Chapter 26 Echoes of Apollo
The room was quiet, filled only with the soft mechanical hum of the projector and the gentle, almost comforting crackle of old audio. I leaned back against the headboard, legs stretched comfortably across the bed. Beside me, Sula sat quietly, one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched out casually. Her hand was close enough that I could feel its warmth, a quiet presence I found increasingly reassuring.
On the far wall, the old-world images flickered gently. Harry and Sally navigated their world—a world long gone, captured perfectly in those mundane, ordinary moments that I hadn't realized how much I'd missed. There was no warfare here, no struggle for survival, just two people lost in conversation, bickering and laughing in a diner that no longer existed.
"They argue a lot," Sula murmured softly, her eyes never leaving the moving images on the wall.
I glanced at her briefly, taking in the quiet concentration in her gaze, the way her mouth curled just faintly at the corners during certain scenes. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how young she was—how little of the world she'd actually seen beyond fighting and survival. Yet, here she was, quietly absorbing a slice of a reality so vastly different from anything she'd known.
"That's kind of the point," I said gently. "They argue because they care. It's their way of figuring each other out."
She shifted a little closer, her shoulder lightly brushing mine in a casual gesture that felt significant somehow—simple, but quietly profound. Trust. Comfort. A peace I hadn't realized how badly I needed.
We watched in silence. My attention drifted between the familiar scenes of Harry's blunt honesty and Sally's careful precision, and the subtle shifts in Sula's reactions beside me. I noticed the faintest smile on her lips when Sally laughed, the softening of her gaze at Harry's awkward sincerity. Her reactions were small, subtle, yet to me they felt enormous.
"I like her," she said quietly.
I turned my head just slightly toward her. "Why's that?"
She considered the question carefully, never taking her eyes off the projection. "She doesn't pretend. She knows what she wants, and she says it clearly. And him—he's an idiot, but he listens to her. He actually listens."
I felt a faint smile tugging at my lips. "That's their story, really. Learning to be honest, even when it's complicated or messy."
Sula remained quiet for a moment. When she finally spoke again, her voice held a hint of quiet wonder, almost vulnerability. "Do you think people like them ever really existed?"
I thought about the world I'd left behind—a place far from perfect, yet filled with countless small moments like these, moments now reduced to hazy memories. My heart ached slightly, nostalgia mingling with an unexpected hopefulness.
"They did," I replied softly. "And they still do. It's just about finding the right people."
She fell silent again, the quiet stretching comfortably between us. After a long moment, her voice was gentle, thoughtful, almost hesitant. "Maybe I have."
I looked at her then, and the quiet honesty in her eyes told me more than any words could. My chest tightened, warmth spreading slowly through me. It wasn't fear, nor hesitation—just quiet acknowledgment of something genuine taking shape between us.
I didn't reply right away, allowing the moment to remain comfortably unspoken. But as I turned back to the soft glow of the screen, feeling her warmth beside me, I knew we'd taken a quiet step forward, one neither of us needed to define, because it simply felt right.
The credits of the movie were gently scrolling across the wall, bathing the room in a muted, soft glow. I turned my head, and my eyes met Sula's. She held my gaze quietly, her expression open, the usual guardedness absent, replaced by something warm, inviting.
My heart picked up its rhythm, slow and steady, echoing loudly in my ears as I leaned closer. She didn't pull back, didn't tense; instead, she tilted her face up slightly, the quiet promise of acceptance evident in her subtle movement.
The gap between us closed slowly, each moment stretching out, filled with anticipation. I could feel her breath softly mingling with mine, could almost taste the sweetness of her lips—
A sudden loud bang shattered the quiet, instantly followed by a terrified scream and urgent shouting from somewhere beyond the room. We both jerked apart instinctively, eyes wide and alert.
"What was that?" Sula whispered sharply, already rising from the bed, her hand reflexively gripping the handle of her tomahawk.
I stood up quickly, adrenaline replacing warmth. "I don't know, but it didn't sound good."
Another shout rose up, panicked and desperate, piercing through the Grove's usual nighttime calm. We exchanged one brief glance—apology, regret, and determination flashing silently between us—before rushing out into the chaos.
We burst through the door into a scene of chaos.
The streets of Ironwood Grove were a battlefield, lit sporadically by fires that flickered angrily against the night sky. Kansani warriors, painted in stark black and white, moved swiftly and expertly through the fray, their blades clashing loudly against the armored metal of invading Strikers. Bodies lay sprawled on the ground—mostly machines, but not all.
My eyes quickly scanned the battlefield. The Kansani were holding their own, winning even, except where one particularly brutal machine stood, its massive axe glistening ominously in the firelight. It moved differently, dangerously, each strike swift and decisive. Each Kansani that faced it fell in seconds, leaving no room for mercy or hesitation.
"Gods," Sula murmured, her voice tight with rage and fear. She readied her spear instantly.
I locked eyes on the hulking figure of the axe-wielding Striker and felt a surge of determination. Its movements were ruthless, mechanical yet precise—like something built explicitly to break warriors. If left unchecked, it alone could carve a deadly path through the heart of the Grove.
"No choice," I muttered, drawing my weapon. "We have to take that thing down—now."
We pushed closer through the turmoil, adrenaline sharpening every sense. Warriors shouted orders, blades clanged, and sparks showered from brutal collisions. Yet amid all that chaos, my focus locked onto the axe-wielding machine.
Its movements weren't random. They were precise, relentless, flowing between raw aggression and calculated counterattacks, each swing perfectly balanced. This wasn't just mindless combat—it was disciplined, practiced.
Beside me, Sula abruptly froze, eyes wide with sudden recognition. Her grip tightened convulsively on her spear.
"Sula?" I called, alarmed by her sudden hesitation. "What's wrong?"
She didn't look away, eyes locked onto the Striker as it moved smoothly between opponents, slicing and countering with terrifying efficiency. "That fighting style," she whispered, barely audible above the chaos. "I know it."
"What do you mean?" I asked sharply, my pulse racing faster.
"It's Naric," she said, disbelief and horror mixing in her voice. "Naric's style. He was one of our best—disappeared two years ago. We thought the Legion got him, but..."
Her voice trailed off as we both watched the machine execute another devastating strike, the technique unmistakably Kansani—raw, powerful, fluid. The kind of movement only someone trained from childhood could replicate.
I felt a chill surge down my spine. "You think they...copied him somehow?"
Her expression hardened, sorrow replaced by burning anger. "Or worse."
Our eyes met, understanding passing silently between us. Whoever or whatever was behind these machines had crossed a line that couldn't be forgiven.
Sula and I pushed forward, weaving through the chaotic melee toward the massive axe-wielding Striker. But as we closed in, several smaller Strikers broke formation to intercept us, mechanical limbs hissing aggressively, blades and fists raised for battle.
They didn't stand a chance.
Sula moved with ruthless efficiency, her axe slicing through joints and armor plating, leaving sparks and torn metal in her wake. She spun fluidly between them, each strike precise and decisive, the practiced ease of a seasoned warrior in every movement.
I raised Warcrime, the heavy shotgun snug in my grip, its reassuring weight anchoring me. I squeezed the trigger, and a deafening blast filled the air, metal fragments flying as Strikers were knocked back by the sheer force. Each shot carved a devastating path, clearing our way and momentarily drawing the attention of the surrounding machines. And I was starting to realize that Ubba had made the crack headed bastard child of DOOM's Super shotgun. Thing kicked like a mule with its ball wrapped in duck tape, but it erased everything that I didn't want in front of me.
The sudden noise and destruction gave nearby Kansani warriors a crucial opening. Breathing room at last, they regrouped swiftly, rallying into tighter formations, blades and spears driving back the distracted enemy lines.
Ahead, the largest Striker paused briefly, its head swiveling sharply towards the thunderous noise. A brief opening, just enough for us to press our advantage.
I glanced at Sula, meeting her fierce, determined gaze. Without a word, we surged forward again, the path now clearer, aiming straight for the enemy at the heart of this chaos.
I went to fire the shotgun at the big guy steadying the heavy weapon and bracing for the recoil—but before I could squeeze the trigger, the axe-wielding Striker moved impossibly fast, faster than anything of its size had a right to. A blur of motion whipped toward me, and I had barely a heartbeat to realize what it was: the severed head of a Kansani warrior.
It collided violently with my hands, the sickening impact knocking Warcrime from my grip and sending it skidding across the dirt, just out of reach. A curse died in my throat as the monstrous Striker lunged forward, closing the gap instantly.
Its axe swung down in a murderous arc, forcing me to react purely on instinct. I activated Concentration, adrenaline crystallizing the moment into brutal clarity. I swung my machete upward, barely catching the massive axe-blade inches above my face. Sparks exploded from the clash, the sheer force driving me down hard onto my knees, pain radiating through my arms and shoulders from the collision.
Then, to my stunned disbelief, a metallic, guttural voice erupted from the Striker—loud, savage, and filled with unmistakable fury like a Berserker.
"Going to cut you down!" roared the Berserker, each word a grinding promise of death.
Shock surged through me. This wasn't just a machine programmed to kill—it was speaking, feeling rage. The momentary distraction nearly cost me as the Striker bore down harder, pressing my machete closer toward my own throat.
Teeth clenched, muscles screaming with effort, I forced myself to hold the line, fighting desperately to keep the blade at bay and searching for an opening, any opening, to turn the fight back in my favor.
My muscles trembled, the blade edging ever closer to my throat. Just as my strength began to falter, a blur of motion flashed from the Striker's flank—Sula lunged, spear slicing toward the machine's exposed side.
The Berserker pivoted instantly, its armored forearm snapping up with impossible speed, effortlessly deflecting her strike. Without hesitation, its massive hand darted out, gripping Sula's wrist with a chilling precision. Before she could break free, it twisted violently, throwing her like a rag doll straight through the window of a nearby shop. Glass shattered in a glittering spray, and she vanished into the shadows within.
"Sula!" The cry tore from my chest, raw and desperate. I felt a spike of hot, blinding fury surge through my veins, drowning out fear, drowning out caution. My vision narrowed, muscles coiled with newfound power.
With a roar of pure rage, I triggered Release.
A wave of overwhelming strength surged through me, my blade snapping upward with renewed force. The lock broke, the Berserker's axe pushed violently aside. Seizing the brief opening, I planted a boot firmly in its chest, channeling every ounce of anger and desperation into the strike.
The Berserker stumbled backward, momentarily off balance, armor scraping harshly against stone as it fought to regain footing. Breath ragged, body singing with fury, I straightened, machete gripped tightly, ready to tear it apart piece by piece.
The machine righted itself quickly, metal grinding against stone as it rose. Its stance shifted suddenly, shoulders broadening, feet anchoring into the earth like some mechanical beast readying itself. Then, in a voice dripping with raw hunger for violence, it spoke again.
"That's it, boy! Show me more!"
The words sent ice down my spine. This thing wasn't just mimicking Kansani moves—it understood them, embraced them. Its form shifted again, fluid and devastatingly familiar: a brutal, powerful Kansani axe-fighting stance—the Bear Style.
Before I could react, it charged forward, the massive axe swinging in powerful arcs, each blow calculated to crush and cleave. I recognized the patterns instantly: wide, heavy sweeps, savage downward strikes, each one designed to overwhelm, to break defenses and bones alike.
I twisted aside as the blade sliced down where I'd stood moments before, its force tearing through the air with terrifying ease. Sparks erupted as my machete met metal again, each parry threatening to snap my blade and my bones along with it. The Berserker pressed closer, its massive bulk leveraging raw strength, each strike more ferocious, more determined.
Despite my enhanced speed, I was losing ground. The Berserker's assault was relentless—each blow hammering against my defenses, driving me back step by grueling step.
"Is this all?" it roared mockingly, its mechanical voice harsh, taunting. "Show me your strength, warrior! Let me learn from you!"
Teeth gritted, heart hammering, I shifted stance, forced into a brutal dance of survival against an enemy that seemed intent on breaking me apart—just to understand how I fought.
I realized instantly what I needed to do. This machine was studying me, analyzing each move—learning and adapting with chilling speed. Sticking to one style meant certain death.
Drawing a sharp breath, I embraced the chaos. I shifted fluidly from U.S. military combatives, precise and disciplined, into Ghost Pressure—quick feints and sudden, explosive strikes aimed to disrupt. My next breath, I was moving in Deathclaw Kenpo, heavy blows designed to tear through defenses and break my opponent's stance.
The Berserker hesitated briefly, its movements stuttering for the first time. Good. I pushed harder, moving on pure instinct, letting my body react without thought, blending styles with reckless abandon. One second, my strikes were calculated and precise; the next, wild and unpredictable, each blow delivered without rhythm or warning.
For a brief moment, the Berserker faltered, the mechanical confidence flickering in its motions as it struggled to anticipate my next move. I pressed my advantage relentlessly, machete slicing through the air in erratic arcs, fists hammering into metal plates, each strike driven by desperation and fury.
I felt the momentum shifting, finally pushing this monster onto the defensive. It might have learned Kansani fighting, might even know Naric's style—but it couldn't predict chaos. It couldn't counter pure, instinctual violence.
And right now, that was my only advantage.
I noticed it almost immediately—a pattern emerging in the chaos. Every time I transitioned into Ghost Pressure, every feint or flicker of deceptive movement, the Berserker instantly punished me. It read those moves too easily, responding with swift, ruthless counters that rattled my bones and sliced through my armor.
A heavy fist smashed into my ribs, driving the breath from my lungs. I staggered back, teeth clenched, sweat and blood stinging my eyes. Ghost Pressure was supposed to create openings, not leave me vulnerable—but this machine knew those moves. It recognized each technique, each subtle shift in stance and intent.
"Damn it," I growled, pivoting away from another savage strike. No more Ghost Pressure—not here, not now. It was a liability.
Abandoning that style completely, I shifted again, falling deeper into Deathclaw Kenpo's raw aggression, balanced by the steady efficiency of my military combatives. Each attack had to be direct, unambiguous, and brutally straightforward. No deception, no feints—just violence the Berserker couldn't predict or anticipate.
Instantly, my movements sharpened. My blade and fists hammered the machine with renewed strength, forcing it back again, stripping away the advantages it had gained. Every blow was honest and fierce, no room left for the Berserker to exploit.
My pulse thundered in my ears. I couldn't afford another mistake. The next strike had to count.
Just as I felt the momentum shift in my favor, the Berserker's tactics changed abruptly. It began to move in ways no human could replicate, twisting its torso impossibly, joints rotating beyond natural limits. What would be suicidal movements for a Kansani warrior were mere adjustments for the machine.
Its torso spun sharply, evading a strike that should've landed clean. Before I could recover, its axe lashed out at an unnatural angle, nearly cleaving through my arm. I barely deflected the blow, stumbling backward, heart racing.
"Machines don't follow rules, do they?" I hissed bitterly, realizing the terrifying truth of this new advantage. Every rule of human combat—every predictable angle and limitation—meant nothing to this monster. It could cheat, and it did so ruthlessly.
Of all the personalities for this guy to choose, he chose to be an asshole.
I tried to adapt, to anticipate its impossible contortions, but it was a losing battle. Each strike forced me further into defense, each unnatural twist and bend of its mechanical limbs pushing me toward exhaustion.
I needed something—an opening, a weakness, anything—to reclaim control. My mind raced as I continued to dodge and parry, praying for the strength and clarity to survive this escalating nightmare.
I needed an edge, something powerful enough to even these impossible odds—and suddenly remembered the Ravager Cannon I'd grabbed earlier. My pulse quickened as I activated the Nanoboy, fingers moving hastily, triggering the retrieval process.
The Berserker sensed my distraction instantly. With a mechanical roar, it surged forward, exploiting the momentary lapse in my defense. I raised my machete desperately, muscles burning as I deflected the relentless strikes raining down on me.
"Come on," I hissed, feeling the slow vibration of the Ravager Cannon beginning to materialize, each second stretching into an eternity.
The Berserker twisted again, its body contorting unnaturally, axe slamming down from angles no human warrior could match. I dodged and weaved, narrowly avoiding devastating blows, holding onto survival by sheer, furious determination.
My breath came ragged, chest heaving, vision narrowing as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me. But I refused to fall—not now, not with salvation moments away. Gritting my teeth, I summoned every ounce of strength, holding my ground against the Berserker's furious onslaught.
Just a little longer, I told myself, desperation sharpening every movement. Just a few more seconds…
My arms burned with fatigue as the Berserker's axe crashed down once more, its blow deflected just barely by the edge of my machete. Desperation forced my hand—literally—as I thumbed the hidden trigger on my weapon. Instantly, electricity surged through the blade, a crackling blue-white wave ripping through the machine's frame.
The Berserker spasmed, its limbs briefly seizing up, mechanical joints stuttering violently. Taking advantage of the sudden opening, I stepped back, swiftly drawing my pistol. The revolver barked sharply in my grip as I fired several quick, precise shots into its armored arms.
The bullets slammed home, tearing metal plating loose and exposing bundles of sparking wires beneath. But to my grim disbelief, the Berserker simply shook itself, regaining full mobility with terrifying speed. It had been built to endure—to absorb punishment like this without slowing down.
With a savage roar, it surged forward again, barely slowed by my desperate counterattack. The axe whistled through the air once more, driving me back into the fight, its fury renewed.
A chill crawled down my spine as realization dawned on me. This wasn't just a machine parroting learned phrases, repeating hollow echoes of stolen words—it had personality, intention. This Berserker wasn't a simple playback device; it had developed an actual mind, aggressive and vicious, shaped by whatever dark process had turned Naric's style into its own.
Memories from my old life surged through my mind: Redmaw, the legendary Thunderjaw, whose aggressive behavior had set it apart from its peers. Or the Utaru's gentle Landgods, machines whose distinct temperaments had marked them as special, unique. It wasn't unheard of for machines to have personality, shaped by their roles and environments.
But this Striker—built from the moves and patterns of human warriors—had developed more than just skill. It had learned cruelty, arrogance, the lust for combat that mirrored humanity's darker impulses.
And now it was using that intelligence to push me further, forcing me into corners, breaking me down methodically. Each savage swing of its axe, each mocking taunt, revealed a chilling truth: it wanted this fight. It hungered for it, enjoying every moment, every spark and clash.
As the Berserker surged toward me again, its mechanical eyes glowing fiercely, I braced myself, understanding the stakes had just risen impossibly higher. This wasn't just a battle against a deadly machine—it was a fight against a mind born from violence, eager and intelligent enough to relish its own brutality.
My heart thundered as the Berserker closed in once more, axe raised high for a decisive blow. It charged forward, a metallic roar shaking the air, filled with cruel anticipation.
In that split second, something inside me snapped into place—pure instinct and desperation merging into one decisive act. I triggered Hilt-Breaker and Counter simultaneously. My machete surged upward, catching the Berserker's axe near its haft with impossible force, wrenching its weapon aside. The unexpected momentum forced the Berserker off balance, staggering back as sparks showered from the impact.
Just then, I felt the familiar weight materialize fully in my hands—the Ravager Cannon finally deployed. Hope surged through me like a wildfire.
But before I could raise the cannon, the Berserker lunged with unnatural speed, recognizing the danger. It slammed into me, the sheer force of its tackle knocking the cannon from my grip, sending the heavy weapon skidding painfully across the dirt.
I crashed hard onto my back, breath exploding from my lungs, the Berserker's massive frame pinning me down. Its glowing eyes stared down at me, merciless, triumphant, and hungry for violence.
Pinned and weaponless once more, I desperately searched for another opening, refusing to let this murderous machine have the final word.
The Berserker pinned me mercilessly, its weight suffocating, crushing me against the unforgiving earth. Blow after brutal blow rained down, each strike slamming painfully into me, metal fists hammering against flesh and bone.
Desperate, I tried to shield my face, but the Berserker's hand clamped around my helmet, fingers tightening like a vise. With a savage twist, it tore the helmet free, tossing it aside like useless debris. My head slammed backward, unprotected, vision exploding into stars as my jaw cracked under the impact, searing agony spreading across my face.
Pain blinded me, numbing my senses. My jaw hung loose, fractured and useless, each breath a shuddering gasp. I knew I couldn't win this through strength alone—I needed something more. Something deeper. Grappling techniques. Holds and escapes that could turn a position like this around. Techniques I'd neglected, styles I'd yet to learn fully.
As the machine raised its fist again, ready to crush me completely, I understood my weakness clearly. If I survived this, grappling had to be next on my list—I had no choice. But first, I had to survive long enough to learn.
My vision blurred, each heartbeat echoing painfully through my fractured jaw. I braced for the final strike, but then—a faint, familiar whirring filled the air. Instinctively, I went limp, surrendering control to pure trust.
A blinding barrage of plasma bolts streaked overhead, colliding violently with the Berserker. Its massive form shuddered, knocked off balance by the relentless onslaught. Plasma seared through metal plating, melting and warping its entire right side in a brilliant display of molten sparks and flaming debris. The machine howled mechanically, stumbling away as its armor liquefied and dripped to the earth.
Gasping, I turned toward the source of the attack. Standing defiantly amidst the chaos was Sula, her body battered and bruised, deep cuts bleeding down her arms, her expression fierce. She gripped the smoking Ravager Cannon, eyes blazing with a fury that turned her into a vision of raw, primal power—a goddess of war amid the flames.
She met my gaze steadily, unwavering, and I saw more than determination there. Loyalty. Strength. A promise: neither of us would fall here—not while the other still stood.
Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself back upright, drawing strength from her presence. This fight wasn't over. Not yet.
Sula swung the Ravager Cannon around smoothly, aiming down the streets filled with battling Kansani and machines. Bursts of plasma erupted, tearing through the lesser Strikers and sending molten shrapnel spraying across the battlefield. Her fire bought the Kansani precious breathing room, warriors rallying and pushing back with renewed vigor.
Taking the opportunity she'd created, I forced my battered body into motion, adrenaline drowning the pain in my jaw and battered limbs. My fingers clenched tightly around my machete as I rushed the wounded Berserker, closing the gap before it could fully recover.
I struck without hesitation, my blade slicing into exposed wires and warped plating. Sparks exploded with every strike, molten metal hissing as it met the blade. Each swing held the fury and desperation of a man pushed past his limits—my attacks unrelenting, savage, refusing to give the Berserker even a moment to counter.
The machine tried to react, its ruined side slowing its responses, but I pressed harder, driving it back with relentless aggression. Now it was my turn to dominate, to overwhelm—every chop fueled by raw determination, every strike carrying the strength of survival itself.
I brought my machete down again and again, channeling every ounce of pain, rage, and desperation into each savage blow. Sparks erupted violently, metal shrieked and buckled, and the Berserker's frame shuddered beneath me.
"Die, you metal bastard!" I roared, pain screaming through my fractured jaw as I landed another brutal strike.
The Berserker tried to raise an arm, tried to retaliate, but it was too late—my blade came down again, harder, mercilessly chopping through wiring and metal plating. My vision narrowed, everything focusing solely on that hated metal face beneath me.
"Just—fucking—die!"
With one final strike, I felt the machete bite clean through, separating its head from its twisted, sparking torso. The mechanical scream died abruptly, leaving only the echo of my own ragged breathing.
I stared down at the decapitated machine, shoulders heaving, blood and sweat mingling across my face, pain radiating through every nerve. Around me, the battle still raged, but in this brief, brutal moment—I had won.
Sula turned sharply toward me, her eyes widening in shock and confusion. For a split second, I saw my reflection clearly through her expression—my skin darkened, veins bulging visibly beneath the surface, eyes gleaming with a fierce, unnatural light. The transformation that had overtaken me, triggered by the desperation and fury of combat, must've been terrifying to witness.
She took a cautious step back, fear and uncertainty flickering across her face. "Rion?"
But before I could say anything, another lesser Striker lunged forward, blade swinging toward Sula. Without hesitation, I pivoted and drove my foot into its chest, sending it sprawling backward with a crunch of metal plating.
Sula blinked in surprise, and I met her gaze directly. Despite my monstrous appearance, despite whatever transformation had gripped me, I let her see clearly that it was still me beneath this darkened skin and blazing eyes.
Recognition and relief softened her features, replacing fear with determination.
She gave a sharp nod, trusting me once more, and turned back toward the chaos—ready to continue the fight.
We pushed forward through the smoke and chaos, carving a path toward the heart of the Grove—the Longhouse. As we approached, an icy dread gripped me. The usual strength, the proud defense of the Kansani, was nowhere to be found.
When we finally reached the steps of the Longhouse, my stomach twisted sharply. Warriors lay scattered across the ground, some groaning softly in pain, limbs bent at unnatural angles. Others were motionless, their bodies still and broken, their painted markings stained with blood and ash.
"No," Sula whispered, her voice a ragged breath of disbelief and grief. She dropped the cannon, its heavy weight forgotten as she rushed toward the fallen, checking desperately for signs of life.
I stepped closer, pulse hammering in my chest, taking in the horrific sight. Something monstrous had torn through these warriors, leaving devastation in its wake. My mind reeled, trying to comprehend what kind of force could reduce some of the Kansani's best fighters to this.
"Sula..." I murmured, voice heavy with sorrow and anger.
She glanced up, anguish burning fiercely in her eyes, fists clenched so tightly they shook. "Who... who could have done this?"
Before I could answer, a cold realization settled deep within me: whatever enemy awaited us beyond those doors, it was unlike anything we'd faced before.
We burst through the doors of the Longhouse, breath catching in our throats at the scene before us.
The hall was transformed into a battlefield, furniture shattered and thrown aside, walls scarred from brutal impacts. At its center stood Jorta, fierce and unyielding, spear gripped tightly, stance set in defiant opposition. His armor was battered, bloodied—but he remained unbowed, eyes burning with raw determination.
Facing him was a towering nightmare—Hell's Angel. Its massive form loomed, wrapped in dark armor and adorned with bones and skulls, radiating an aura of savage, mechanical brutality. Lightning danced across its dreadlock-like cables, illuminating the Longhouse in stark, flickering shadows.
The two clashed violently, their movements impossibly fast and vicious. Every strike Jorta made was matched by Hell's Angel with ruthless precision, sparks erupting with each collision of spear and metal fist. Each combatant fought with absolute intent to kill, the brutal dance filling the air with tension so thick it was suffocating.
"Sula..." I whispered, voice shaking despite myself.
She stood rigid beside me, eyes wide with horror and disbelief, gripping her weapon tighter than ever.
The battle before us wasn't just fierce—it was primal, relentless, a desperate clash between two unstoppable forces. And it was clear to us both: only one would survive.
Jorta lunged forward, spear thrusting with deadly precision toward Hell's Angel's armored chest. The machine shifted slightly, deflecting the strike with its massive forearm, sparks cascading through the air. Unfazed, Jorta spun smoothly, delivering a fierce kick to the robot's knee joint, forcing it momentarily off balance.
With a savage roar, Hell's Angel swung a massive fist downward. Jorta rolled expertly to the side, narrowly dodging the blow that cracked the stone floor beneath them. Rising swiftly, he sliced upward, spear-tip dragging along the machine's armor, leaving a long, shallow scar.
I watched in awe—Jorta was undoubtedly the superior fighter, his moves fluid, precise, and ruthless. But Hell's Angel shrugged off each strike with terrifying ease, unaffected by pain or fatigue.
The robot pressed forward again, swinging wildly. Jorta pivoted gracefully, stepping inside its guard, driving his spear brutally into the elbow joint. Metal screeched, sparks bursting free, but still the monstrous machine seemed unbothered. Hell's Angel swung its other arm around in an unnatural arc, slamming Jorta across the ribs, hurling him backward.
Jorta landed hard, sliding across the floor. Yet he was already moving, rolling up into a crouch and surging forward again. He shifted tactics instantly, focusing now exclusively on the machine's limbs. His spear jabbed sharply at knee joints, wrist couplings, and exposed cables—weak points no armor could fully protect.
Hell's Angel roared mechanically, struggling to match Jorta's speed, forced onto a clumsy defensive as the Kansani warrior continued to dismantle it methodically, piece by brutal piece. But every strike Jorta landed came at a cost—his breathing grew heavier, wounds slowing him down, while the machine pressed on tirelessly.
The battle raged fiercely, sparks and blood mingling on the Longhouse floor, neither warrior yielding even an inch.
Hell's Angel suddenly paused, straightening to its full terrifying height. The machine tilted its head slightly, dreadlock-like cables shifting with crackling energy as if amused. When it spoke, the mechanical voice was deep and mocking, echoing with a chilling imitation of Kansani bravado.
"Is that all you have, warrior?" it boomed, flexing its armored hands as if daring Jorta to strike again. "Come on, show me some spirit! Entertain me before you die!"
Jorta growled fiercely, driving forward again, spear seeking the weak points in the machine's limbs. But Hell's Angel stepped fluidly to the side, moving with eerie confidence, taunting him further.
"You're good," the machine chuckled darkly, effortlessly deflecting a series of strikes. "Maybe even great—but you'll break long before I will. Come on, Kansani—fight harder!"
With a furious roar, Jorta pressed his assault, eyes blazing with fury. His spear darted forward, finding purchase in a joint, and sparks exploded as the machine momentarily faltered. Hell's Angel merely laughed louder, unfazed by the damage.
"Better! That's the way!" it roared approvingly, stance wide and challenging. "Show me everything you've got, or die knowing it wasn't enough!"
Each word drove Jorta further into focused, icy fury, his strikes growing sharper, deadlier. Hell's Angel met every blow with a mechanical grin, relentless and cruel, an unstoppable force reveling in the brutal test of strength and skill.
As I watched the brutal exchange, clarity struck me like lightning—Hell's Angel's movements, its mocking taunts, the exaggerated gestures—it wasn't fighting to kill. It was fighting to intimidate, to put on a show. Its style was borrowed from Sekibayashi Jun—a legend whose techniques were crafted for spectacle, entertainment, and audience approval.
The bones adorning its armor, the threatening posture, even its booming bravado—these were all meant to frighten and demoralize, not finish an opponent efficiently. It was theater, a psychological weapon designed to break spirits, but against someone like Jorta, it was failing.
Jorta's style was something entirely different. It wasn't flashy or meant for spectators. It was stripped down, lethal, forged and refined through generations of war and survival. Every thrust, every strike was purposeful, designed explicitly to kill. And in this brutal moment, that deadly practicality was showing.
Hell's Angel swung another wide blow, powerful but overly dramatic. Jorta ducked under it easily, moving in with ruthless precision. His spear lashed upward, puncturing armor and slicing through critical joints. Fluid, brutal efficiency versus mechanical spectacle—there was no contest.
Jorta had no patience for theatrics. Every move he made was coldly precise, a surgical dismantling of the machine's defenses. And though Hell's Angel roared and postured, its borrowed fighting style was unraveling, becoming increasingly useless against the raw, disciplined violence that defined Kansani warfare.
The tide was shifting, and for the first time, I saw uncertainty flicker through the movements of Hell's Angel, its artificial bravado beginning to crumble beneath the cold reality of genuine combat.
My eyes narrowed as I watched Hell's Angel struggle and flail, its strikes losing their edge, movements growing increasingly exaggerated. I'd seen this before—Sekibayashi Jun's fighting style, but not the genuine article. It fought like someone frustrated, someone held back by invisible weights. Restrained. Hell's Angel wasn't using Jun's full style at all; it was a poor imitation, incomplete and superficial.
That's when cold dread hit me with devastating clarity. Hell's Angel wasn't here to kill or even to truly win—it was a distraction. An intimidating, monstrous distraction designed to draw every warrior's attention.
"Curie," I whispered, the realization tightening painfully in my chest.
Her medical expertise, her unparalleled knowledge of human anatomy—someone wanted her, and they wanted her alive. They wanted that precious knowledge, knowledge that could change the balance of power in this new world.
"Sula!" I shouted, urgency and fear cracking my voice. "It's a diversion! They're after Curie!"
Her eyes widened in horror, instantly understanding. Without another word, we turned and sprinted from the Longhouse, desperate to reach Curie before whatever was orchestrating this attack could claim its prize.
We sprinted toward the exit, desperation fueling every step. But before we could clear the doorway, a massive shape lunged toward us—Hell's Angel, its movements frantic and furious, aiming to block our path.
Before it reached us, Jorta was there. With a roar, he drove his spear through the machine's arm, pinning it in place, and swiftly buried a knife into the exposed gap in its armored spine. Sparks erupted, and Hell's Angel shuddered violently.
"Your fight is with me, you blasphemous Echo!" Jorta bellowed, his voice echoing through the longhouse with fierce authority.
Hell's Angel paused, head tilting unnaturally. For a split second, its attention seemed elsewhere, reading unseen commands.
Then, in a voice loud and defiant, the machine uttered a single word: "No."
Without warning, Hell's Angel exploded into motion once more, now fighting with a savage intensity that surpassed anything we'd seen before. Its strikes came faster, harder, abandoning all pretense of theatrics or restraint—driven now by a singular purpose: to destroy Jorta at any cost.
I forced myself not to look back, grabbing Sula's arm, propelling us forward. We had to trust Jorta; Curie's life depended on it.
As we sprinted past, I realized one undeniable truth: This was always Jorta's fight. He was the Kansani's champion, their guardian. Hell's Angel had always been destined to face him, the tribe's greatest warrior. Regardless of the chaos unfolding around us, regardless of hidden plans and distractions, this brutal showdown had always been inevitable.
As I looked back that final time, I understood.
This wasn't just a battle to protect the tribe's future—it was a battle to protect its soul.
Hell's Angel, in its twisted mimicry, had desecrated the image of Jun—the Great Inspirer, the mural-born god whose strength and defiance had shaped an entire people. The bones it wore, the taunts it shouted, the very style it wielded—it was a parody, a mechanical mockery of Kansani belief.
And Jorta couldn't allow that to stand.
This wasn't duty. This was honor.
He would give everything he had to destroy the thing that dared pervert Jun's legacy. Not because he was ordered to. Not because anyone expected him to.
But because someone had to.
He stood now not as a protector of the Grove, but as a son of Jun. And the Echo that dared to wear his god's face?
He would break it. Or die trying.
Trust surged through me. Jorta had faced countless threats—this was his purpose, his fight. My task was clear: protect Curie. Protect the future she represented.
"Come on!" I urged Sula, pushing forward with renewed determination.
As we rushed into the medical wing, flickering lights illuminated a scene that made my blood run cold. Curie lay motionless on a steel table, her posture limp and lifeless, eyes dimmed from being forced into a standby mode. Looming over her, a thin, skeletal variant of a Striker stood hunched, its design noticeably leaner and more agile than the others we'd faced. Built for precision and speed rather than brute force, it clutched twin blades, stained and glinting ominously under the dim lights. A cable snaked from a port on the Striker's back directly into an exposed panel on Curie's body, pulsing with a steady amber glow.
Sula took a sharp, shaky breath beside me, gripping her axe tightly, eyes narrowed in fury. I activated my Focus without hesitation, and a translucent progress bar flashed before my eyes, displaying a terrifying message: "Extraction: 50% Complete—Subroutine Transfer Priority: Neural Mapping & Human Anatomy Archives."
My heart hammered in my chest. This wasn't about killing Curie—it was about stealing her knowledge, her mind itself.
"That's enough," Sula growled fiercely, stepping forward with her weapon raised in challenge.
With an unsettling smoothness, the Striker's head turned slowly to face us, its eyes flaring with an intense orange glow. It disconnected the cable from its back, emitting a sharp hiss of escaping pressure, and Curie's form sagged slightly as the invasive transfer halted. Standing upright, the machine adjusted its stance, the blades tapping lightly against its wrists with an almost bone-like click. It didn't speak—it didn't need words to make its intentions clear.
My anger surged, molten and fierce, and I moved forward instinctively. "Get away from her," I demanded, my voice tight with barely-contained rage.
In response, the Striker lowered itself gracefully into a duelist's crouch, blades raised and gleaming sharply, ready to defend its stolen prize. Beside me, Sula adjusted her grip on her weapon, her stance equally determined and deadly.
This wasn't going to be a simple skirmish—it would be a duel to the death.
Sula took a step forward, firmly positioning herself between me and the Striker, her posture strong and unwavering. "Rion," she said calmly, without looking back, "you're the best chance Curie has. Secure her and make sure she's safe."
My fists tightened instinctively, a surge of protectiveness flaring within me. "Sula, I can't just leave you—"
"You have to," she cut in firmly, her voice steady but gentle. "This thing moves fast, but I'm faster. I can hold it off long enough. You know I'm right."
I hesitated, torn by the logic in her words and the fear in my chest. But deep down, I understood the truth—every second counted. Curie's life, her very identity, depended on immediate intervention. Sula wasn't just brave—she was right.
"Alright," I finally said, voice tight with reluctant acceptance. "Just—stay alive."
Sula shot me a fierce, confident glance, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "I'm counting on you too."
Swallowing hard, I forced myself to turn toward Curie, heart heavy but focused, trusting Sula to face the threat behind me.
I moved quickly to Curie's side, pulling the Override module from my wrist and plugging it carefully into the exposed port on her frame. The interface sprang to life, lines of data streaming rapidly across my Focus, a visual flood of warnings and corrupted subroutines. My fingers moved swiftly, parsing through the tangled mess, desperately trying to reboot Curie's core systems and break her out of standby.
Behind me, the brutal clash of metal and blade echoed through the chamber. Sula had engaged the Duelist Striker in a deadly dance, each strike precise and viciously fast. Her axe spun with blurring speed, deflecting the Striker's dual blades, each impact sparking violently, illuminating brief snapshots of her fierce, determined expression. She moved like lightning—fluid, controlled, deadly. But the Striker matched her step for step, its thinner frame allowing it unnatural speed and agility, striking from angles no human fighter could predict.
Sparks showered around me as their fight intensified. Sula narrowly ducked beneath a sweeping blade, countering with a brutal upward strike that tore a deep gouge into the Striker's armor. It staggered, only to recover instantly, retaliating with vicious precision. Sula pivoted, evading death by mere inches, each exchange closer and more perilous than the last.
I forced my attention back to Curie, my heart pounding as the Override struggled to counter the damage done by the extraction. Lines of code flickered before me, the progress bar inching forward painfully slow.
"Come on," I muttered through clenched teeth, my fractured jaw aching with each breath. Behind me, the clash continued—brutal, relentless, and desperately uncertain.
Sula faced the Duelist with determined ferocity, but the earlier injuries she'd sustained were clearly taking their toll. Her movements, normally fluid and precise, were slower now, each strike causing visible pain to ripple across her face. Yet even hindered by wounds and fatigue, she fought with the deadly skill of a true Kansani warrior, her axe tracing deadly arcs through the air, sparks erupting each time it met the Duelist's blades.
The Duelist Striker, on the other hand, fought with a style clearly borrowed—copied from someone who had fallen, someone who had already been defeated in the ruins. Its strikes were mechanical, predictable, lacking the genuine finesse and adaptability of a living warrior. It followed patterns, attacked in loops—precise, yes, but rigid.
Even so, the fight remained brutally even, not because of the machine's skill, but because Sula's injuries held her back. Blood trickled down her arms, each deflection and dodge clearly costing her immense effort. Yet she never faltered, her eyes fierce with unwavering resolve.
She caught one of the machine's blades on the haft of her axe, spinning swiftly to redirect its force. With a grunt of pain and determination, she drove her elbow into the machine's chest, knocking it back just enough to regain her footing.
Sweat mingled with blood as she pressed forward again, eyes narrowed, breath ragged, the ferocious intensity of her assault unwavering. The Duelist continued its mechanical repetition, failing to grasp the living, breathing unpredictability of a true warrior.
Despite the pain, Sula's skill and determination burned brighter than ever, slowly but surely pushing the advantage back into her favor.
While Sula fought for her life behind me, I stayed locked into the stream of cascading data pouring across my Focus. Something wasn't right. Hardline connection between the Duelist and Curie had been severed —there should have been no way the download was still progressing.
And yet, the progress bar continued its slow, relentless crawl forward.
Frowning, I stepped closer to Curie's slumped body, scanning every detail of her Mister Handy-based frame. Then I saw it—tucked neatly into one of the secondary access ports, just under the main interface hub. A small device, barely the size of a finger joint. Wait, it was a finger! Looked like a pinky, it was nestled inside her USB housing. It pulsed with a faint amber glow, subtle but unmistakable.
A wireless uplink module.
My jaw tightened. That Striker had planted it the moment it initiated the transfer. It wasn't just trying to extract data—it had left behind a backup path. If anyone else had been here, they'd have missed it. Hell, even I almost did. And I knew what it was!
I let out a low, incredulous chuckle despite the urgency. "God bless TV," I muttered under my breath, reaching for the device. "Thank you, NCIS. Thank you, Leverage. And Burn Notice. Can't forget you." Without seeing the various scenarios where someone plants a USB drive in a computer I wouldn't even have thought of it.
Without hesitation, I yanked the device free. The glow sputtered, then died completely. My Focus pinged almost immediately—transfer terminated.
Curie's body gave a soft mechanical whir as if gasping for breath, and her eyes flickered faintly, signs of a reboot already beginning. Relief washed over me—but it was short-lived.
Because Sula was still fighting, and the Duelist wasn't going down easy.
Curie's eyes flickered, glowing softly as her systems hummed back to life. She blinked once, disoriented. "Monsieur Rion...? What is happening?"
I crouched beside her, heart still hammering in my chest. Behind me, the clash of steel-on-steel rang out—Sula's breath was ragged, her movements slowing. The Duelist was gaining ground, carving in with mechanical precision. She couldn't hold out much longer.
I looked down at Curie, her newly restored optics locking onto mine with innocent concern. And then an idea hit me—desperate, reckless, but maybe… just maybe it would work.
"Curie," I said quietly, seriously. "Do you trust me?"
She tilted her head, a flicker of worry in her voice. "Of course, monsieur. Implicitly."
I didn't answer right away. I just raised Warcrime and pressed the barrel firmly against her chassis—right over the panel housing her core data drive.
Her eyes widened. "Trust me." I said and her eyes stalks nodded.
Sula let out a cry behind me, followed by the screech of metal and the shatter of splintered flooring. She was losing ground fast—too fast.
I had no time left.
Taking a deep breath, I looked straight at the Duelist, raised my voice, and shouted the one word that would shake the foundations of whatever built this machine. The one name that would make it, make 'him' pause.
"APOLLO!"
The word cracked through the room like thunder.
The Duelist froze mid-strike. Its blades halted inches from Sula's neck, its posture rigid. Eyes locked onto me, twitching—processing. Something in its system recognized the name.
I kept the barrel of Warcrime pressed firmly against Curie's chassis, my voice cold and unwavering as I stared into the machine's glowing eyes. "I know you're listening, Apollo. I don't know where you are— in a ruined library, buried in a vault, or bunking with your brother Hephaestus in the Cauldron network —but I know you're watching through them."
The Duelist didn't move, but its posture shifted slightly—tense, calculating.
"You want her knowledge," I continued, tapping the weapon lightly against Curie's data core for emphasis. "You want your little archive to grow, your collection to expand. But if you don't pull your toys out of the Grove right now, all you'll have left is static."
Sula, bloodied and panting, took a shaky step back from the Striker, gripping her axe tightly but ready to collapse. The machine before her remained still—held at bay by my threat, or perhaps by the weight of the name I'd invoked.
"This is your one chance," I growled. "Call off your puppets, Apollo. Or your library stays empty forever."
The room hung in silence, the humming of circuits and the distant echo of the outside battle the only sounds remaining.
I didn't blink. Didn't breathe. I waited for an answer not in words, but in retreat.
As the Duelist turned to face me, the twin blades lowered but still ready, a flicker of blue light shimmered across its faceplate. A holographic symbol blinked to life—hexagonal, clean, sterile. The emblem of Apollo.
It hovered in the air like a badge of authority, glowing in calm cyan above the Striker's emotionless helmet. But as it spoke, the symbol began to shift, subtly at first—then unmistakably. The color darkened, edges pulsing with a deepening hue.
"You have my attention now, anomaly," the Duelist said, its voice smooth and precise, the tone not angry—but curious, clinical. Like I was a newly catalogued specimen. The voice caught me off guard—smooth, elegant, disturbingly human. Not robotic. Not cold. It spoke like a scholar... or a collector.
The emblem above its face flickered again—then slowly began to turn red, each rotation of the hexagon warping just slightly, like a warning encoded in light.
"Next time," it said, raising one blade to point directly at me, "I come for you."
The symbol pulsed once, blood-red now, then blinked out as the Striker turned and walked away into the shadows.
The brief moment of calm was shattered by a thunderous crash echoing from the Longhouse. The walls trembled from the impact, followed by a guttural, mechanical roar that sent a chill straight down my spine.
We ran.
Bursting back into the shattered hall, we found Jorta slumped against the far wall, a deep crater in the stone behind him. Blood trickled from his temple, his spear still in hand, though his grip looked weaker than before. He wasn't out of the fight—but he wasn't standing at full strength either.
At the center of the Longhouse stood Hell's Angel, armor scorched and dented, its massive frame twitching violently. Red sparks arced across its body as if something inside it was tearing itself apart. Its dread-cable hair sparked and writhed like snakes.
The machine's voice thundered, raw and furious. "Let me fight, damn it!"
Across its faceplate, Apollo's symbol suddenly flared to life, cold and clean—but flashing red with escalating intensity.
Then came the voice. Calm. Smooth. Unshakable.
"Return."
Hell's Angel screamed in defiance, clutching its helmeted head with both hands as if trying to rip the command out of its own skull.
Sula stood frozen, breathing hard. "What's happening to it?"
I watched the machine convulse in place, torn between two wills. "The others—the animal machines—they don't normally form personalities. Not typically. They stay simple, primal. But the Strikers?" I pointed at the hulking figure locked in war with itself. "They're based on people. Which means they can become people."
Hell's Angel let out one last roar, then fell to its knees, head bowed beneath the still-glowing red symbol of Apollo. A mechanical whine trembled through its frame. And for the first time… it looked defeated.
Jorta rose slowly, one hand clutching his side where the armor had buckled inward from the last brutal impact. His breath was ragged, blood smeared across his jaw, but his eyes were sharp—still locked onto Hell's Angel as the machine knelt in silence, trembling beneath the weight of Apollo's override.
He took a slow step forward, the tip of his spear dragging lightly along the stone floor, leaving a thin line behind him. Sparks still flickered across the machine's frame, but it no longer made a move to attack.
For a long moment, Jorta said nothing. He simply watched, studying the broken posture, the subtle tension in the shoulders, the way the machine clenched its hands—not in preparation for battle, but in what almost looked like grief.
Then, in a voice hoarse but steady, Jorta spoke.
"Perhaps… you don't dishonor the Great Inspirer's memory after all."
Silence filled the chamber.
Even the sparks seemed to quiet.
Jorta didn't lower his weapon, but he didn't raise it either. Not yet. He stood like a man seeing something unexpected—something worth pausing for.
The line between enemy and echo had blurred. And for the first time, no one in the Longhouse moved to cross it.
Jorta stood tall despite the pain wracking his body, his spear still held in one hand like a banner refusing to fall. He looked down at Hell's Angel—now silent, no longer thrashing against Apollo's command. The red sparks had faded. The override had ceased.
But the tension between them hadn't vanished.
It had simply… shifted.
"If you would agree," Jorta said, voice steady but carrying the weight of ritual, of meaning, "I offer this—one month from now. No commands. No objectives. No armies. Just you and me. A duel between warriors. The terms of victory the prize you were after."
Hell's Angel slowly lifted its head. The red glow across its faceplate flickered, dimming. Apollo's symbol faded, no longer needed. The machine's glowing eyes met Jorta's, and something passed between them—recognition.
Then, to our surprise, it turned to me.
"You," it said, voice even, composed—almost… respectful. "Do you know where the Intrust Arena is?"
I blinked. "Never been," I said, "but… yeah. I remember where it is."
There was a brief pause, and then the air shimmered again. Apollo's symbol flashed back to life over Hell's Angel's face—calm, cold, precise.
"Interesting," the voice of Apollo intoned. I grimaced and realized I messed up and like the Legion I showed Apollo that I knew significantly more than most.
Then the symbol vanished once more, leaving the hulking Striker crouched in silence.
And the challenge hung heavy in the air.
Hell's Angel rose slowly, the servos in its limbs humming softly, its massive frame unfolding with deliberate weight. The room fell into silence as it turned to face Jorta one last time.
"In a month's time, warrior," it said, voice low and final. "The anomaly will lead you to our battleground."
It didn't wait for a reply.
With a heavy turn, it stepped past the scorched remains of the Longhouse floor and strode toward the exit. The remaining Strikers—those that hadn't been destroyed in the chaos—emerged from the surrounding shadows and silently fell in behind it, forming a solemn procession of armored steel and glowing eyes.
No more words were spoken. No threats, no taunts.
They simply… left.
And as they vanished into the night, the Grove stood in wounded silence, the last echoes of war still settling in the air. A battle had ended—but something older, deeper, and far more personal had just begun.