The battlefield trembled under the weight of gunfire and explosions. Smoke curled into the sky, and the stench of blood and metal filled the air. The enemy forces had nearly breached the front entrance of the central building, but Armin had had enough.
With calm fury in his eyes, he unsheathed his blade.
"Time to end this."
Without waiting for backup, Armin burst forward like a shadow unleashed. Bullets whizzed past him—some grazing, most missing. The soldiers barely had time to react as he closed the distance. His blade gleamed silver in the harsh light, carving a deadly arc through the air.
The first soldier didn't even see the strike coming.
Armin moved like a phantom, slashing through armor and bone with ruthless precision. He didn't waste energy on unnecessary movements; every swing had purpose, every step calculated. A bullet screamed toward him—he cut it clean in half mid-flight, the pieces harmlessly striking the wall behind him.
From the upper level of the central building, Kliner watched the massacre unfolding below. His eyes narrowed. "Show-off."
With a grunt, he vaulted over the railing and dropped into the fray. His landing sent a shockwave through the ground. Without hesitation, he joined Armin, cleaving through a cluster of soldiers with raw force and chaotic energy.
"Glad you decided to join the fun," Armin muttered between slashes.
"Wouldn't miss it," Kliner replied, swinging his heavy blade through two enemies with a single blow.
Together, they were a blur of death and fury. The soldiers, despite their numbers and training, couldn't hold their ground. Panic started to spread through the ranks. Armin cut down anyone who approached, ducking and weaving between gunfire, slicing through both metal and man with ease. Blood stained the ground beneath his boots, but his face remained eerily calm.
"Behind you!" Kliner shouted.
Armin turned just in time to deflect a barrage of bullets, the force sending him skidding back. He lowered into a crouch, then launched forward again with renewed speed.
Kliner, meanwhile, spotted something more dangerous up ahead—a tank rumbling into position, its massive cannon turning toward the heart of the battlefield.
"Oh, hell no," he growled.
Without thinking, he sprinted toward it.
The tank operator noticed him too late.
The cannon fired, sending a shell screaming toward Kliner. He dove to the side at the last moment, and the shot exploded into the ranks of the enemy soldiers behind him, showering metal and limbs in every direction. The explosion rocked the ground, giving Kliner just enough time to leap onto the tank's hull.
He climbed up the side with practiced ease, pried open the hatch, and dropped inside like a hammer of war. There was a scream—cut short—and then silence.
Moments later, the tank stopped moving.
From the hatch, Kliner emerged, bloodied but grinning, wiping his blade on his sleeve. "Not so tough without someone pulling the trigger."
While Kliner claimed the tank, Armin continued his slaughter.
Soldiers attempted to regroup, to flank him, but he moved too fast, thought too far ahead. He parried bullets with the flat of his blade, ducked beneath incoming fire, and took advantage of every misstep. With brutal grace, he disabled rifles, slit throats, and drove his blade through the hearts of those who stood their ground.
Within minutes, the ground was littered with corpses.
The once-formidable wave of soldiers was reduced to silence and ash.
Armin stood at the center of the battlefield, blood dripping from his blade, breath steady. The wind carried smoke across the ruins, and the stench of burning oil hung heavy in the air.
Kliner walked over, stepping over bodies and charred metal.
"Looks like that's the last of them," he said, glancing around.
Armin didn't respond right away. He was still scanning the horizon, mind racing ahead, already preparing for what came next.
Kliner raised an eyebrow. "You alright?"
"I'm fine," Armin replied, sheathing his blade. "This was just the first wave."
Kliner sighed, cracking his knuckles. "Of course it was. It's never easy with you, is it?"
Armin turned to him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "You're still alive. That's easy enough for me."
Kliner snorted. "You're insufferable."
"Good," Armin said, already walking back toward the central building. "I plan to stay that way."
Behind them, the field was quiet. No more gunfire. No more shouting. Only the slow hiss of cooling metal and the distant groan of the wind.
But both men knew the silence wouldn't last.
Lira stirred with a groan, her eyelids fluttering open. Blurred light filtered through the smoke above, and the sharp scent of burnt metal filled her lungs. As her vision cleared, she realized she was lying on top of someone—Sheath, bruised and unconscious, his arms still loosely wrapped around her as if shielding her from the fall.
"What the—" she muttered, and shoved at him. "Get off me!"
She wriggled free just as Kale rushed over, his face flushed with panic and frustration. Without warning, he landed a light punch to her shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to shake her.
"Are you serious right now?" Kale snapped. "You'd be dead if it weren't for him! When the ship was falling apart, when everyone else was trying to save themselves, Sheath ran back for you. He risked everything to pull you out of that wreck."
Lira blinked, stunned. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked back at Sheath—his shirt torn, his face bloodied, chest rising shallowly. Her expression softened, guilt creeping in.
"…Where even are we?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
Before Kale could answer, a soldier's voice rang out.
"There they are! Kill them!"
Gunfire cracked through the air.
A shot rang out—and Lira gasped as it flew straight toward her. But Kale stepped in front, raising his arm.
The bullet struck his forearm, tearing through flesh and bone. He cried out in pain but didn't fall.
The soldier raised his rifle again, lining up another shot.
But before he could pull the trigger, another figure appeared—Merkin, a soldier from the opposing side. He grabbed the gun's barrel and shoved it skyward.
"Stop this!" Merkin shouted. "They're just kids—children caught in a war they didn't start. They've been forced to fight! This isn't justice—it's slaughter!"
"They're enemies!" another soldier yelled from behind cover. "You've lost your mind! Kill this traitor first!"
The gunfire resumed.
A shot was aimed at Kale—but Merkin reacted fast. With near-perfect precision, he drew his sidearm and fired. His bullet collided with the incoming round mid-air, shattering it in a burst of sparks before it could reach its mark.
"Go!" Merkin barked, stepping in front of Kale and Lira. "Get him out of here! Now!"
Kale gritted his teeth and lifted Sheath's limp body with Lira's help. Together, they began running—through the smoke and dirt, away from the hell they'd fallen into.
Merkin stood his ground, shielding them from the onslaught. Bullet after bullet struck the ground around him, but he kept firing back, buying them every second he could.
Then a shot hit him in the chest.
He stumbled but didn't fall, using his last strength to fire at the nearest attacker. Another hit him in the side, then the shoulder. His gun dropped. He collapsed to one knee, blood pouring from his wounds—but his eyes stayed locked on the kids as they fled.
A scream of engines roared overhead.
Maverick, watching from the airship, spotted the trio below—and the collapsing soldier trying to protect them. His eyes narrowed.
Without hesitation, he leapt from the ship.
He landed with a heavy thud, blades drawn before his boots even touched the dirt. He tore through the soldiers closing in, each slash precise, brutal. In seconds, bodies fell around him like broken branches in a storm.
He reached Kale and Lira, who were struggling under Sheath's weight.
"Take him and get out of here!" Maverick ordered, blood spattering his coat. "I'll handle the rest."
Kale nodded, breath ragged. "Aye."
He and Lira hauled Sheath away, slipping into the cover of the wreckage. Behind them, Maverick fought like a storm unleashed, his blades a blur, standing alone against dozens.
But he wasn't fighting for glory. He was fighting for the three lives that still had a chance.
And that was more than enough.
Armin narrowed his eyes toward the distant horizon, his senses sharpened like a blade ready to strike. The wind tugged at his coat as he stood atop the roof of the central building, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
"They're coming," he said calmly, his gaze still locked on the sky. "This time, it'll be an aerial strike. I can hear the jets approaching."
Kliner, crouched nearby with a scoped rifle in hand, looked up. "Of course they are. Makes sense after the ground assault failed."
Armin nodded. "Get ready. Aim for their engines—disable, don't chase. Take them down before they can fire."
Kliner smirked. "Nice plan. Let's clip some wings."
High above, sleek shapes cut through the clouds like knives—fighter jets descending rapidly toward the central zone. Inside their cockpits, the pilots scanned their screens and locked onto their targets: Armin and Kliner, two figures standing exposed on the rooftop of a critical enemy structure.
"Targets in sight," one of the pilots reported, fingers hovering over the launch controls. "Beginning missile lock—"
But before they could fire, static crackled through their radios. A voice came through, sharp and commanding.
"Command to all jets: do not cause structural damage to the central building. Avoid missile impact in or around the structure. We cannot afford significant destruction to that area. Repeat—do not damage the building."
The pilots hesitated, momentarily thrown off. "Roger that..." one muttered.
But inside the cramped cockpit, the confusion was immediate.
What the hell are they thinking? the pilot thought, glancing toward the building. They're literally standing on it. How are we supposed to eliminate the targets without damaging the damn rooftop?
He toggled his comms to his wingmate. "We'll need to improvise. We can't blow up the building, but we still have to get them off it somehow."
His wingmate responded with a sigh, "We either take them down surgically or risk the consequences. No pressure, right?"
Back on the rooftop, Armin took a slow breath. His fingers wrapped around the custom rifle slung across his back, designed not for brute force—but for precision.
He raised it, locked onto the first jet, and fired.
The round struck home. A flash of flame burst from the engine of the lead jet, smoke billowing as it spiraled out of formation. The aircraft lurched sideways, trailing fire, before exploding in the sky with a thunderous boom that shook the surrounding buildings.
The other jets immediately broke formation, alarms shrieking in their cockpits.
"Jet One is down! Evasive maneuvers!"
Kliner was already moving. He sprinted across the rooftop, dodging a strafing run as he leapt behind cover, then popped up and fired twice in quick succession. One jet veered off course, missing its target and struggling to stabilize.
Armin, unfazed, remained standing. His next shot pierced through another jet's wing. The machine wobbled, tried to climb, and then burst into flame, falling like a comet behind the horizon.
"Two down," Armin said under his breath.
Kliner chuckled. "I'm starting to feel sorry for them."
Within moments, the sky was a storm of panic. The jets tried circling around for another pass, attempting to calculate an angle that would allow them to attack without violating their orders. But Armin and Kliner weren't giving them the chance.
Another shot rang out—Kliner this time. A jet's left stabilizer exploded mid-air, and the craft spiraled out of control, crashing into the outer city in a distant fireball.
Armin ducked a low-flying jet, rolled, and fired as it passed overhead. His bullet tore through the rear engine, igniting it almost instantly.
One by one, the jets fell.
The last two turned tail, engines screaming as they fled the zone, trailing smoke. They had barely made it out alive.
Silence settled over the city, save for the lingering echo of collapsing wreckage in the distance.
Armin exhaled and lowered his weapon. "That's all of them."
Kliner leaned against the ruined edge of the roof, breathing heavily but grinning. "We didn't even give them time to think."
"We couldn't," Armin said, turning his gaze to the smoldering sky. "The moment we hesitate, we lose this war."
Kliner looked down at the battlefield below. "You think Command will be angry their jets didn't make it back?"
Armin didn't answer immediately. He slid his blade back into its sheath and said, "They'll be more concerned about why two men on a rooftop were enough to stop their airstrike."
He paused. "Let them wonder."
Kliner chuckled. "Yeah. Let 'em."
Rein and Isame leapt from the side of the crashing airship just before it shattered into the earth with a deafening explosion behind them. Smoke and fire painted the sky as they rolled across the scorched ground, coughing and battered—but alive. Without hesitation, they sprinted toward Kale, who was kneeling beside Sheath's unmoving body near the edge of the battlefield.
"Is he still alive?" Isame called out, eyes wide with concern as she stumbled to a stop.
Kale nodded, sweat dripping from his brow. "Barely. His pulse is weak, and he's burning up. We've stopped the bleeding for now, but if we don't find someone who can treat him properly—he won't last much longer."
Lira, crouched beside them, looked up at the smoke-filled sky. The sound of gunfire echoed behind them like a terrible heartbeat. "We can't help him if we stay out here. We need to move. Now."
She pointed toward the dense treeline behind them. "There's a forest just past that ridge. We can hide in there—get him some cover."
Kale hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. "Let's go."
Together, they lifted Sheath—carefully, as if he might shatter—and carried him toward the woods. The sounds of war faded only slightly as they ducked beneath the thick canopy. Smoke curled through the trees, and the fiery orange glow of the burning battlefield behind them flickered against the leaves like a warning.
They finally stopped behind the thick trunk of an old tree, laying Sheath gently on a patch of moss. He groaned faintly, still alive.
"I can treat him," Rein said suddenly, his voice steady despite the chaos. "I just need some bandages, and whatever medical supplies we have."
Isame quickly pulled a small pouch from his belt and handed it to him. "Here—this is all I've got. A few wraps, antiseptic, painkillers."
Rein took it with a grateful nod, then rolled up his sleeves. His hands moved quickly but gently, inspecting Sheath's wounds and applying what salves he had. His fingers trembled slightly, but his actions were practiced.
Lira watched, astonished. "How do you know how to do all this?"
Rein didn't look up. "My father... he was a doctor. When I was younger, he used to teach me everything he could. He said that someday, knowing how to help someone might matter more than knowing how to fight."
Kale, wiping the sweat from his brow, looked at him quietly. "Where is he now?"
Rein paused for just a second before replying. "He's not in this world anymore."
Kale winced. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
"It's alright," Rein said softly. "He would've helped Sheath, too."
The group fell into silence, the only sound being Rein's quiet instructions to Lira and Isame as they helped hold Sheath still. Bandages were wrapped tight around his chest and shoulder, and small doses of painkillers were administered carefully.
"His breathing's steadier," Isame said, his voice hopeful.
"Yeah," Rein replied. "But this is temporary. If we don't get him proper care soon, this won't hold."
They all knew what he meant. This moment of calm in the forest was fragile—thin as glass.
Explosions thundered faintly beyond the trees. The battle still raged, just a few hundred meters away. But here, in this patch of quiet wilderness, the forest held its breath. The canopy above was thick enough to hide them for now, the shadows keeping them from view.
Kale finally sat down against the tree, exhausted. "We're not safe yet."
"No," Lira said, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "But we're alive. That's more than most can say."
Rein finished tending to Sheath, then sat beside him, keeping a close watch. The boy looked peaceful now, despite the burns and bruises. As if the forest itself was guarding him for the moment.
"I don't care what side we're on anymore," Isame whispered, staring into the trees. "I just want this to end."
Kale nodded slowly. "We're all just trying to survive."
Silence returned. The war might still be roaring beyond the treeline, but here in the heart of the forest, surrounded by broken branches and broken people, hope clung to them like the wind through the leaves.
For now, it was enough.