hard. The guards flinched, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected scene. That brief moment was all Emily, Laura, and Mike needed.
Emily spun low, hooking her leg around one guard's knee, yanking him off balance. She grimaced in pain, but he dropped to his knees—right into Mike's waiting chokehold. At the same time, Laura twisted, sweeping the second guard's legs out from under him. He hit the ground with a grunt, but before he could react, Laura had already seized his dagger, pressing the cold steel against his throat.
The first guard struggled in Mike's grip, his movements weakening as his air was cut off. The second thrashed beneath Laura, but she held firm. Emily hesitated for only a second before stepping in to help, forcing the blade deeper. The guard jerked once, then went still.
"This isn't what I imagined I'd be doing when exploring the universe," Emily muttered, her voice hollow.
"Me neither," Laura sighed, wiping the dagger clean.
Mike released the limp body of the first guard, exhaling heavily. "Well, at least mine survived," he said, attempting to lighten the mood. But his usual humor was laced with exhaustion.
The others shot him a look before Emily stood up. "What now? We need the stone and a way back."
"And a way to save Angbor," Laura added firmly.
Emily hesitated. "Are you sure?"
Laura's expression hardened. "We don't leave anyone behind, right? …Right?"
For the first time since his injury, Danny spoke. His voice was weak but steady. "We have to escape."
Laura turned to him, ready to argue, but there was no defiance in his bloodied eyes—only sorrow.
"He's right," Jim murmured, still pale from the earlier fight.
Emily exhaled slowly, "You saw him too, Laura. Let's not waste his life."
Laura clenched her jaw, holding back a tear.
"Alright. First, we need our equipment. If we're lucky, it's somewhere in the arena." She turned to Jim and Mike. "We'll search for it. Emily, keep an eye on the Captain."
"Aye aye, Sarge," Mike muttered, giving a half-hearted salute.
With that, the three of them slipped into the dimly lit corridors, moving swiftly and silently through the vast halls of the arena.
It didn't take them long to locate the armory and retrieve their equipment. Moving swiftly and silently, they made their way back to the cells.
"Whoa there, you scared the shit out of me!" Emily hissed when Mike dropped everything onto the floor with a loud thud.
Mike smirked. "See, guys? We're stealth masters. That should definitely go on my résumé."
Laura dumped the rest of the gear beside his. "Right. Especially when there's no one around to hear us. They must have gone to the battlements."
As if on cue, the walls of the arena trembled under a powerful impact.
Laura unclipped a small transmitter from her loincloth. "I already contacted the ship, Emily. They lost us the moment we crossed the barrier, but now they've got a lock on us again. Lucky for us, they managed to repair the transport beam."
Mike whistled. "No hike back to the ship you hear that? That's a win in my book. Not that this wasn't a fun trip, but I sure as hell won't be coming back next season."
Laura shook her head with a faint smile. "We're not leaving yet. We still need the stone."
"Oh, come on. Fuck," Mike groaned, sliding down against the wall.
Emily stood up, expression resolute. "If the beam is fixed, the Captain and Danny need to go. They won't last much longer. I'll stay behind."
Laura frowned. "You can't run, Mike's got mashed guts, and Jim is paler than a corpse. I'll do it alone."
Emily stepped closer, jabbing a finger at her. "First of all—hell no. Second, how do you even plan to get to the stone?"
"There were a lot of weird trinkets in that armory from past competitors," Mike mused. "Maybe some of them turn us invisible. Or let us fly. That'd be neat."
"The guards," Jim said suddenly.
Laura turned to him. "Guards?"
Jim nodded toward the two lifeless bodies on the floor. "We could sneak in disguised as them."
"That… could work," Laura murmured, considering it. "But there are only two uniforms."
Emily sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm the medic here. If we're picking based on who's the least injured apart from you, it should be Jim. Technically."
Laura narrowed her eyes. "No bias, Em."
Emily exhaled. "Look, Jim is physically in the best shape. But his nanites are nearly depleted. Any cut, any serious wound—and he's gone."
Jim straightened. "I'll make it."
Laura studied him for a moment before nodding. "Alright. Wish us luck." She raised the transmitter to her lips.
"Xenon, this is Sergeant Laura Mitchell. Requesting immediate extraction for Silver Team—leave only Silver Three and Six. Do you copy?"
The device crackled before a voice responded. "This is DSS Xenon. Confirming transport."
A flash of light filled the room, and in an instant, the others—and their equipment—vanished.
Laura exhaled slowly. "Let's get on with it."
Jim nodded. Without another word, the two of them crouched and started stripping the golden-armored guards, dressing themselves in the enemy's attire.
After finally escaping the arena and reaching the streets, Laura and Jim saw the true scale of the assault. The barrier still held at the edges of the city, forming a wobbling V-shape in the sky. Through the gap, dark clouds slithered like living things, and green fire rained down from the towering ziggurats beyond the walls. The air shook with thunder, the crash of collapsing buildings, and the screams of thousands.
Laura pointed toward the towering castle near the city's left-center. "If there's a portal room, let's hope it's there."
Jim gave a quick nod, and both of them broke into a jog, weaving through streets filled with panicked civilians. People ran in every direction—some screaming, some stumbling, others frozen in sheer terror.
"Incoming!" Jim cried, grabbing Laura's arm and yanking her aside just in time.
A green fireball exploded mere feet from where they had been standing. From the flames, several ghouls emerged—wreathed in unnatural fire—leaping onto the nearest unfortunate civilians. Their victims' agonized screams were cut short as claws and teeth tore them apart. But even in death, the horror didn't end. As the bodies burned, blackened skeletons rose from the ashes and lunged at more people.
"Run!" Laura shouted.
They sprinted toward the castle, dodging through the chaos. They leaped over overturned carts and shattered market stands, shoving past those too slow or paralyzed to move. More than once, they were forced to use their stolen daggers and scimitars against persistent undead that latched onto them.
As they neared the castle, they found themselves in a vast, columned plaza. At each end stood massive arched portals, shimmering with golden energy, letting Jim and Laura see glimmers of other cities. From these gateways, reinforcements poured forth—golden warriors clad in ornate armor, their weapons gleaming even amidst the hellish battlefield. But it wasn't just warriors.
Towering golden automatons marched alongside them, wielding colossal greatswords and exotic weapons of unknown origin. Their very presence shook the ground. As Laura and Jim rushed past one, they heard it—not just the clank of metal, but a deep, rumbling roar, like the bellow of a hundred furnaces or the heartbeat of a sun itself.
Beyond the plaza, the city walls had been breached. A seemingly endless tide of undead clashed with the golden warriors. And among the swarming horde, monstrous, stitched-together behemoths lumbered forward, their grotesque forms defying logic and nature. The golden automatons waded into battle against them, blades flashing as they met the abominations head-on.
Not wanting to stay and witness the battle's outcome, Laura and Jim pressed forward, pushing toward the castle.
As they stepped into the castle, a column of golden-armored soldiers marched past them at a brisk pace, heading toward the plaza to reinforce the battle. The thunderous sound of their boots against the sandstone floor echoed through the grand hall, leaving Laura and Jim momentarily alone behind the main gate. The air inside was thick with dust and the faint scent of incense, a stark contrast to the burning flesh and rot outside.
Laura took a quick glance around. The hall was massive, lined with towering pillars, and several doors branched off in different directions. She muttered under her breath, "Great. Where to now?"
Jim, ever the pragmatist, answered as if stating an obvious fact. "There were no cellars in the arena, and most of the city is built vertically."
Before Laura could respond, another group of soldiers emerged from one of the doors, moving in tight formation. Unlike the first, this unit wasn't just passing through. Their leader, a broad shouldered man with a thick beard and piercing eyes, stopped right in front of them, scrutinizing them with a deep frown.
"What are you two standing around for?" he barked. "There's a battle outside!"
Laura scrambled for an answer, keeping her voice steady. "We are… guarding the gate. In case of a worst-case scenario."
The officer narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. "You talk like a woman," he remarked, his tone laced with suspicion. "And you look like one too. Are you even old enough for gold?"
Laura's heart pounded in her chest. She cursed herself for not anticipating this kind of scrutiny. The golden warriors seemed to operate on strict traditions, and apparently, her presence in their ranks was an anomaly.
Before she could come up with a response, Jim jumped in, voice gruff and urgent. "He got hit by some foulness outside and breathed it in. My glaive broke impaling that abomination. That's why they sent us here."
The officer's eyes widened slightly, shifting his attention to Jim. He scrutinized him for a moment, then let out an exasperated sigh.
"And they didn't send you to triage with that?" He shook his head and jabbed a finger toward one of the doors. "Take that passage. Now."
Laura quickly moved behind the archway as directed, keeping her head down. The officer turned back to Jim, lowering his voice just slightly.
"I swear these southerners get younger and bolder each year," he muttered, almost to himself. Then his gaze hardened again. "And you, you're as pale as the night stars. Once he is back, you'll be seeing the triage too. That's an order."
With that, he turned on his heel and marched off to catch up with his men, leaving Jim to exhale in quiet relief.
"That was close," he muttered under his breath.
Laura reappeared at his side, shaking her head. "I should have thought about the cultural norms here. That was a stupid mistake."
Jim gave a small shrug. "We made it through. That's what matters." Then, straightening, he added, "Now, the stone room."
Laura rubbed her temple, thinking quickly. "Alright. As you pointed out, the city is built vertically. The triage must be on a lower level, which means the most important rooms will be higher up, someplace safer. And with those massive portals outside, there must be a more important one inside, maybe for nobility or high-ranking officials."
Jim nodded. "Then let's find some stairs."
Moving cautiously, they navigated through several halls, doubling back a few times when they reached dead ends. The castle, for the most part, was eerily empty, perhaps because most of its occupants were outside, fighting.
After a few minutes of searching, they finally found a spiraling sandstone staircase leading upward.
"Finally," Laura said as they climbed, "this place is like a maze."
Jim exhaled. "Yeah."
During their search, they came upon a balcony overlooking the entire city. From this vantage point, the sheer scale of the destruction unfolded before them, buildings engulfed in flames, streets choked with smoke, and the once proud defenses of the city crumbling under the relentless siege. The barrier, though still holding at the edges, flickered and wobbled in a desperate struggle to keep itself together.
Laura slouched against the stone railing, her shoulders heavy with sorrow as she gazed at the chaos below. Her voice was quiet, almost hollow.
"You know… I can't shake the feeling that all this death and horror is on us." She exhaled, eyes fixed on the burning city. "It's not a coincidence that the barrier fell so soon after Angbor disappeared."
Jim stepped beside her, watching the battle unfold. Warriors of gold clashed with endless tides of the undead, their weapons cutting through rotting flesh and dry bones, yet still, the horde pressed forward.
"They watched us fight for our lives back in the arena," he said, his tone grim. "But still… you're right. Not everyone in this city is guilty."
Laura turned her gaze to him, searching his face. "I just wanted to learn about other cultures. To have an adventure." She clenched her fists against the stone. "But if this is the only way to do it, watching cities burn, hearing people scream, then I don't want it."
Jim shook his head slightly, as if searching for words, but before he could respond, a sudden flash of silver lightning crackled between the smoldering ruins of some distant houses.
Both of them tensed.
"Angbor," Laura breathed, her sorrow momentarily pushed aside by urgency.
She straightened, determination rekindling in her eyes. "We have to get the stone and get home. All of us."
Jim nodded. "Then let's move."
Leaving the balcony behind, they resumed their search. Moving swiftly through the corridors, they finally reached a circular gallery overlooking a grand chamber.
Below them, a vast, domed room stretched out, bathed in the eerie glow of arcane energy. At its center stood a massive portal chamber, with small portal arches forming a perfect circle around it. Each arch had a pedestal before it, upon which rested a variety of strange, worked stones, some shaped like hexahedrons, others octahedrons, and some carved into even more intricate, unfamiliar geometries.
And in the middle of it all, a lone figure stood.
Draped in regal, flowing robes adorned with gold and deep saffron embroidery, the man exuded an aura of authority. He bore the same markings and insignia as the priest who had captured Silver Team days ago, yet this one was different. His posture, his attire, the way the silhouettes of lesser priests from the portals showed him respect, everything about him spoke of greater status, greater power.
"Alright, Jim," Laura whispered, crouching low as her eyes swept over the countless stones arranged around the chamber below. "One thing at a time. First question, which one's the right one?"
Jim rested a hand on his chin, frowning in thought as his gaze drifted from pedestal to pedestal. "If he knew which one it was," he mused, "If it mattered, Angbor would've clarified it. Judging by the layout… they're all portal stones. Each one probably tied to a different plane or location."
Laura let out a quiet breath. "Makes sense. So… how do we get one without ending up scorched like toasts?"
Jim shook his head grimly. "That's the part I don't know. A regular priest easily took us apart last time. I don't like our chances against this one."
The two of them remained still, watching as the gathered priests murmured and debated around the portal arches, their voices hushed but anxious. And then, without warning, the lesser priests began to step back, bowing low, and leaving through the portals. The archpriest turned and slowly made his way to the far side of the room. A hidden section of the sandstone wall groaned and slid open, ancient dust cascading down as a passage revealed itself to the open sky.
Laura felt the tight knot in her chest loosen. She exhaled. "Finally. He's leaving."
Jim's gaze drifted past the open wall to the horizon, where a strange, growing light shimmered just beyond the city. A second sun, firery and unnatural, began to crest over the battlefield.
"He's not leaving for long," Jim muttered. "Looks like it's time for some ritual. Probably a prayer to the sun god he worships."
"Then let's move," Laura hissed, already vaulting over the sandstone railing with cat-like grace.
Jim followed, both of them dropping down to the chamber floor with barely a sound. They sprinted to the nearest arch, hearts pounding.
Laura's eyes darted between the strange stones before settling on an obsidian spiked one, its surface etched with crevices that seemed to shift as she looked at them. Without hesitation, she snatched it from the pedestal.
The moment her fingers closed around it, the arch's shimmering light flickered and vanished, leaving only a dead, inert frame of stone.
A startled gasp rippled through the room. Confusion turned to fury in an instant.
The archpriest, halfway through the open passage, spun on his heel, his eyes narrowing in cold, hateful fury. He raised his spiked staff high, arcane energy crackling at its tip.
"Requesting immediate beam out!" Laura shouted into her transmitter, her voice sharp and clear, even thouh a bit desperate. "I repeat, get us out now!"
A blinding pulse of light shot from the archpriest's staff, but in that same instant, Laura and Jim vanished in a shimmer of white-blue energy.
They materialized aboard the bridge of the Xenon, staggering slightly from the sudden transition. The metallic hum of the ship's systems and the cold, clinical air of the command deck was a jarring contrast to the heat and horror they'd left behind.
Laura let out a shaky breath. "That… was too close."
Colonel Halden stood by the command console, arms crossed, her piercing gaze measuring them both.
"Good work," she said curtly. "Report to medical, both of you. Get checked and get some rest. Agent Harken will retrieve the stone."
Before either of them could leave, Laura blurted out the question burning in both their minds. "And Angbor?"
Jim added immediately, "Did he make it?"
A flicker of something crossed the colonel's face, sorrow, perhaps, or frustration, though she buried it quickly beneath the steel mask of command.
"We… received a report from the rest of Silver Team," she said quietly. "Angbor's condition is… unstable. Frankly, I'm not sure we're capable of holding him at all for any extended period of time. We will get him back, but only once I'm certain we can secure a return to our own universe."
Jim and Laura did as ordered. They delivered the stone to Agent Harken and proceeded to medical.
Several days passed.
Now, Laura sat in Captain Jerkins' place at the strategy table, surrounded by Agent Harken, Lieutenant Marsden, and Colonel Halden. Despite the medical team's best efforts, and the personal oversight of Doctor Shaeed, most of the Silver Team remained unfit for duty. As the highest-ranking operative available, the responsibility of attending this meeting had fallen to Laura.
Agent Harken sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Despite my best efforts, I've been unable to activate the stone," he admitted. "It requires psychic-arcane resonance from the Pleroma, or subdimensional ether, if you prefer. Unfortunately, Angbor was the only one among us with that sensitivity."
The colonel leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "And you're telling me that SHIELD hasn't been able to replicate this?"
Harken met her gaze coolly. "With respect, Colonel, that's a redundant question. We need the Arnorian. We need him alive. Even if all we recover is his body, I may be able to try something then."
Colonel Halden said nothing at first. She simply exhaled slowly and turned to Laura with a slight shake of her head.
"Sergeant," she said, her tone tempered but firm. "You were the one he was most likely to listen to. I need you to try to pacify him, if that's still possible. Otherwise, by your own words, there will be a slaughter."
Laura tensed in her seat. "I'll try," she said softly, then looked up and met the colonel's eyes, her voice suddenly sharp with worry. "But it's been days since… whatever it is took him over. It might be too late."
The colonel gave a tight, solemn nod.
"Lieutenant," she said, turning, "your last report predicted our defenses wouldn't last much longer. Where do we stand now?"
Lieutenant Marsden straightened in his seat, raising his hand to activate the room's holographic interface. A tactical schematic flickered to life above the table, displaying energy fields, shield signatures, and hostile presence readings.
"Hostile entities attempting to breach our shields are increasing in number," he reported. "It's draining both our energy reserves and personnel. Agent Harken's modifications to deter more ethereal infiltrations have helped, but they've come at a cost. Realistically, we're looking at one day. Maybe less."
Colonel Halden stood, her hands braced on the edge of the table.
"Then it's settled," she said. "Lieutenant, redirect engineering to reinforce the holding cell's structural integrity. Move Angbor's equipment and the stone to the guard post."
She turned to Laura.
"Sergeant, report there and prepare to negotiate. Do what you can."
Finally, her gaze shifted to Harken.
"Agent, you're with me. Bridge. Now."
Laura paced back and forth in her tactical gear, eyes flicking occasionally to the guard console near the first holding cell. The cell itself was a hollow white chamber, more like a hangar bay, bordered by a thick frame of energyfield-transmitter pylons and a heavy hangar-style door reinforced with shielding anchors. The walls gleamed clean and cold — for now.
Several engineers were clustered around the control panel, double-checking field calibrations. A single prison guard stood by, tense and ready. What remained of Gold Team was posted nearby, their chest crystals already glowing, energy shields humming to life around them.
Colonel Halden's voice crackled through the intercom.
"Get ready. Beaming Angbor in five... four..."
A flash of white light erupted inside the chamber.
Angbor appeared mid-swing, his hammer already in motion as silver sparks and lightning erupted from him, scorching the pristine white walls before the weapon even hit the ground. The impact came a second later — a booming, violent thunderclap as the hammer slammed down, unleashing a lightning burst that cracked the floor and left it scorched and warped.
His eyes glowed bright silver, unnaturally intense. His skin was carved with thousands of jagged, silvery scars, glowing faintly. What remained of his bandages and loincloth were little more than scorched rags clinging to his form.
He staggered briefly, breathing heavy, and his gaze snapped toward Laura — the closest figure to the cell.
She took a step forward, voice steady but soft.
"Hey, Angbor... are you alright? We have the stone. We can go home. You'll see your wife. The kids. The orchard's probably starving for some love. We just need a little help."
No flicker of recognition. No softness. Only silence and rage behind those glowing eyes.
"Angbor...?"
He lunged.
Only the cell's energy field caught him, slamming him back mid-charge. Lightning coiled around the impact, and the field shimmered violently, struggling to hold.
Laura took a shaky step back.
"Oh no..."
She kept her voice calm as she tried again, inching away, but it was pointless now.
The engineers snapped to action beside the guard.
"Closing the holding door!"
"Restructuring the integrity matrix!"
"Redirecting power!"
Angbor hammered the energy field over and over. And just as the armored doors began to seal, he brought the hammer down with such force that they exploded into twisted stumps of molten steel.
For a moment, the cell held. Then, everything stopped.
He closed his eyes.
The space in front of him shimmered. A ripple spread outward, casting a heat-mirage glow across the room.
Laura's eyes went wide.
"He's about to jump!"
And he did.
In a blink, Angbor slipped into the Pleroma and emerged again, outside the cell.
The Denebolians had developed a countermeasure: an AI-triggered failsafe that placed a reinforced energy shield at the rift's exit point. The idea was simple - catch the jumper between dimensions, trap them in the ether, or slam them against a reinforced barrier.
But it wasn't perfect.
Angbor burst through it.
The room flickered with failing lights. His skin steamed, scorched from the energy clash, burns spreading across his body, but he was free.
Thanks to their implants, the Denebolians immediately triggered their sensory receptor boosters. It bought them a few precious seconds. Several took quick shots at Angbor, their rifles flaring, but the bolts left little more than small scorch marks across his skin. Most shots sizzled out entirely, intercepted by the silver lightning surging around him.
One member of Gold Team could only watch in horror as Angbor closed the distance.
The booster stretched the moment into agonizing slow motion, but it did nothing to speed up his own body.
The hammer crashed into the soldier's gut.
A spray of silver sparks burst outward as the green shield pulsed once, then shattered.
The Denebolian flew back, bones breaking with a sickening crunch as he slammed against the far wall. His life was gone before he hit the ground.
Across the room, one of the engineers turned, panicked, shouting at his partner.
"Beam him out!"
The words had barely left his mouth when Angbor's hammer spun through the air.
It struck the engineer's head squarely.
There was no impact sound, just a sudden puff of red mist where the man's skull had been.
Angbor reached out, grabbing at the crackling silver air around him. In one swift, furious motion, he hurled a wall of lightning toward the survivors.
The remaining engineer was struck full force, his body convulsing and collapsing to the ground, smoke rising from him.
Laura, the prison guard, and the last surviving member of Gold Team managed to shield themselves.
The surge battered against their crystal barriers, draining them heavily.
All three staggered backward, shields flickering.
Laura was slammed againts the guard post console, sweeping Angbor's gear onto the floor.
Angbor advanced on her. His hammer rose for a killing blow.
Laura had no weapon, no time.
Instinct alone made her lift the only thing near her — Angbor's mithril pauldron, gleaming faintly in the flickering light.
She braced herself, closing her eyes, ready for death.
The strike never came.
When she dared open her eyes, Angbor stood frozen mid-swing. His hammer hovered in the air, trembling. His silver-lit gaze was locked not on Laura, but on the pauldron — the gift from his wife.
The hesitation stretched longer than a heartbeat.
The prison guard, shaking off the aftershock of the lightning blast, lunged for the console. His hand slammed onto the emergency controls.
A blinding flash lit the room as Angbor was forcefully beamed out of the ship.
When the shock receded, Laura jumped to her feet.
"Beam me to him," she barked, gripping the pauldron tightly and snatching the stone from the floor.
Both surviving Denebolians stared at her.
"What?!" the prison guard blurted out.
"There is no way, he will crush you!" he added, voice cracking with panic.
Laura stepped closer, the pauldron raised like a shield.
"There is no time. Do it, or we are stuck here forever!"
The guard hesitated, shaking his head, grimacing as if already regretting it.
"You better be coming back," he muttered under his breath. "Or the Colonel will have my head for this."
Without waiting for second thoughts, he hit the controls.
Laura vanished in a beam of light — reappearing right next to Angbor, outside the ship but still within the straining energy shield.
All around the ship, the horde of undead pressed against the barrier. Zombies, ghouls, wights, and twisted horrors clawed and pounded, their numbers uncountable. The shield flickered and groaned under the assault.
Angbor stood dazed near the hull of the ship, his head jerking side to side, his whole body twitching lightly.
Laura swallowed the fear rising in her chest and slowly approached, holding out the pauldron like an offering, the stone clutched close to her body.
"Hey, Angbor... round two, right? Look what I have for you," she said softly.
Angbor turned toward her. Through the silver gleam in his eyes, Laura saw something flicker — more than rage.
Somewhere deep inside, he was still fighting. Still there.
Without a word, Angbor reached out and took the pauldron.
Lightning crackled at the contact, stinging Laura's hand. She flinched but bit down the hiss of pain.
Angbor stared at the pauldron for a long moment, almost reverently, before strapping it onto his right shoulder.
As he fastened the battered mithril with trembling hands, the ancient runes etched into it flared with silver light.
The air around him shifted — less volatile, less wild.
He looked at Laura.
Still silent, still locked in battle inside himself.
Laura took a shaky breath and pressed on.
"Here's the stone you told me about."
She held it out in the same way she had the pauldron.
"We... we cannot figure it out. We can't get home without it."
Angbor took the stone from her, more gently this time.
Laura braced for another shock, but the pauldron's runes contained most of the discharge. She pulled her hand back safely, heart pounding.
Angbor gazed down at the stone, the dim purple light reflected in his silver-scarred face.
Then, without warning, he raised his hammer and pointed it at Laura.
A sharp blast of lightning struck her chest, throwing her backward.
She hit the ground hard, dazed — but alive, relatively unhurt.
Something had passed through her mind in that moment — not pain, but a mark.
An imprint.
A memory not hers.
When Laura blinked up through the swirling dust, she saw Angbor drop his hammer to the ground with a heavy, echoing thud.
He took the stone in both hands.
His arms trembled, muscles locking as the spirit inside him fought to stop what he was doing.
Angbor's body jerked and twisted, his teeth bared in a silent roar.
He squeezed the stone tighter.
Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface.
Purple light leaked from it in burning streams.
The battle was not just strength but soul.
If he lost, he would most likely be consumed forever.
If he won... his soul might shattere, but the spirit would too.
The spirit fought back, tearing at him from inside, but Angbor roared, louder, full of everything that remained of him.
The stone shattered.
A blast of raw force erupted outward.
The ship, the mountainside, the undead — everything was hurled into the roaring currents of the subdimension.
At the last possible second, the Denebolians beamed Laura back inside the ship.
The world outside vanished into a wild storm of lightning, flame and chaos.
As before, when flung into the subdimension, the ship strained—groaning under the pressure as it was hurled through endless tides of volatile energy. The metal of its frame creaked and twisted, but this time, it felt different. Still violent, but... duller. As if they were on a path amongst the chaos.
Laura stumbled her way toward the bridge, flanked by the two Denebolians who had survived the prison chamber. All three of them were battered, faces tight with stress, eyes wide with fatigue.
The floor pitched suddenly, and Laura was slammed against the corridor wall, bouncing off into one of the crew scrambling past. Another tremor, another lurch, another collision with something hard and fast-moving. The whole ship groaned around her like it might come apart at any second.
But something was gnawing at the edge of her mind—ever since Angbor hit her with that blast.
A memory that wasn't hers.
A thought too big to grasp, yet too loud to ignore.
They passed Agent Harken's quarters, the door half-jammed open. Sparks fizzled from the control panel, its locking mechanism fried. Laura couldn't help but glance in through the narrow gap.
Harken was still. Slumped in his chair, buckled in. He looked unconscious—limp like a puppet with its strings cut.
Did he faint? she wondered vaguely, though it didn't seem like him.
But her thoughts were fogged. Pressured. Something inside her kept drawing her attention inward, deeper than memory, deeper than instinct.
Unbeknownst to her, Harken had already vacated his body, projecting himself into the astral layers to protect his psyche from the emotional currents of the subdimension. His body remained in stasis—breathing, empty.
Laura pressed forward.
They reached the bridge at last, and the chaos intensified. Through her neural implant, dozens of red-tinged holographic alerts bloomed into her vision. Systems failing. Hull stress. Environmental anomalies. Casualties.
Colonel Halden stood at the center, sharp as a blade, barking orders across multiple channels.
"Breach at corridors 1-15 and 1-17!"
"Close them."
"Burn injuries reported on engineering floor 2!"
"Redirect third med team from kitchens once they're done!"
"Large frost wave incoming from left-center flank—reroute shield power from the stern."
"Continue forward, officer!"
Her voice cracked like a whip through the noise. Officers scrambled to comply, their movements synchronized despite the chaos.
Then the Colonel spotted Laura entering the bridge. Her expression flickered—brief confusion, quickly swallowed. She had questions—dozens of them. But another lurch of the ship tore her thoughts away again, drawing her attention back to the systems, the shaking, the endless storm outside.
Time stretched. Minutes blurred into hours.
And then—
Suddenly, silence.
The ship surged one final time... and the violent light outside dimmed. Stabilizers engaged. The deep hum of the engines fell quiet, and through the windows, stars returned. Familiar stars.
They had made it back.
"We're back," someone whispered. Another echoed them: "We're back..."
The bridge crew let out held breaths. Relief swept across the room in waves. Colonel Halden allowed herself a single moment of stillness.
Then her voice returned, iron-clad.
"Get us out of here. Now. I don't want to risk them sending us back."
A tech officer swiveled around. "Engines are inoperable. The subdimension must've destabilized earlier field repairs."
Halden paced sharply, fists clenched.
"Alright—get Engineering on it immediately. Cut non-essential systems. Shields minimal. No lights, no pings. Let's play dead and hope they fall for it."
Her orders echoed through the bridge. Teams moved. Lights dimmed.
Then Halden finally turned her full attention to the room—really seeing it.
She glanced at an empty place behinde her.
"Where the hell is Harken again?"
Her eyes shifted to Laura, bruised and silent at the rear of the bridge.
"…And Angbor?"
Laura just shook her head.
The weight of it hit her then—not just the memory, but the truth behind it.
Angbor was most likely gone.
Colonel Halden was about to press her further when the bridge doors slid open with a soft hiss. Agent Harken stepped through, his coat fluttering slightly in the recycled air.
"No need to send a distress call," he said flatly. "I already took care of that."
The Colonel blinked, pausing mid-step. "You've done what?" Her voice was clipped, sharp. "They could detect that."
Harken offered a tired, annoyed smile—the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "You think Shield doesn't have ways of doing things subtly? Your lack of trust hasn't bothered me before, Colonel, but it's starting to become irritating."
Halden's jaw tightened. Her voice lowered, controlled but cold. "We'll talk about this. In the briefing room. Now."
She didn't wait for a reply, turning and striding off the bridge. Harken gave a dismissive glance toward the crew and followed, pausing only to skim a few flickering holograms on a console with one hand before disappearing down the hall.
Laura swayed where she stood. Her breath came ragged. Her body, numb.
And then her knees gave way.
She awoke in medbay.
The air was thick with disinfectant, the hum of equipment, and the groans of wounded crewmates. Beds were lined with people—some sedated, others merely unconscious. Too many. Some of Laura's teammates lay in beds near her, breathing steadily. She tried to sit up.
Dr. Shaeed noticed instantly. She was clearly exhausted—hair tied back sloppily, sleeves rolled up, eyes sunken. But she still carried the clipped authority of someone with no time for excuses.
"You're awake. Good. Now get up and leave this space for someone else."
Laura blinked, dazed. "I—what happened—?"
Shaeed didn't slow down. "You're healthy. Your brain, however, took a hit. Overload. That Arnorian—he imprinted a memory onto you. Didn't realize how it would overwhelm your implant."
She rubbed her temples, clearly frustrated by more than just Laura.
"They don't use implants, so naturally he didn't consider the interface limits. Between the trauma, the magic, and whatever state his mind was in—well... expected outcome, really. Your implant glitched, you blacked out. You'll be fine."
Laura tried to respond, but Shaeed had already turned to another patient.
"You can load the memory from your neural drive. Now go. We need the bed."
Laura wandered out, dazed, half-stumbling down the hallways until she reached the team's quarters. She barely registered the silence around her or the faces that glanced her way before quickly looking away.
Once inside, she collapsed onto her bunk.
She hesitated only a moment before she tapped into her implant, pulling up the stored memory.
The world blurred.
And there was Angbor.
Standing alone, his silhouette firm but the surroundings hazy, dreamlike. He looked normal—or as close as he ever had. The calm before the storm.
But something stirred behind him.
A shape. A presence. It loomed, creeping forward with silent menace. Vines of silver lightning slithered toward him—tendrils from a growing, pulsing void. It latched onto his back, wrapping around him like roots claiming a tree. The spirit.
Angbor turned to her.
His mouth moved, but no sound came. Still, Laura knew what he was saying.
He was sorry.
And he wanted her to say farewell to his family.
He kept speaking for as long as he could, holding the creature at bay with nothing but willpower. His form began to crack—deep silver craters and canyons splitting across his skin like wounds torn into the earth.
His eyes glowed—brilliant, terrible.
And then they became hollow.
Emotionless.
He was a statue of silver wrath. The same cold force she had faced when he was possessed.
And the memory ended.
Laura lay on the bed, her cheeks wet, staring at the ceiling, not sure when the tears had come.
Angbor was gone.
But not before he tried to say goodbye.
Laura must have fallen asleep for a few moments.
A hand on her shoulder stirred her awake. Emily's voice was urgent but steady.
"Laura, come on. Colonel wants Silver Team on standby. The Ingerdimnär fleet just arrived. Five ships. And our engines are still out. We should prepare for the worst."
Laura blinked, disoriented. The ceiling above her bunk felt distant, warped by exhaustion and the lingering weight of the memory Angbor had left her. She sat up slowly, eyes scanning the room. Mike and Jim were already gearing up in silence, their faces grim, their movements mechanical. Their tactical suits were scratched, torn, scorched—worn thin by days of violence and void-born chaos.
"Captain's already good?" Laura asked groggily, voice hoarse. "I don't think I'm… I don't think I'm able to lead right now."
Emily helped her to her feet. "Danny was released from medbay. Cap's still there, but stable. You're not alone, Laura."
There was no room for hope in their footsteps as they made their way toward the bridge. The corridors felt hollow. Every overhead light flickered like a pulse from a dying body.
Mike didn't say a word the entire way.
When they arrived, Danny was already waiting before the bridge doors. He looked pale, but steady.
"Silver Team at the ready, Colonel," he saluted as they entered.
Colonel Halden acknowledged him with a nod but kept her eyes on the main display.
Outside the viewport, the Ingerdimnär fleet loomed.
A battleship, several kilometers long, dominated the field—its hull black and glistening like obsidian, studded at the front with spikes of sensor masts and weapon arrays. Alongside it, a massive cruiser glided like a silent predator, not much smaller than the Xenon herself. Three smaller corvettes flanked the larger vessels, their formations tight, shields flaring faintly against the cold void. From the nearest corvette, a gunship detached, accompanied by a tight escort of fighters, heading straight for Xenon's docking bay.
"Gunship's boarding vector confirmed," an officer reported. "ETA four minutes."
The bridge held its breath.
Colonel Halden exhaled through her nose, then turned from the screen to face her crew.
"Wait until the last moment," she said, calm but firm. "Once they're aboard—we strike."
She looked directly at Laura, Danny, Emily, Mike, and Jim.
"This is not a fight we can win. Prioritize survival."
She turned to the tactical officer. "Shielding and evasive protocols take priority. Weapons are to target only small craft—buy us space, not victories."
Then back to Silver Team.
"If we're boarded again…" Her voice lowered slightly. "I expect you to be there."
The silence deepened. The deck felt cold under their boots.
She returned her gaze to the bridge crew, voice once again sharp and commanding.
"Is that clear?"
"Yes, madam," the bridge responded in unison.
The storm was coming.
And they had minutes left to breathe.
Halfway through its approach, the Ingerdimnär gunship suddenly decelerated and came to a full stop.
"Subdimensional activity on the surface," reported an officer.
Colonel Halden's eyes narrowed. "Give me visual."
The holographic screen shimmered, refocusing on the planet's surface below the fleet. The camera zoomed in on a hillside near the Ingerdimnär base.
A translucent wave shimmered above the ground, rippling like cloth caught in a gale or the surface of a storm-lashed sea. Wind screamed through unseen layers. Flames erupted sporadically—here, a bolt of lightning crashed down, there, a line of burning trees tumbled as if scythed by a colossal, invisible blade.
Then the air itself seemed to rupture.
Two Sisters of Blood were hurled from the anomaly, landing with perfect balance. Their black painted power armor was scoured with battle scars, glinting with the silvery veins of exposed mithril beneath. Red and black cloth ribbons—worn as scarves, sashes, and torn banners—draped across their armor, fluttering in the aftershock.
More figures emerged.
Praetorian and Legion Arnorians followed, some landing in controlled stances, others tumbling into rolls before rising with practiced discipline. Snow clung to ponchos of some and the tattered ends of trench coats dryed by sun clung to others, while most wore scarves wrapped tightly around their necks, helmets and waists. Their runes of their silver-and-grey armor glowed faintly, still powered from the journey through the storm.
Then came the Vigiles of Morwen, Lataies and Sylvans.
The Morwen and Lataies struck the ground with weight and momentum, recovering in staggered clusters. Their formation was loose but swift to reform. The most numerous were Morwen, clad in linen gambesons reinforced by plates of green and brown armour, bore the stains of many engagement. In stark contrast, the Lataies stood like marble pillars—white-and-gold cloaks billowing, their polished visors catching the rising light.
Both cohorts were armed with a variety of Velocity and Hel weaponry. The Lataien Vigiles, favoured long, musket-like Helguns—slower to prime, yet formidable in range and penetration. The Morwen carried both compact and heavy variants alongside power falchions and handaxes slung at their belts, suited for close and brutal engagements. At the Lataien's hips hung elegant power rapiers, designed for speed and grace.
Sylvans landed with near-silent precision, rising like dancers from ritual trance. Their warband, composed entirely of females, loomed above the mixed Morwan and the all-male Lataien cohorts much as the Sisters of Blood dwarfed the Arnorian Legionnaires.
Towering and statuesque, their lean, muscular frames radiated power. Skin shimmered in unnatural hues—deep purples, cobalt blues, and blood reds. Long, pointed ears twitched slightly, attuned to things beyond the veil of common perception.
Their armor was hardly armor at all. Wisps of fabric, metal rings, leather bands, and flowing silks left much of their perfect forms exposed.
Some bore long spectral war bows with blade-tipped limbs and chord-lines of raw mana. Others wielded cursed whips coiled like sleeping serpents, or curved blades that hissed with latent force. Their eyes glowed—deep purple, icy blue, or obsidian black—matching their skin in hue and warning.
Finally, heavy equipment roared through the mirage.
An Altar-platform materialized, gliding to a halt. Atop its elevated center stood the priestess, flanked by her fellow attendances lower on the dais. Behind them, a Witcher gripped the edges of a mirror-altar, his body tense and still bracing.
Beside the altar, two pairs of musicians appeared—each set bearing a strange tubular instrument and a drum charged with silent power.
Then, with a low, seismic grind, a Juggernaut vehicle marked with sign of trebuchet variant emerged last. Massive and plated in dark metal, it skidded into position. With a hydraulic hiss, the sides unfolded and embedded into the sand and stone, stabilizing. A circular structure raised from its core, locking into place vertically.
The anomaly behind them flickered once—then vanished with a sigh of wind and collapsing light.
The mirage was gone.
Silence reigned on the bridge of the Xenon, but the air felt charged. No one moved.
The Ingerdimnär base stirred. What once had been a ragged laboratory ringed with field tents and generators had become a fortress—entrenched, shielded, bristling with defensive arrays. The earth itself groaned under the weight of reawakening systems long dormant.
"Ingerdimnär cruiser has left the formation," reported a bridge officer, her voice clipped and tense.
Before Colonel Halden could reply, a Strike Shield operative beamed in a surge of controlled light.
"Agent Rodriguez?" Halden breathed, startled.
The figure who stepped forward was unmistakably Rodriguez, once leader operative of Strike team, now commander of whole Strike Special Forces. Her armor gleamed—full tactical enclosure, unlike the looser configuration issued to Stars like Silver Team. Reinforced pads lined key points: joints, chest, shoulders. At her side hung an Arnorian blade in ceremonial scabbard.
"You may thank Agent Harken for our presence," she said, her tone even, posture coiled with readiness. "We have been here for several minutes, cloaked."
She turned to the projection screen, where Arnorian forces mobilized below. "They now have something else to worry about then to scan this ship."
Then she pivoted, eyes narrowing at Harken. "You should have filed for a Combat deployment. This operation… is irregular."
Harken stepped forward, voice like ice under pressure. "It is of the highest priority. I need what lies in that base."
Rodriguez gave a slow, understanding nod. "Very well. We move the moment the Arnorians begin their assault."
Colonel Halden interjected, stepping closer. "Silver Team will accompany you." Then, with a quiet movement, she leaned toward Laura, who stod closest to her, whispering just above a breath. "Keep your eyes on them. Everything they touch, everything they do."
Laura gave the faintest nod, acknowledging without drawing attention.
"No," Harken replied, shaking his head. "We wait until the base is fully committed and drawn into the fight. I want the maximum chance of success. No distractions."
Rodriguez's jaw tightened. "And leave them to bleed alone?" She gestured toward the screen, where the Arnorian formation was forming ranks. "I don't think so."
Harken's voice rose, sharp and commanding. "Watch your tone, Commander. I may not be your direct superior, but I still outrank you by clearance and class. If it helps your pride—then consider this an order."
Rodriguez stared at him for a breath longer than necessary, then gave a curt, begrudging nod. "Understood."
Rodriguez turned back to the group, her tone shifting with revelation. "You have been gone over a year. A mission was set to investigate your last known coordinates. What was found were only Ingerdimnar's tributaries—and corpses. Varangian corpses among them. The resistance was annihilated."
A shout broke the tension.
"Ingerdimnar cruiser is charging weapons and locking onto Arnorian position!" cried the officer from the tactical console.
Colonel Halden's command voice returned in full.
"Status on our systems? Can we counterfire? Disrupt their weapon locks?"
Negative after negative filled the bridge. The cruiser was too distant and Xenon too damaged. They had neither the reach nor the means.
"Do not concern yourself," Rodriguez said quietly, eyes still on the screen. "Much has changed. Watch."
Her lips curled into the faintest smile.
"Just enjoy the show... until we join it."
Colonel Halden exhaled slowly, still tense. "Alright. But I want options." She turned sharply back to her crew. "Bring us closer."
"Roger that, Colonel," replied the helm officer, already working the controls.
Halden swiped a hand across her projected console, pulling up engineering. "Engineering, hyperspace remains the priority—but I want this ship combat-ready. Can you deliver?"
A crackled voice responded through the comms: "It'll be a stretch, Colonel—
but we'll do it."
On the ground, the Arnorian beside the Praetorian stepped forward to stand next to the Sisters. His helm bore a sharp silver leaf at the center of the outer visor, and great sculpted wings swept back from the temples in a silent echo of valor.
"Shall we begin?" he asked, offering the slightest bow of respect.
The taller Sister, spear in hand, kept her gaze fixed on the enemy lines. Her voice was steady, yet it boomed through the vox of her sealed helmet.
"You may proceed, Lord General."
The Arnorian turned and passed the Praetorian, so the full host might see him. His outer visor remained open, revealing the dark-blue glow of the T-shaped inner visor beneath.
"We are here for destruction," he called, his voice calm and commanding. "No mercy. No hesitation. We come to burn."
He looked over every single soldier before him.
"Arnorians, take wedge formation. Vigiles, follow in line—spear and wave. Sylvans, far left flank. Take as many as you like."
With a click and hiss, his scutum unfolded from its retracted state along his forearm. He drew his sword and activated the blade—its edge shimmered with a cold, blue tint and emitted a low hum. Then, with a light snapping, he sealed his outer visor. The three plates—left, right, and crown—slid into place, forming the distinct Corinthian mask that dimmed the inner visor's glow to a thin sliver.
He turned his gaze toward the altar platform.
"Revered Priestess. Bless us with your battle hymn."
The priestess gave a slight bow, her smile serene.
"As you wish, Lord General."
Silence fell, leaving only distant Ingerdimnär hustle.
Then, a single, haunting voice pierced the hush. A lone soprano—clear, high, and mournful—rang out across the field:
"Elaran távan, yar'a'sél nar'falín..."
The melody drifted, slow and deliberate, rising and falling like the tide upon a frozen shore.
Others joined her—priestesses clad in red ceremonial scarfs and robes, their voices wrapping around hers in a harmony at once ethereal and commanding. The hymn grew, climbing into the air like firelight flickering through mist. The very trees seemed to hesitate in wind, suspended in the stillness.
Then, the Arnorian infantry joined in—not with melody, but with thunder. A deep, guttural hum, like rock grating against rock, rose from their chests.
"Haaa-rahn! Haaa-rahn!"
The sound resonated through the ranks—earthborn and ancient—blending with the celestial purity of the priestesses' hymn, fusing heaven and stone.
The drums awoke. At first slowly. Then they quickened, joined by the tubulars—a fusion of flute, bagpipe, trumpet, and deep carnyx.
Each note surged with arcane charge, the musicians infusing their blows with personal power.
Runes flared across the soldiers' swords, along their armor seams and gauntlet rims—lines of silent fire tracing every edge.
Some of the warriors took up the chant, shouting with reverence and wrath:
"Elaran! Yárcarniel! Nar'kelaya an'rauthar!"
The field shook.
The Arnorian host had begun its advance.
It took only a few measured steps before the sky ignited.
Fire fell.
The forward batteries of the Ingerdimnär cruiser loosed their wrath—long, spear-like bolts of accelerated plasma seared through the skyes, burning white against the calm blue.
There was a ripple of nervousness among the Vigiles cohorts. Shoulders tensed. Rifles clutched in hands. But the Arnorians did not flinch. Not a single one.
Only the Lord General lifted his gaze skyward, then cast a glance toward the priestess at the altar. Then his helm turned back toward the fire. Silent. Resolute.
Long before the plasma reached the ground, the air shimmered—each projectile struck an unseen veil. As if a bullet had met the surface of a still pond, the sky rippled. Transparent circular waves bloomed outward from each point of contact and continued to appear along the way it fell. Sapphiric mist sprayed out in clusters, followed by bursts of arcane discharge. The shots slowed, fizzled, then dissolved midair—vanishing in silence. The mist calmed. The waves faded.
Not one shot landed.
The Ingerdimnär base opened fire next, adding its ground batteries to the fury—but the result was the same. The veil held. The hymn endured.
Only a few stray shots escaped, falling far from the host—vaporizing trees, melting stone, and leaving glassed scars in the earth. Yet none came near the soldiers of the Realm.
The Arnorian host marched on, undeterred. Step by step.
They walked the full breadth of the hillside, their banners unmoved by wind, their pace unbroken, before the last plasma barrage finally fell silent.
The Lord General glanced again at the priestess.
She stood where she had stood, her arms still raised in benediction. But her eyes—once white—now bled crimson. Veins had burst. The divine strain showed on her pale face, and her breath was shallow. Among her choir, others bore the same signs—one wept tears of blood, another bled freely from the nose. Still they sang. Their voices had not wavered once.
They would die before they failed.
And their enemy would test them.
From the cloud layer above, fresh thunder descended.
Tall drop pods from the Ingerdimnär fleet pierced the sky and crashed to earth, shaking the rocky field with their arrival. They fell between the base and the advancing host like titanic stakes driven into the land.
With a hydraulic groan, the lower halves of the pods cracked, split, and the upper hulls
fell away like felled trunks. Their tops opened like armored petals, revealing swarms of troops within—light slaves pressed forward first, forced into a fight by neural whips and embedded command drives. Behind them, heavier units deployed: fire teams in blast-armored rigs, assault cadres with hand cannons and plasma machine guns, and then the walkers—quadrupedal
tanks and hexapodal AFVs, squat and brutal, bristling with weapons and sensors.
More pods fell—smaller, sealed, compact. They landed without unfolding.
The chant of the Arnorians continued to rise.
"Elaran! Yárcarniel! Nar'kelaya an'rauthar!"
The Ingerdimnär forces charged, a chaotic tide of bodies and gunfire surging toward the disciplined host.
Plasma fire tore through the air. The hillside lit in strobing flashes of light blue. The Arnorian host, now fully within range, found itself under withering fire.
The Morwen and Lataian Vigiles scattered instinctively—some ducked behind trees, others slid into shallow ditches or knelt behind ancient rocks half-buried in sand. Their lines spread thin, darting between cover, exchanging bursts when able.
To the far left, the Sylvans vanished into the woods like smoke—no signal given, no word spoken. One moment they were there, the next they were not.
The Arnorians, however, held their line. Some raised shields in a practiced, fluid motion, forming several small shieldwalls; others took position behind the large scutae of the this forward phalanx. The assault rained down in full, and the ringing of fire upon metal sang like a forge.
Scarves smoldered. Cloaks caught flame before extinguishing. Their covered armor was scorched and pitted by the barrage, but little else. It did not breach. Small-arms fire, chaotic and uncontrolled, was like a sandstorm against an iron wall.
The priestess's hymn remained unbroken. It could shatter massive projectiles, but not the hail of lesser fire. There was too much of it.
Inside his helmet, the Lord General gave a single command over the vox:
"Sound the charge."
Tubulars bellowed a deep, resonant growl that rolled like thunder across the field—low and primal—before fading back into the battle hymn. The Arnorian wedge formation surged forward as one.
They charged.
They fell upon the Ingerdimnär line like a blade.
Shields slammed into chests and broke bones. Swords hummed with blue tint and runic etheric light, carving through armor and flesh alike. Bolters thudded—each shot a deliberate, thunderous roar—sending body parts flying. But the Arnorians did not waste rounds. Their ammunition was precious. Most fought with blade and shield, cutting cleanly, efficiently.
Many of the light slaves barely lasted seconds. They were on the verge of breakdown even before the charge. Some screamed and dropped their weapons even before contact, eyes wide with dread. The sight of the Arnorian charge—calm, orderly, unrelenting—broke them. Others tried to run but were gunned down by their own officers or trampled underfoot. Neural whips cracked, control drives flared, but panic had already taken hold.
A handful of Ingerdimnär elites rallied, firing from behind heavy walkers or turret emplacements. Arnorian rotary-barreled blasters spun to life, sending streams of dark blue energy lashing across the field—countering the lighter plasma fire with brute force.
The blasters were not precise. But when they struck, they struck hard—burning holes through limbs or setting ground alight.
Now, the Vigiles properly recovered.
Gunfire answered gunfire.
Velocity rifles barked, sharp and deadly. Red and violet helgun beams lanced forward in straight, surgical paths—the Lataians and Morwen firing in coordinated bursts, ducking between cover, advancing as squads. Their weapons were lighter, less lethal than those of the Ingerdimnär—but enough. They advanced not with brute force, but with grit and rhythm, weaving behind the more towering Arnorian spearhead.
The helguns in particular—slender weapons with glowing rear conduits—had been designed to counter cost of Arnorian bolters. Not as deadly, but efficient. Economical. Functional.
Then the woods opened. The Sylvans struck from the far left.
A blur of purple, blue and red. War cries in their lilting tongue. They hit and vanished, reappearing further in, further through, always behind the next line. Some of the Ingerdimnär barely registered they were under attack before their throats were cut. Others screamed as they were dragged into the brush.
The Sylvans did not merely kill. They captured. Netting enemy officers, disabling wounded soldiers, and chaining survivors with barbed manacles. Some were gagged mid-scream. Others begged, but mercy was not part of the agreement. Not for them.
The Ingerdimnär line, once bristling with confidence and numbers, now faltered under the crushing weight of Arnorian host.
Above the din, the hymn still rose.
"Elaran! Yárcarniel! Nar'kelaya an'rauthar!"
It was not just a chant. It was law. It was fate. And it would not be denied.
However, despite Arnorian progress, they were not invincible.
The line advanced steadily—inevitably—but war has no favorites.
From the treeline, an Ingerdimnär elite emerged—his armor jagged with angular plating, helm crowned with twin spikes. He raised a heavy hand-cannon, the size of a man's thigh, and fired at close range. The shot struck an Arnorian Legione square in the waist.
In an instant, the blast melted through armor and bone alike, splitting the warrior in half. His severed body flew backward—shattering branches, bursting through a gnarled tree trunk, and landing twisted in a half-buried scarp. Steam rose from the remains.
The Ingerdimnär elite barely had time to chamber a second round before he was reduced to pulp—his torso imploding under twin bolter blasts from the flanks. But the damage had been done.
Another blow came seconds later.
A single, shrieking plasma beam carved through the haze, impossibly precise. It struck the narrow gap between outer helm plating and visor—a Centuriae's helm. The beam scorched the outer casing, then punched through the T-shaped slit of the inner visor.
The shot did not exit.
It boiled half of the Centuriae's head inside the helmet. Smoke hissed from the seam.
The body staggered backward.
But the armor had already reacted.
The Last Stand Serum—triggered by catastrophic trauma—flooded the dying Centuriae's veins. A volatile cocktail of combat hormones, neural stimulants, and bio-engineering surged through his spine.
He rose.
His first act was hitting who was closest—his shield slammed into the side of a fellow Legione, knocking him to one knee. His shoulder pauldron was seared moments later by another plasma burst, the armor blackening and staggering Centuriae backwards.
With a howl—raw, inhuman, and blood-choked—he charged into the Ingerdimnär ranks.
He moved like a battering ram—shield bashing bodies into ruin, sword slashing with wild arcs, blood streaming from the open vent of his broken helm. He left a trail of limbs, shredded armor, and ruptured machinery in his wake.
He did not speak. He did not feel.
It took a full squad of heavy assault troops, aided by a walker, to finally put him down.
Even then, he fell standing—with sword buried in one final enemy's gut.
Nevertheless
the Arnorian host sank deeper into the Ingerdimnär lines, they reached far past the slaves deep into enemy elites and walkers.
Quadrapedal tanks stomped forward, stabilizers slamming into the ground with each thunderous step. Their central turrets rotated and spat glowing plasma with seismic recoil, carving trenches into the battlefield. Hexapedal AFVs clambered alongside them, their angular chassis bristling with weapons. A few drew dangerously close—unleashing plasma streams like liquid fire, scouring the front line in wide arcs.
Over vox, Lord General's voice cut through the noise with surgical clarity:
"Centurio Siriondil, your time has come. Target those machines and their heavy troops. Fire at will."
A sound of acknowledgment. Then a Siriondil switched vox to Arnorian Ranger, his voice calm, lower, with the sharp undertone of anticipation.
"Eärnil, we are free to go. Give us the targets."
Arnorian Rangers were ghosts among giants. While most Arnorians marched in polished metal and draped distinctive fabric, they wore brown and green, their armor matte and quiet.
Eärnil's
cloak shimmered subtly, bending light and shadow to match his surroundings. The energy signature of his suit was masked to the best of Arnorian ability.
At the battle's start, Eärnil had rotated far right, scaling a gentle incline for visibility. Now, half-crouched beneath a gnarled root canopy, he peered through the scope of his sniper-bolter, eyes scanning the chaos. Each marker, each prioritized threat had already been logged. He spoke into the vox with quiet precision:
"One-point-four-three-zero. Armor-piercing. Static."
A Morwan crouched beside Centurio Siriondil in the Juggernaut. She sat cross-legged at a fire-control station, fingers flicking across a glowing interface.
"Firing solutions complete."
Siriondil, standing tall and calm, gave a short nod, "Procede." He watched through a narrow vision slit as the machine answered.
Outside, the trebuchet mechanism—a circular disc mounted atop the Juggernaut—began to rotate. It spun faster and faster, light building around its rim until a magnetic release detached part of the mechanism. It snapped outward, reshaping midair into a trebuchet arm.
With a solid whump, the conical projectile was slung skyward—spinning in flight until it vanished into the clouds.
Moments later, it returned.
From above, the shot plunged into the designated hexapedal walker—driving through its upper armor plating and pinning it to the rock beneath. Sparks flew from its legs as its internal fuel ignited. An instant later, the walker exploded—its machine heart bursting in a fountain of flame and superheated gas.
Another vox crackled from Eärnil:
"One-point-three-nine-one. Storm. Slow south."
The Morwan confirmed. The trebuchet arm retracted, reconnected to the disc, and began to spin again.
Then another shot—launched and later shattered midair after appearing from the sky.
The conical payload fragmented into dozens of smaller, finned submunitions. Each one streaked down toward the Ingerdimnär assault squad slowly advancing at a small rise. The projectiles hit with deadly, synchronized rhythm, small but devastating—each detonation ripping a man-sized hole in flesh, metal, or stone.
In seconds, the assault team was gone.
Where once a formation had been was now only a blackened ruin—armor fragments, burning brush, torn limbs, and steam rising from glassed sand.
The Juggernaut's support brought much-needed relief to the Arnorians at the front. Plasma walkers that had slowed their advance now burned in molten heaps. Assault squads once threatening the flanks lay vaporized. With their advance no longer stalled, the Arnorian host surged forward, their lines tightening once again into a killing wedge.
Even the Sisters—unearthly figures who had already carved through the enslaved vanguard like fire through dry leaves—felt the change. Where walker fire and elite formations had managed to slow them, now their wrath moved unimpeded.
The taller Sister, clad in heavy ornamented plate, her gilded spear humming with subdimensional energy, became a blurred whirlwind of motion. Her acrobatic prowess defied the mass of her armor. She twisted, vaulted, and spun—every movement a deadly arc. Her spear slashed, pierced, and crushed, sweeping through Ingerdimnär elites as though they were standing still. Bodies broke, helmets split, and blood sprayed like mist in her wake.
Her counterpart, though equal in stature and grace, wielded her power differently. She did not dance—she rammed, dashing through space itself. In one blink she stood still—eyes locked on her target. In the next, she was inside the enemy formation.
Every dash released a shockwave—a conversion of kinetic and subdimensional force so absolute that it crushed armor and bone alike. One punch shattered a soldier entirely, collapsing him into himself like crumpled metal. The next tore another in half, muscle and sinew parting before the blow even finished.
When she desired, she punched through them—her gauntleted hand exiting a chest cavity in a flash of gore, her eyes already locked on the next target before the body even begun to fall.
Together, the two Sisters—so different in style yet perfect in rhythm—moved forward like twin gods of war, their kill counts locked in silent rivalry. Where one leapt, the other blinked. Where one swept her spear, the other drove her fist.
Behind them, even the hardened Arnorian soldiers watched in awe—not at the scale of death, but at the purity of it.
Out of nowhere, the small drop pods howled. With a pneumatic shriek, their sides blew outward, and from within, Reapers erupted—jerky, unnatural, and terrifying.
Unlike the earlier version the Silver Team had faced a year prior, these were faster, stronger, filled to the brink with refined combat chemicals, their flesh and machine fused, their movements overclocked well beyond natural limits.
The Sisters took the brunt of their charge.
One Reaper lunged—its blade-arms gleaming with residual plasma. A Sister's spear met it mid-lunge, staggering it just enough. The other Sister dashed in with the precision of a lightning bolt, and landed a punch square into its helm—a massive, nearly rectangular construct permanently affixed to the hunched spine-like frame behind its shoulders.
There was a sound like shattering steel and bone. The helm fractured. The visor exploded outward in a rain of black shards, and the Reaper's body launched backward, smashing through a charred tree and cratering dead into a hexapodal walker, its limbs twitching with death spasms. Explosion followed.
But more made it through.
One of them vaulted with primal brutality toward the Lord General himself.
A spray of bolter fire from the Praetorian beside him caught it mid-air, spinning it off-course, but not stopping it. The twin plasma talons met the Lord General's raised scutum with a clang that echoed like thunder. The force of it drove him back a step, his boots tearing into the soil.
The Praetorian unleashed another burst, but his assault bolter clicked empty, its magazine dry. Few bolts had punched through the Reaper's armor, and most of those that had only gouged shallow wounds. High on chemicals, even with limp arm, the Reaper lunged again, grabbing the Praetorian's RAB and ripping it from his hands with shocking force.
Only a last-second duck and a brutal shield bash from the Lord General saved the Praetorian's head. The Reaper's talons scraped across the side of his helmet, shearing one of its lateral wings clean off in a sparking arc.
The Praetorian didn't hesitate. He drew his longsword in a flash of steel and stepped beside the Lord General. Together, they dueled the abomination.
Even wounded, the Reaper was faster, its movements twitching and brutal, a creature of pure violence. Blades clashed. Sparks flew. Slashes pierced through sections of Arnorian armor, drawing sparks and blood.
Then, disaster: the Lord General's sword was knocked from his hand, spinning into the dirt.
It looked like the end.
But the Praetorian—seizing an opening—drove his blade into the Reaper's damaged shoulder joint, cleaving through the bolter-scored servos and slicing the limb free. He quickly followed by another strike. The Reaper roared in fury and thrashed wildly, even with a sword buried deep in its chest.
Beeping.
The Praetorian's eyes widened. He kicked the Reaper away with all his strength, and a second later, a violent explosion detonated where the creature fell—scorching the air and knocking him backward beyond the phalanx and through the loose formation of Morwen. His armor was blackened and scorched, vents hissing, power flickering.
He rose slowly—gripping his longsword with effort—and limped back toward the Arnorian wedge, where the Lord General awaited, sword recovered.
They exchanged glances. No words were needed.
Together, they stepped forward, rejoining the battle.
When even the Reapers failed to halt the Arnorian advance, the Ingerdimnär base emptied. Every last reserve was thrown into the fray. Aboard the Xenon, Agent Rodriguez paced with twitching impatience, fingers drumming on the crossguard of her sheathed sword.
"Harken," she said, her tone sharp, "this must be it. I wanted to be there when the assault began, but you wanted to be sure. Are you sure enough now? Because I'm not waiting any longer."
Harken, watching the live feed of Ingerdimnär forces flooding to meet the Arnorians, gave a slow nod. "Alright. We proceed."
With a flash of light, three Strike Teams, including Rodriguez and Harken, plus the Silver Team, were beamed in behind enemy lines, landing in the shadow of the now-deserted base.
The moment Laura materialized, she felt it—like a tremor in her soul. The Arnorian battle hymn echoed even here, distant but resonant. Despite knowing there were only two instruments and four musicians, the sound carried with impossible weight. Tones that defied physical logic, harmonies saturated with subdimensional power, wove through the air like a spell.
The music strengthened her spirit, her chest tightening with adrenaline and awe. She was ready to fight.
Agent Rodriguez smiled faintly and drew her particle revolver and her Arnorian sword, which shimmered blue as it activated. Runes along the blade's fuller flared, glowing with arcane fire. She turned the blade in her hand with reverence.
"This always gets me," she murmured. "Fighting alongside Arnorians is always the greatest and the most terrible thing."
They moved with purpose, cutting low through the craggy terrain. Stealth was critical. At the base perimeter, it became clear—it truly was deserted. Not a soul left behind.
Rodriguez turned to the strike teams. "We'll disable defensive systems and hit their rear. Alpha, you go—"
"No," Agent Harken snapped, cutting her off. "We need to get to the labs. That's the highest—and only—priority. You can play with your friends later."
Rodriguez's jaw clenched. She hated the man's tone—but he was right.
"We've sat on our asses for most of this battle," she flared. "Take Gamma and Silver Team. The Alpha is with me."
Without a word, Harken nodded, grit his teeth, and led his group forward into the base.
They slipped through modern, sterile corridors—glass, metal, and cold white light. Occasional stragglers were encountered, but Gamma Team was swift and surgical. By the time an Ingerdimnär soldier even registered what was happening, they were already dead—clean shots, silent blades, or pulse strikes to the neck.
The roar of battle outside was muffled by the reinforced walls, and the silence inside grew unnerving. Laura felt her eagerness for combat mutate into a strange anxiety. It clung to her thoughts, heavy and alien.
Then they found it—the laboratory.
Harken moved first, rushing to the console and beginning an immediate data siphon. His fingers flew across the interface as lines of code scrolled like rainfall.
Laura drifted to the observation window… and froze.
Her heart skipped.
Beyond the reinforced glass, suspended in fluid tanks and half-covered in surgical tarps, were human remains—but not as she knew them. Brains in jars, attached to partial torsos, chest pieces with cybernetic ports, and limbs twitching with residual life.
Some of them blinked.
Some of them stared.
Some of them screamed, but no sound came through the glass.
Laura's breath caught in her throat. "Ancients…"
They weren't bodies.
They were subjects.
Harken didn't look up from the console. His focus remained absolute—cold, indifferent to the grotesque suffering behind the glass.
Danny moved toward the door, inspecting the control panel. Emily stepped beside Laura, who was still staring at the tanks.
Then Laura saw it—just a faint outline beneath the swollen flesh. A tattoo. An Arnorian glyph. Her breath caught.
"They're... Arnorians," she whispered, voice shaking.
Harken finally stepped away from the console, leaving the data to continue downloading.
"Yes," he said flatly. "If he's still alive, one of them is the one who sent us into the subdimension."
Danny crouched at the door controls, fingers dancing over the interface. "I think I can get us in. We'll take them home."
"No need," Harken said, brushing past him. "We'll beam them directly to the Strike Zephyr. Shield will take care of them."
He had barely finished speaking when the opposite doors hissed open—and Arnorians stepped into the lab.
Morwen stood at their side—faces bloodied, cloaks torn, but they held tall, battered yet unbroken.
The air shifted with their arrival, heavy with anger and authority. They stopped in their tracks, staring first at the Denebolians, then the subjects behind the glass.
The Centurion stepped forward, his voice crackling through the vox in his helmet, heavy with disgust:
"Shield. Arrive late, and already snooping around. No matter. This place will burn. Leave."
He turned to his soldiers. "Release our own from their pain. Destroy the databanks. This abominable blasphemy wrapped in the coat of science will not see the light of day."
Harken stepped protectively in front of the console, still downloading.
"I won't allow it," he said. "The research here may be horrifying—but erasing it would be the true waste."
He signaled Gamma Team, who instantly moved between the Arnorians and the console. Silver Team hesitated, drifting back, unsure.
Danny raised his hands, desperate to calm things down. "Whoa, whoa—we're allies. There's no need for this."
The Centurion's voice boomed again, resolute. "No unholy knowledge leaves this place. Move, or we will make you."
Harken didn't budge. Without a word, he drew a transmitter from behind his back.
The Arnorians advanced.
Harken raised the device—a pulse of static shimmered through the air—and the Arnorians dropped to their knees as their power armor locked, joints seizing, servos whining. For a second, they were statues.
Then the failsafes kicked in.
The armor rebooted, flushing out the interference. Systems crawled back online—but not all at once. The warriors lurched forward in spasms: a dead stop, then a sluggish step driven by their own muscles, then a burst of full power before another lock hit. The cycle repeated—halt, jerk, surge, halt—leaving them moving in a grotesque rhythm like broken marionettes.
It bought only seconds.
One soldier wrestled enough control to raise a bolter and fire. The round screamed toward Harken—he barely conjured an orange shield in time. The explosion punched through, shards ripping the air, throwing him backward. His personal shield flickered green as he hit the floor—transmitter shattering in his grip.
The lock was gone. Arnorians were free.
Hell broke loose.
One of the Arnorians managed to get a shot off—a bolt punched through the console just as the last of the data was nearly transferred.
The consol exploded and screen sparked, flared, and went dark.
The Morwen were stunned by Gamma Team in no time. Arnorians were struck in their weak points, joints and gaps in their armor. Two fell. But the rest closed the distance.
And when they got close—Gamma was in trouble.
From the rear corridor, Agent Rodriguez entered with Alpha at her back. Her voice was sharp, but steady.
"Hold fire! All of you—stand down!"
The command cut through the clash of steel and particle bursts. For a heartbeat, the lab froze. Even Gamma turned their heads, blades locked against the Arnorians' swords.
Harken didn't lower his weapon. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost soft.
"Rodriguez," he said, "you're late. This ends now."
He raised his revolver toward the nearest Arnorian without looking at her. "Alpha—assist Gamma. Kill the targets if you have to."
Several operatives faltered. A few took steps forward. Others didn't move at all.
Rodriguez's jaw tightened. "They're allies, Harken. You pull that trigger, you burn every treaty we've got."
"That's above your clearance," he replied. No anger, no hesitation. Just fact. "Execute the order."
For a moment, silence pressed down heavier than gunfire. Then an Alpha operative moved toward Gamma, weapon half raised. Another followed, glancing back at Rodriguez with something like apology in his eyes.
Rodriguez drew in a slow breath. When she spoke again, it was quiet. "No."
Her arm blurred. A stun round cracked through the air. The first operative dropped. The second spun toward her—too slow. A blade hilt slammed across his visor.
"Alpha!" Her voice hit like steel. "With me—or on the floor!"
Two operatives peeled to her side instantly. One froze, weapon trembling, and then slowly lowered it.
Danny and Silver Team didn't wait for the debate to end. They vaulted the barricade and joined Rodriguez, stun batons humming.
The room detonated into chaos.
Stun blasts hissed. Particle rounds shattered glass and scorched metal. Gamma fought on instinct, torn between orders and survival, until the melee swallowed them whole. Arnorians waded through the storm like armored titans, their blades flashing arcs of molten light.
And then—it was done.
Smoke drifted over shattered consoles. Unconscious bodies lay scattered across the lab—Alpha and Gamma both. Rodriguez stood at the center, breath heavy, Alpha survivors and Silver arrayed at her back.
Only Harken remained. He hadn't moved from his place in the corner. The revolver was still in his hand, steady as stone. His eyes were ice.
"Interesting choice, Commander," he said at last, his voice low, surgical. "You just made yourself a traitor."
Harken's words hung in the silence.
"There is indeed a traitor," the Arnorian muttered, voice like a blade. "…Deserving of execution."
He stepped forward to finish it—but Rodriguez raised a hand, stopping him.
"I'll deal with him," she said, cold and certain.
She looked to Danny and Laura, then back to the Arnorian. "Please accept my apologies—and know that Denebol values its allies."
The Arnorian pounded a fist to his chest. "For you, always, Commander. I see that it truly does. I wish you success in rooting out weeds like him."
He moved to wake his comrades.
Danny looked around. "I'll call a beam for us and the Strike teams."
As he sent the signal, Laura watched Rodriguez escort a restrained Harken toward the exit.
"I'll hang around just a bit longer," she said quietly. "You go."
Danny nodded. Moments later, Silver and Strike teams were beamed aboard the Xenon.
Laura followed slowly after them, stepping into the corridor behind Rodriguez and Harken.
"This is going to cost you your place. You were promoted only because the Arnorians trust you. Instead of giving us information, you grew sympathies for them. And for what? They're children with nuclear launch codes, and you know it," Harken snapped.
Rodriguez stayed steady.
"That doesn't give you the right to act against their people. We are allies. Shield should respect that."
"Respect?" Harken shook his head.
"We do what needs to be done to protect ourselves. It's better you stayed in Strike Division. You wouldn't have the stomach for what we do."
They stepped outside. Rodriguez spun Harken to face her.
"That talk—this attitude—led us into civil war. It's what created Hydra. I won't let us repeat our mistakes."
Harken stared back coldly.
"You don't know what you're talking about. You've spent so much time with the Arnorians, you've adopted their customs. There's no room for that in Shield. Delusions. Ideals. We operate with pragmatism. If there's a threat, we eliminate it—with logic. Not superstition or morality."
Rodriguez signaled Zephyr for a beam-out.
"You're the one deluding yourself, Harken. There must always be morality."
And with that, Harken was beamed away.
Rodriguez turned and started walking along the base toward the front lines, where the last of the fighting was dying down.
"You coming?" she asked without turning. Laura, who had been leaning against the entrance wall, jogged after her.
"How long have you known about me?" Laura asked.
Rodriguez gave a faint smile.
"About halfway through. I wanted you to hear that. I hope he's wrong. But if Shield is losing touch, the government should know. And I can't be the one to say it."
Laura nodded slowly.
"I haven't seen anything myself… but you hear things, here and there. I believe the higher-ups don't like Shield much."
Rodriguez sighed.
"Yeah… it'd be better if I were just paranoid."
They reached the front—and Laura's eyes widened again. Wounded and surrendering Ingerdimnär soldiers were being cut down. The tall Sister walked among them, her presence radiating that faint, unnatural terror Laura had felt before.
Laura watched in horror as the Sister stepped through one soldier's torso, killing him instantly.
"He's a prisoner of war… she can't do that, can she?" Laura whispered.
Rodriguez's expression darkened.
"The High King went missing in the subdimension. Kidnapped, killed, lost—no one knows. The High Canonessa seized the regency. One of her decrees: No mercy. These are hard times. And after what those men did in the lab to the Arnorians… well, I am not surprised."
The Sister, hearing them with her enhanced senses, grabbed a struggling soldier by the throat and raised him into the air. She locked eyes with Laura. Then, slowly, deliberately, she began to squeeze. The soldier thrashed, pain contorting his face. Blood burst from his mouth and nose. Still she squeezed—until bones shattered under her grip and his neck collapsed. His head and body dropped separately to the ground.
The Sister turned and moved on.
Laura stood frozen in horror.
Then the Lord General approached.
"She didn't have to be that dramatic. But she lost her older brother a few days ago, you see."
Laura didn't respond. She looked down, lost in thought.
Rodriguez bowed slightly and pounded her chest.
"It's good to see you again, Lord General."
The General returned the gesture.
"You too, Commander. Still wearing the Shield insignia, I see. You're too good for them—but if we have to deal with Shield, I'm glad it's through you."
A thunderous rumble echoed as a cruiser shot landed nearby. The Lord General looked to the sky, where some of the bombardment had failed to dissipate in time and slammed into the ground.
"Celebriel is a strong woman, but even she cannot hold this indefinitely. You'd better beam yourself out," he said.
Rodriguez replied, "Then you should leave too."
The General turned to go. "Not until this place is burned to the ground."
Rodriguez gave a small nod, then signaled for beam-out. She and Laura vanished in a shimmer of light and reappeared aboard the Xenon.
Colonel Halden was already watching the Arnorians raze the base, the fires visible from orbit. She turned as they arrived.
"Zephyr has beamed out our Strike teams. Most likely they've already left the system. You seem to be stuck with us now."
Rodriguez nodded several times. "Seems my fears were right. I might be looking for another job soon."
The Colonel tilted her head, then turned her attention back to the bridge crew. "Are we ready to leave?"
One crew member answered, "Engines at 63% operational capacity. We can make it to Orbitum. After that, we'll need to drop out of hyperspace to stabilize."
Another reported, "Colonel, Ingerdimnär's bombardment is starting to affect Arnorian ground forces. If their… —
protection field, aura, whatever it is—
keeps weakening at this rate, they'll have only a few minutes left."
The Colonel looked at the main screen. The base below was engulfed in flame, and the Arnorian host was struggling to regroup for the jump.
"Can we afford a brief skirmish?" she asked.
"Structural integrity is at 89%. Combat effectiveness is at 23%," came the reply.
The Colonel paused in thought. "So, just a single flyby. Alright. Let's do it. Myers, I'm counting on you to get us out."
"I got it, Colonel."
Power surged through the Xenon. Emergency lights dimmed as systems came alive. Laura held on as the ship banked and dove toward the Ingerdimnär cruiser.
From the central ridge of the Xenon, a barrage of plasma fire erupted. The shots struck the enemy hull, exploding against its shimmering green shields. The impacts danced across the energy net, pulsing like a maze of calculating lines, each explosion forcing a new adjustment.
The Xenon accelerated beneath the cruiser, climbed back up, then looped around for one final pass. During the maneuver, one of its last functional plasma beams discharged. The shot punched through the weakened shield, overloading it for a split second. Melted hull plates were torn free and drifted into space, leaving a glowing red scar across the cruiser's side.
But the Xenon was too damaged to follow up. Of eight beam weapons, only one had been operational—and now even that was spent.
The bridge shook violently as the Ingerdimnär fleet returned fire.
"Shields are failing!" shouted a crew member.
Colonel Halden gripped the armrests of her chair. "We did what we could. Get us out of here!"
The stars stretched into lines as the Xenon leapt into hyperspace—leaving the burning battlefield behind, and giving the Arnorians a chance to retreat.
Xenon was far past the Orbitum system, nearing Panthal—the shared home of both Denebol and Arnor.
Laura sat alone in the briefing room with Colonel Halden, finishing her report. The Colonel sat with her hands clasped, brows furrowed.
"This is truly getting out of hand," she muttered. "If this were an isolated case, I could overlook it. But Shield is overstepping more and more often."
She stood and leaned on the table, her tone growing firmer.
"I'm taking this to the president. This time, Shield crossed the line too far. I won't force you to come with me, but your support would be appreciated."
Laura slowly swept her hand across the table, brushing away imaginary dust.
"I'll stand with you, Colonel. But first… I want to deliver condolences to Angbor's family."
Colonel Halden nodded with a faint, sad smile.
"I understand. You're free to do that. I'll begin preparing the necessary paperwork for the president."
Laura rose and gave a slight bow of her head.
"Thank you, Colonel. That means a lot."
The Colonel sat back down, watching her go. Then, quietly to herself,
"I know."
She raised her hand and typed into the air. A list of deceased crew members lit up before her.
"You won't be the only one bringing bad news today."
It was quite a trek to reach Angbor's home, but as Laura walked through the quiet forest, the distance was the last thing on her mind.
She finally arrived at a small, overgrown wall separating the forest from an orchard. Apples were already forming on many of the trees. As she continued up the hill toward a large house, she glimpsed a few working Morwen clearing the overgrown grass—their green and blue eyes gave them away.
Angbor did mention the Morwen were settling in Arnor, she thought. Maybe they're hired hands.
Then she saw her—Angbor's wife—just as she had appeared in the photo he once showed her. Only now, her face was marked with a dark smudge. She must have just returned from the Forge.
Stepping closer, Laura raised her hand in greeting.
"Hello, I suppose you are Miss Damcuyar?"
"Bainwen," the woman replied. "And you're here because of my husband."
Laura blinked, a little surprised.
"Yes. I'm Laura Mitchell. I served with him on the same team. How did you know?"
Bainwen sat down on a low stone wall that formed the edge of the house's terrace.
"Not many Denebolians travel to Arnor—fewer still to the countryside."
Laura stepped closer.
"I wanted to offer my condolences in person. He was a great man… a friend, I'd like to say. He saved my life more than once. And in the end… he may have sacrificed his very soul for our crew."
Bainwen sat in silence, a single tear rolling down her cheek.
"He always went headfirst against anything. That's how we found each other. I always thought… if he died, he'd be waiting for me in the Hall of the True-Born when my time came. But now… I fear I'll stand there alone. If his soul was truly taken, he may never reach Yárcarniel's realm."
Laura sat beside her.
"I don't want to give you false hope… but he was still fighting, even as that thing took him. If anyone could make it back, it would be him."
Bainwen looked at Laura with a faint smile, another tear slipping down her face.
"That's true. He never broke a promise before."
Together, they sat in silence as the sun sank low over the orchard.
The end
