Inside A Baoa Qu, the fighting turned claustrophobic and brutal.
Amuro pushed the Alex Gundam through a shattered corridor as Zeon units poured in from every direction—Zaku II emerging from smoke-filled hangars, Goufs clinging to walls with magnetic anchors, even an Acguy forcing its bulk through a maintenance shaft clearly never designed for Mobile Suit combat. It was chaos, close-range and unforgiving.
And yet—Amuro was calm.
His Newtype sense flared like a second nervous system. He didn't look anymore. He knew.
A shot screamed past his cockpit from behind. Before the warning fully formed in his mind, a beam rifle barked once—clean, precise. The Zaku behind him detonated.
"Sayla…" Amuro murmured.
The RX-78 moved like a shadow at his back, Sayla Mass piloting with an instinctive synchronicity that didn't need words. She wasn't issuing commands or asking for coordination. She simply covered him, eliminating threats before Amuro consciously registered them.
Amuro surged forward.
He cut thrusters, let momentum carry him, then twisted the Alex sideways. Without turning his head, he ignited the beam saber in a blind arc—one continuous motion. Three Mobile Suits fell apart almost elegantly, sliced mid-frame before their pilots understood they were dead.
Sayla watched him for half a second longer than necessary.
He wasn't fighting with her.
He was fighting as if the battlefield itself belonged to him.
Sayla's cockpit chimed—an incoming transmission. She already knew what it meant.
"This is Sayla Mass," she answered.
Bright's voice came through, tight but controlled. "What's the situation inside?"
"Enemy units," Sayla replied, eyes never leaving the forward corridor. "But Amuro cleared them. All of them."
There was a brief pause—relief, restrained. "Gary Lin and Samus have entered the area. They're moving to support you."
Sayla turned the Gundam slightly and saw them—Strike Gundam and Armor Gundam cutting through debris and smoke, unmistakable silhouettes in the chaos of A Baoa Qu.
She opened a channel. "Visual confirmed."
"Hello," Gary Lin said casually, too casually for a battlefield like this. "What's in front of you?"
Sayla answered honestly. "Nothing. Amuro already defeated them."
Samus's voice followed, calm and practical. "Do you have weapons suitable for boarding? Not for Mobile Suits—for us."
Gary hesitated, checking his systems. "Beam weapons are nearly empty. For MS combat, I'm dry."
"Doesn't matter," Samus replied. "I mean infantry-scale."
Sayla glanced at her side console. "I have a rifle. Three magazines."
Gary searched his cockpit storage, then exhaled. "I've got a gun. Old-fashioned, but it shoots."
Samus nodded, already preparing. "Good. We go in. Let Amuro handle external resistance."
Sayla looked once more at Amuro's Gundam ahead—still moving forward, unstoppable, as if the fortress itself were retreating from him.
"…Understood," she said. "I'm coming."
Gary answered simply, "Alright. Let's end this."
The three of them advanced into A Baoa Qu—leaving Amuro at the front, and trusting that whatever came next, he would hold the line.
The three of them disembarked from their Mobile Suits and moved into the fortress interior on foot. The hangar was a graveyard of twisted metal—smoking wrecks, severed limbs, scorched walls. Amuro stood alone at the center of it, Alex Gundam silent at last. The final Zeon unit collapsed, sparks dying like embers.
A transmission cut in. Bright's voice was firm. "Amuro, rendezvous with Gary Lin's group. Wait for Athrun Zala and Lockon Stratos before proceeding."
"Understood," Amuro replied.
Four minutes passed—long, tense, filled only with distant alarms. Then new silhouettes entered the hangar.
Lockon's Buster Gundam touched down first, followed by the sharp, predatory lines of the Aegis Gundam. Cockpits opened.
Lockon whistled softly as he surveyed the destruction. "You did all this alone? Remind me not to get on your bad side."
Amuro gave a tired nod. "What's the situation outside?"
Athrun answered, already serious. "Admiral Tianem's ship can't move. Engines are shot. But he survived—evacuated to Shirogane Miyuki's flagship."
Amuro exhaled, tension easing slightly.
"Hikigaya and Mikazuki are supporting the counterattack," Athrun continued. "They're holding several Federation lines together."
Lockon chuckled. "Don't underestimate Hikigaya. Lazy guy, sure—but when he leads, people listen. Mikazuki sticks to him like a shadow."
Amuro frowned in mild disbelief. "Hikigaya… leading?"
"Even Oreki's still coordinating strategies from the rear," Athrun added. "White Base is fine."
That settled it.
"Then we move," Amuro said.
They exited their Mobile Suits, weapons drawn, and advanced deeper into A Baoa Qu—not as pilots now, but as soldiers. The objective was clear.
Capture the Zeon leadership.
Degwin Zabi advanced through A Baoa Qu's corridors with barely restrained fury. Officers shouted for him to stop. Guards moved to block his path. It did not matter.
His adjutant moved first.
Clean, precise, nonlethal—disarms, pressure strikes, nerve blows. Zeon soldiers fell unconscious one after another, weapons skittering across the floor. No blood. No hesitation. Whoever trained this man had understood one thing clearly: loyalty to Degwin was absolute.
Degwin entered the command room.
The sight froze him in place.
Gihren Zabi's body lay on a stretcher, a dark hole centered perfectly on his forehead. Officers barked orders around it, voices sharp, efficient, terrified. Some tried to move the body out; others ignored it entirely, focusing on retreat vectors and failing defenses.
Degwin spoke, his voice low but carrying.
"Where are you taking him?"
One officer stiffened. "M-Medic bay, sir. Then evacuation to Side 3. Proper burial."
Degwin nodded once. He said nothing more. There were no words left for that room.
"And Kycillia?" he asked.
A pause. Unease rippled through the staff.
"She's relocated to the intelligence sector, sir. Commanding from there."
"Why?" Degwin asked.
The officer swallowed. "We… don't know."
Degwin turned away.
The walk to the intelligence room felt longer than any march he had taken in his life. His chest hurt—not from age alone, but from the weight of names piling up in his mind. Garma. Dozle. Gihren. Sons lost to ambition, war, and his own failures.
He wanted to cry.
He did not.
A ruler could mourn later. Not in front of soldiers still dying for the Zabi name.
At the intelligence room door, Degwin stopped. His adjutant stood beside him, silent, unwavering.
Degwin straightened his posture, smoothed his uniform with trembling hands, and exhaled slowly.
Then he opened the door—ready to face the daughter who had crossed the final line.