Two months had passed since the first offensive of The War for Iron began.
The campaign for the demon factories was still raging across distant worlds, a slow-burning conflict fought planet by planet.
Whole regions of space had become supply lines, and the Galactic Empire's banners now hung above worlds that were half ruins, half fortresses. But on Tenrihines, the capital planet, a small measure of rest had returned. The STF's first wave of soldiers was finally rotating home.
That morning, Captain One Arm stood aboard a returning STF transport ship as it broke through the soft white clouds above the capital. Below him, the sprawling lights of Tenrihines stretched from horizon to horizon, glowing like molten gold.
He rested a gloved hand on the bulkhead, feeling the faint hum of the ship beneath his palm, the kind of silence only a veteran could appreciate. Across from him sat Red Riot, half-asleep and smiling faintly, armor still dusty from the front lines. Beside him, White Flash leaned back in his seat, cleaning a deep crack in his shin plate with idle precision.
Azaryl, calm as ever, sat with a datapad balanced on his knee, eyes scanning mission reports with quiet focus.
"You finally heading home, huh?"
Red Riot said, breaking the silence. Captain One Arm gave a short nod.
"For a while. They'll send us back soon enough."
The transport descended into the hangar bay. When the doors hissed open, the warm air of Tenrihines hit them, clean, metallic, alive. Rows of soldiers stood waiting, offering salutes as the returning STF unit stepped off the ramp. It wasn't a victory parade; no one in the empire called it that. It was a rotation, a momentary breath in a war that refused to end.
Red Riot stretched, cracking his neck. "Looks like they didn't burn the place down while we were gone."
Captain One Arm smirked faintly. "That's always a good sign."
White Flash sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. "I'll take air that doesn't smell like plasma and death any day."
Azaryl closed his datapad. "Enjoy it while you can. Ian's already scheduling next wave assignments."
They all shared a quiet laugh, weary, knowing, and real.
Elsewhere in the headquarters, the STF was already preparing for the next rotation. Stark and Steel, both fully recovered from their injuries, had resumed combat drills in the lower training decks. But their dynamic had changed since the early wars. Stark, once known for his brute strength, now approached combat with calm precision, his movements clean, measured, and deliberate. He fought like a tactician who saw every strike three moves ahead.
Steel, on the other hand, had become a force of unrestrained aggression. Every blow he threw shook the chamber; every strike was a test of strength rather than strategy. His power was raw and loud, the kind that rattled the air.
Their sparring sessions were fierce, a storm of power meeting discipline, neither one willing to yield. The clang of their armor echoed down the training wing like distant thunder.
In the Recruitment Hall, Rodger stood proudly in front of the STF insignia, freshly engraved into the wall of honor. His acceptance into the Special Task Force had just been finalized, a dream years in the making. He turned the polished badge over in his hands again and again, as if trying to convince himself it was real.
Far from the capital, on a scorched front-line world, Billix crouched behind the remains of a downed transport as artillery thundered in the distance. The sky above him was thick with smoke and red tracers cutting through the haze. He wiped the dirt from his visor, shouted orders to his squad, and broke cover to lay down suppressive fire.
Billix had always been a front-line soldier forged by chaos, steady under pressure. He wasn't the loudest or the flashiest, but when things went wrong, he was the one his unit looked to. His instincts were sharp, his timing perfect, and his loyalty unshakable.
He had survived the first months of The War for Iron by doing what he always did, leading from the dirt, where every bullet and scream felt personal. When the firefight faded and reinforcements arrived, he simply reloaded and moved forward again. There was no talk of heroism, no celebration. Just another day on the line.
Back on Tenrihines, Claus had taken up a permanent post in the Support Division. His office was a blur of activity, supply requests flashing across his monitors, shipping routes threading across star systems like living maps. He had found his rhythm in the chaos, ensuring fuel, ammo, and medicine reached every unit still fighting across the Iron Front.
And in the Intelligence Wing, Janyne sat at her own desk, headset on, eyes focused on her screens. Lines of encrypted messages flowed past in streaks of blue light. Her voice was steady, precise.
"Report from Sector Xar-09: demon presence minimal. Factory output confirmed destroyed."
It wasn't a victory report, not yet, just one small step in a war that had already taken too much. Still, the faint pride in her tone didn't go unnoticed by her peers. She had earned her seat among the analysts of the empire.
That evening, Captain One Arm, Red Riot, White Flash, and Azaryl walked through the central plaza of the capital.
The sun had set, and the towers gleamed under the glow of streetlights. Merchant Valley shimmered below them, alive with traders, laughter, and the hum of life that had almost forgotten war.
"Strange, isn't it?" Red Riot said, his voice low. "After everything we've seen… this place still looks untouched."
Captain One Arm's gaze swept the skyline. "That's the point. We bleed so they don't have to."
White Flash kicked at a loose stone. "You think Ian's gonna brief us soon?"
Azaryl pocketed his datapad. "Of course. The next wave's already forming. We're just the lucky ones who got the first break."
They walked in silence after that, their boots echoing on the marble walkway.