The last echo of steel on steel faded behind them as Ryosuke disappeared over the other side of the gate.
Bobo, Luce, and Mikey stacked tightly against the cold metal, hearts pounding in rhythm, breath held.
Clunk.
The gate began to creak open, steel groaning like it hadn't been moved in years. Ryosuke stood on the other side, nodding them through.
They rushed in—expecting more chaos, more screaming, more bullets.
Instead... silence.
Not a gunshot. Not a scream. Not even a whisper of wind.
The kind of silence that suffocates.
They stopped, boots crunching on loose shell casings and debris. Smoke drifted lazily in the stale air, hanging low like fog over a graveyard.
"Why's it so quiet?" Mikey whispered, eyes darting, pistol clutched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
"No clue..." Luce murmured, her voice low and tense.
Bobo narrowed his eyes, pulled the stolen combat shotgun from his waistband, and checked the chamber with a click-clack.
"I don't gotta good feelin' 'bout this..."
Ryosuke took point again. He moved low and quiet, his sword still bloodstained from the last engagement. They crept deeper, navigating narrow corridors and open chambers, every step echoing like thunder.
They reached a turn, the pathway opening up just ahead. Ryosuke pressed to the wall and signaled the others with a quick flick of his fingers.
All four stacked up.
Ryosuke leaned just enough to peek—then froze.
"…Shit."
His voice was breathless, not out of fear, but confusion.
He stepped into the open.
Bobo followed, shotgun raised.
Luce and Mikey close behind.
Then they saw it.
The Ward 2 Plaza.
Or what was left of it.
It was supposed to be another battlefield—another hellscape like Ward 3. But instead, it was a graveyard.
Bodies. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
Soldiers, prisoners. Twisted, contorted. Piled up in unnatural ways—slumped over barricades, draped across crates, limbs scattered like broken dolls. Blood soaked into the floor in massive, dried puddles, already black.
The silence made it worse.
A single crack in the ground echoed like a scream.
"What the fuck..." Bobo muttered, voice low, eyes scanning the massacre.
Mikey moved cautiously through the plaza, trying to avoid stepping on anyone. His breath hitched as he passed a corpse missing its entire torso. He looked around—everything about this was wrong.
"What the hell happened here..." he whispered, voice hollow.
Luce broke off toward the far side, crouching near a wall. She ran her fingers along deep gouges carved into the concrete, burnt black around the edges.
"Burn marks... deep..." she said quietly.
Ryosuke walked slowly past a group of corpses. They were all ripped to shreds. Some missing torsos, others legs. Most shared a similar quality, severely burnt.
He clenched his jaw.
"What could have done this?"
Luce stood, scanning the darkness ahead.
"No idea…" she replied, even quieter this time.
The four of them stood there, surrounded by death—but something was off.
The air was too still. The heat too heavy. The silence too deliberate.
It didn't feel like the aftermath of a battle.
It felt like the calm before something worse.
They moved carefully now, boots crunching on scorched rubble and slick blood.
Ryosuke led the line, sword drawn low, eyes sharp. Mikey trailed last, eyes still haunted from Ward 3.
Bodies were strewn everywhere like discarded mannequins, twisted at unnatural angles. Some were scorched black. Others looked like they'd been crushed under something heavy.
The four of them rounded the corner—
CRASH!
A metallic blur slammed into Ryosuke with the force of a truck.
His body rocketed across the plaza, crashing through a concrete pillar before slamming into the far wall with a thunderous crunch. The stone cracked from the impact. He slumped down, unmoving.
"Ryosuke!" Luce shouted, eyes going wide.
Without a second thought, Bobo shoved Mikey and Luce back, shielding them with his broad frame.
The air turned hot.
A massive, groaning metal hand clenched the edge of the corner, crumpling concrete like paper. Then something stepped through the smoke.
It was huge.
Twenty feet tall, matte black and armored like a mobile fortress.
A towering combat mech.
Its upper frame was a slab of reinforced plating, chest shaped like a compact tank. Massive hydraulic legs thundered with each step. Its right arm was a rotary turret—six barrels spinning with a mechanical whirr. Its left arm ended in a wide-barreled flamethrower, still dripping with residual fire.
The thing looked less like a machine and more like a weaponized nightmare.
Its head was a narrow dome with a glowing red visor, flickering with targeting data.
"...Holy shit," Mikey whispered, frozen, eyes wide as the mech's turret rotated toward them.
"Go!" Bobo roared, charging headfirst into the machine.
Luce yanked Mikey by the collar and dragged him behind a nearby pillar.
"Move!"
Bobo closed the distance just as the mech swung its flamethrower arm like a club. Bobo ducked under it with a skid, raised his shotgun, and fired point-blank into its knee joint.
BLAM!
Sparks flew, metal dented—but the mech didn't flinch.
"Shit…"
With a low hydraulic hiss, the mech unleashed a blast of flame. A torrent of fire erupted from its arm, surging across the floor like a hellwave.
Bobo crossed his metal arm in front of his face, absorbing the brunt—but the fire pushed him back, boots grinding, skin searing. His cybernetic limb began to glow red-hot, the plating warping from heat.
Across the battlefield, Luce slid to her knees beside Ryosuke's crumpled body.
"Ryosuke! Wake up!" she snapped, slapping his face.
He groaned, eyes fluttering open. "...What happened…"
She grabbed his chin, yanked his face to the side.
"That!" she barked, pointing at the towering mech just as Bobo was nearly engulfed in flame.
Ryosuke's eyes narrowed.
"...I will assist Booby. You find a way to stop that thing."
Before she could respond, he sprang to his feet, his cybernetic leg compressing and firing him into a leap.
"Ryo, wait—!"
He slammed into the side of the mech with his metal fist, landing a punishing punch to its midsection.
CRUNCH!
The armor dented, the mech staggered—but barely. Just enough for the flames to veer off Bobo.
Bobo stumbled back, smoke trailing from his scorched cybernetic. Still functional—but barely.
"'Bout damn time," Bobo muttered, his breath heavy.
The mech reeled its arm back and threw a devastating punch at Ryosuke. He flipped back midair, narrowly dodging, sparks flying as the fist slammed into the ground where he'd stood.
He landed in a crouch beside Bobo, his eyes locked on the towering machine.
It recalibrated with a hiss, and its turret began to spin.
"It's been a while, huh, Bobby?," Ryosuke said, cocking his head with a grin.
Bobo racked his shotgun with one hand.
"Yeah... we might actually kick the fuckin' bucket here."
"We could. But we will not."
Ryosuke spun his sword in a tight circle and leveled it forward, eyes narrowing.
Then—
BRRRRRT!
The mech's turret exploded to life, spewing a stream of bullets like thunder.
Ryosuke stepped forward.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Steel met steel. Inhumanly calm, eerily precise, he deflected the hail of rounds with the flat of his blade. Sparks danced around him like fireflies. Every movement calculated—he wasn't just blocking, he was flowing with it, dancing through the line of fire.
Behind him, Bobo charged at a wide angle, his metal arm raised to shield his torso. Bullets ricocheted off it with high-pitched pings. The mech pivoted and whoooomph—unleashed another burst of fire.
A torrent of flame surged toward him. Bobo snarled and planted his boots, weathering the blaze behind his burning arm. Metal hissed. Paint peeled. Skin blistered. Still, he didn't fall.
Luce crouched low behind cover, her sharp eyes tracking every joint, every vent, every slight delay in its cycle.
Hydraulics in the legs...
Heavy armor on the chest...
Flame output resets after every ten seconds...there.
"Mikey, stay back," she muttered, still scanning. "You'll only hold them back."
Mikey had already stepped forward, pistol trembling in his hand. "But—"
"I know you want to help," she cut in, still not looking at him, "but running in'll get you killed. Or get them killed trying to save you."
He froze.
She was right. The words cut deeper than the battle around them.
Mikey's hand slowly lowered. He stepped back behind her, clenching his jaw.
I want to help...
I need to help...
But I'm not strong enough yet...
It's so frustrating...
The mech's turret stopped to reload—clicking open with a brief hiss of steam.
Ryosuke didn't hesitate.
He charged forward, legs blurring, and leapt high into the air. His long hair flapped behind him like wings. With a powerful roar, he brought his sword down toward the mech's shoulder.
CLAAANG!
The blade hit armor—cut in an inch, maybe two—but stuck.
"Damn it!" Ryosuke growled, wrenching on the hilt. It wouldn't budge.
The mech turned its turret-arm, caught him in its peripheral, and with a jerk of its frame—hurled him into the air. The force ripped his blade free.
As he spun midair, Ryosuke twisted his body, tucking in and slashing at the mech's head as he passed. Sparks flew. The blade scored the surface—left a long, burning scratch across its red visor—but didn't pierce.
He hit the ground with a rough roll, gritting his teeth, wind knocked from his lungs.
Meanwhile, Bobo was still holding the line, soaked in sweat, flames lashing against his body. He was cooked, blistered—but his eyes burned hotter.
He saw the opening.
With a defiant yell, Bobo jammed the barrel of his shotgun directly into the mech's flamethrower port, even as the heat nearly melted the skin from his arm.
BOOM!
The flamethrower arm exploded in a blinding burst of shrapnel and fire.
The mech reeled—an entire limb engulfed in flame. The blast hurled Bobo backward, his body ragdolling through the air before crashing into a pillar, leaving a web of cracks behind him.
Ryosuke, still recovering, was launched by the shockwave. He hit the ground hard, rolled across the plaza, and skidded to a stop in a heap.
For a moment, everything was dust and fire and ringing ears.
Mikey stared at the wreckage, his heart pounding like war drums. Luce was already moving, sprinting toward Bobo's crumpled body.
But Mikey didn't move.
Not yet.
He just stared at the towering mech as it stabilized—still alive, still dangerous—and his hand tightened around his pistol.
They're giving everything they've got... and I'm just standing here.
No.
I don't care what Luce says…
I'm moving.
The chaos ahead roared like a broken machine — metal grinding, bullets whizzing, the mech's hydraulics screaming as it adjusted its stance.
Mikey stepped forward. Slow. Steady.
His boots crunched over shattered glass and loose shell casings.
Luce turned, eyes wide.
"Mikey—!"
But he didn't look back.
His breathing steadied.
Blood still stained his cheek. His hands trembled, but his feet didn't stop.
He raised the pistol.
Click-clack.
The slide locked in. A round chambered.
He didn't care if he was too young, too weak, or too late.
He was done watching.
Mikey was going in.