[From the personal diary of Miyamoto Saito]

  Entry 221 – Delta Transit / Aurora’s Promise

  “Guns are for those who fear closing the distance.”

  – Shiroyama Kaede

  I still remember when my instructor first said those words. Everyone else laughed. I did not.

  I have trained with the blade since I could walk—before the implants, before the conditioning. Before I became whatever the Federation wanted to make of me.

  And now, even with a spirit that can counter incoming fire and wetware that lets me dodge in the space between blinks, I still carry steel.

  Not because it’s practical. Not because it’s efficient. But because it asks something of me.

  A gun reacts. A blade commits.

  There are days I wonder if my loyalty to the sword is a flaw—some romantic delusion, a remnant of a world that no longer exists. In a time where death moves in fractions of milliseconds, where soldiers no longer need courage, only speed...

  ...does my devotion to the blade make me stronger?

  Or just slower?

  — S.

  The bridge of the Aurora’s Promise was bleeding light and metal.

  Sparks leapt from sheared consoles. Emergency lighting bathed everything in pulsing crimson. Railgun slugs had cratered the bulkhead around the blast door, and the reinforced seal was a memory—cut open by charges and sheers. The breach was wide enough now for the Ironclads to enter.

  That was the plan.

  Two Gravebacks and one Kingsgrave entered the bridge, nailguns suppressing everyone behind cover and cutting down all the unfortunates caught in the open. The fire shattered the defenders morale and they cowered. Then a blast and everyone turned to watch as the third Graveback, a makeshift cork to secure the breach from reinforcements, toppled, a hole smoking in the center of its chest.

  Two Hellhounds—OmniForge war machines hidden behind shattered consoles—fired in perfect sync into the lull. Twin rail slugs slammed one Graveback’s torso and neck. The first pair cracked the pressure seals; the second pair tore through the chest. The Ironclad slumped backward, sparking and inert.

  The Reavers cursed and dropped ion smoke grenades masking their beachhead in sensor fouling fog and providing concealment for their Ironclads. The Hellhounds’ targeting systems began best guess shooting into the dense fog, their weapons tracked in a wide blindfire arc.

  Shots ricocheted off the two remaining Ironclads—targeting reduced to dead reckoning, like trying to hit a sailing ship in thick fog. The Graveback took only superficial damage. The Kingsgrave was untouched—its kinetic shield shimmered, bending incoming fire mid-flight. The shield saved it from any damage and it aimed its nailgun.

  Hellhound One exploded, its chassis torn in half. Hellhound Two tried to retreat—too slow. A follow-up burst blew through its stabilizers. Scrap metal rained across the bridge.

  Then the comm opened.

  “The client wants the Espiritus. Stand down or be removed.”

  The voice was clipped, filtered—utterly calm.

  G?tz charged.

  The breach was clear and he rushed like a living battering ram. His muscles ached and his boarding blade was slick with cooling blood. The remaining Graveback was stunned into inaction by the reckless charge and turned just in time to catch G?tz’s full weight.

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  They collided like titans—a spectral knight, G?tz’s manifestation, crashing into a grey giant of metal and fury.

  The suit tried to bring its nailgun to bear, but G?tz jammed his shoulder into the barrel, deflecting it upward. He hacked down at the suit’s elbow, sparks flying as ceramic plating split. Another cleave at the knee. Another into the hip.

  He didn’t finesse it—he bullied it.

  The last Graveback staggered. G?tz’s blade carved at every joint it could reach, gouging plates, wrecking servos. The rider tried to disengage. G?tz slammed a gauntleted fist into the breastplate, denting the armor inward, then brought the hilt of his blade around in a brutal hook to the cockpit housing.

  The Ironclad froze.

  Inside, the pilot slumped—consciousness lost or systems fried. Either way, neutralized.

  Behind him, Miyamoto and Julie moved in tandem.

  Their target: the Kingsgrave.

  Julie darted forward, monomolecular stiletto and decorative rapier glinting in the haze. Her pistols were already discarded—flashy toys, useless against real armor. The rapier she carried was more stage prop than weapon. It bounced off the plating.

  Miyamoto engaged from the flank. His movements were fluid, calculated. He tested the rider’s reactions.

  Then he committed.

  His katana swept low in a slicing arc toward the Ironclad’s neck—perfect form, aimed for the weakest seam.

  The Kingsgrave dodged. Fast. Too fast.

  The blade struck an angled ridge of armor. It twisted.

  And snapped.

  The ancient katana fractured in Miyamoto’s hands with a metallic wail. The Kingsgrave countered immediately, nailgun sweeping down at close range.

  The slug hit center-mass.

  Miyamoto flew backward, blood trailing in a mist. The impact collapsed one lung and clipped his liver; organs cooked from the heat of the rounds passage. He hit the deck hard.

  Julie screamed but didn’t break.

  She pivoted on instinct, slashing for the suit’s joint as it advanced. Her stiletto bit but met resistance—then deflected. Too little force.

  Too thick armor.

  The rider moved to step forward and crush Miyamoto, his prone body too close and low to target with another round.

  Julie couldn’t stop it alone.

  But she wasn’t alone.

  From the stabilizer chamber, Lila O’Connell stepped forward.

  Her aura coalesced—not blotchy, not half-formed. Solid. Intentional. Wrong for a Level 5.

  A spearman stood behind her—tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in what looked like ancient armor and animal hide. A long, barbed spear shimmered in its hand, its shape more suggestion than substance.

  It was faceless. Nameless. Familiar.

  No one recognized the figure. But something in the room went still.

  With no words, the spear was hurled.

  The Kingsgrave sidestepped too fast for mere human reactions.

  The spear missed the heart of the suit.

  It struck the thigh joint.

  And detonated.

  A gravity singularity erupted at the point of contact. The limb sheared clean off—armor, servo, plating, meat. Part of the lower torso went with it. The shielding blinked out. The entire bridge groaned as the singularity pulled unsecured gear and bodies toward it.

  Then collapsed.

  The Ironclad toppled.

  Julie stepped forward, climbed the ruined frame, and jammed her rapier into a joint just behind the cockpit. It punched through into the saddle, the rider’s neural cradle.

  The leader twitched once—then fell still.

  The blade snapped at the hilt. Just a useless handle in her grip.

  She let it drop.

  Miyamoto lay bleeding, but alive. Julie knelt beside him, connected a wetware cable, and opened the uplink.

  His voice came through, soft and steady.

  “Lung punctured. Liver damaged. Everythings cooked.”

  “Anything not broken?”

  “Spine. Ego. Patience.”

  Julie exhaled and smiled faintly. “Good. I’d hate to drag a corpse.”

  Back by the breach, G?tz planted a boot on his fallen sparing partner’s Ironclad.

  Lights dim. Pilot slumped. Alive, maybe. Doesn’t matter.

  G?tz glanced across the bridge—smoke, sparks, the echo of spectral warriors locked in silent postures.

  Lila’s spearman still hovered behind her. Unfaded. Solid.

  His own kightly guardian appeared beside him, sword at the ready. The two specters regarded each other like opposing generals.

  No clash. Just recognition.

  And warning.

  The battle was over.

  But the questions had just begun.