The chaos on the ground reached its peak. The Death Watch elites, who were pushing forward like a broken bamboo just a second ago, were instantly stunned by the rain of death from above. The terrifying shockwaves from missile explosions sent swathes of soldiers flying.
Burning debris fell like meteors.
"Disperse! Find cover! Anti-air! Where the hell is the anti-air?!" A squad leader's furious roar exploded in the chaotic channel.
However, the chaos was just beginning.
As Death Watch's air power was stunned by this sudden, fatal blow, and their ground forces fell into panic and chaotic dispersal, Keldabe's true aerial blades were unsheathed.
Amidst piercing alarms, the concealed hangar gates scattered across the city roared open, and blue and white viking fighters instantly scrambled, their engines spewing dazzling blue flames as they roared into the sky! And the kuat-class fighter squadrons, transferred from Sundari and the capital itself, all took to the air, ready for battle!
"viking Squad, airborne! Clear the trash! Cover the ground!" A young yet sharp voice echoed through the comm channel—it was Omen Raine. His viking fighter, like an arrow released from a bow, was the first to transform into mech mode. His heavy footsteps shattered the plaza's paving stones, and his shoulder cannons spewed missiles, blasting a group of Death Watch soldiers who had just climbed out of landing craft wreckage and were attempting to organize a counterattack into fragments.
The viking fighter squadrons fiercely pounced on the khmurlk-class light freighters that had miraculously survived the first wave of the Wraith's assault and were now scurrying about like headless flies. Laser beams furiously intertwined in the air, and the flashes of explosions were like festive fireworks. The viking mechs, relying on their powerful firepower and heavy armor, formed a mobile barrier of death at low altitude, mercilessly mowing down Death Watch infantry attempting to regroup or find cover on the ground with dense cannon fire.
Even so, Death Watch soldiers continued to frantically dive towards several safe areas on the city's outskirts.
"For Mandalore!" Fanatical war cries were transmitted among the invaders through encrypted channels.
"Target area suppressed! Defenders routed!" Reports from kuat-class fighter pilots in the outer areas came with excitement.
On the ground, Death Watch's airborne troops quickly assembled. Landing craft roughly slammed into their designated areas, their hatches opening to unleash a tide of fully armed, Killing Intent-filled soldiers.
Jetpack-equipped soldiers weaved nimbly at low altitude, clearing remaining enemies with blaster rifles and back-mounted micro-rockets. Tor Vizsla himself did not ride in these landing craft; he chose the front lines.
A Shadral-class troop transport, having Transmigration multiple layers of encirclement, crashed like a meteor onto the plaza in the city center. Before the dust had even settled, a hulking, oppressive figure strode out.
The dark saber was clutched in his hand, not yet drawn. His visor scanned the elite Saxon clan warriors rapidly assembling around him into a steel torrent—a uniform force of heavily armored fighters, wielding blaster rifles, rotary blaster cannons, and even shoulder-mounted rocket launchers. They were Tor's sharpest butcher's knife.
"Advance!" Tor's voice boomed through his helmet. "Crush all resistance!" He sharply waved his hand, pointing forward to the wide avenue leading directly to the city's command center.
"Death Watch! Advance!"
Surging towards the heart of Keldabe, Tor led the way, his steps firm.
"Damn you, Kote! Are these the only despicable tricks you know?!" Tor witnessed the rapid collapse of his air forces and the heavy casualties of his ground troops, his rage almost bursting through his helmet. His visor locked onto the direction of the city center.
"Warriors of Mandalore!" Tor raised the dark saber, encouraging the chaotic soldiers around him. "Follow me! Tear through these cowards' defenses! Wash away this shame with their blood!"
The remaining Saxon elites erupted with the ferocity of cornered beasts. They no longer paid attention to the brutal aerial dogfights or the sporadic fire from the flanks. Led by Tor, who charged at the forefront, they surged forward like a sharp blade.
The heart of Keldabe, once a bustling commercial and administrative hub, had now become a battleground of steel and fire.
Soaring skyscrapers, a Fusion of Mandalorian style and modern streamlining, were now covered in charred impact craters and grotesque fissures. Massive glass curtain walls had long since shattered, leaving only twisted metal frames.
Wide streets were choked with the wreckage of destroyed speeders, collapsed billboards, shattered concrete blocks, and the ruins of fortifications, forming distorted barriers. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder, ozone, burning plastic, and blood. The hiss of blaster bolts, the dull thud of explosions, and the wails of the dying formed the backdrop of this battlefield.
Tor Vizsla was like a human battering ram, violently advancing through the narrow alleys. He disdained seeking cover, relying purely on the formidable defense of his beskar steel armor to withstand incoming fire. Heavy blaster bolts slammed into his thick chest plate, erupting in blinding sparks, yet only causing his imposing frame to sway slightly. He gripped the dark saber tightly in his hand.
"Hum—clang!"
A hum, as if from the abyss, tore through the air, accompanied by the sharp clang of metal being unsheathed. The dark saber was activated! The space around the blade seemed to subtly warp, emanating an Aura that was cold, desolate, yet full of destructive power.
Tor roared, gripping the sword with both hands, and delivered a powerful, heavy diagonal slash! A New Mandalorian warrior died directly beneath the dark saber, and another sword thrust killed an attacker from behind.
Each swing of the dark saber took a life. It easily severed thick metal beams, split heavy blast doors. Wherever Tor passed, only burning ruins, melted metal, and dismembered corpses remained. His visor frantically scanned the battlefield, searching for living targets.
Just as Tor swung the dark saber, cleaving two New Mandalorian warriors who were firing from behind a discarded tank in half, the erupting flames illuminating his ferocious helmet—
"Tor Vizsla!"
A clear shout, like an ice pick piercing through flames, accurately penetrated the roar of explosions and entered Tor's ears.
Tor spun around sharply.
On the other side of the intersection, beneath the shadow of a half-collapsed bank building, Kote Vizsla's figure appeared. He wore traditional Mandalorian armor forged from beskar steel. He wasn't wearing a helmet, and his face was smudged with gunpowder and dust, but his silver-gray eyes glowed astonishingly in the dim light. Clutched in his hand was that unadorned beskar steel longsword.
Their gazes, across the swirling smoke and burning ruins, collided like two invisible sharp blades!
"Look who it is, isn't it the little runt whose parents died and who I drove out of the clan? Do you think you can beat me!" Tor Vizsla, wielding the dark saber, charged at Kote like a wild bull, raising the dark saber high with both hands, carrying a savage Aura that seemed to tear everything apart!
"Tor, you don't deserve to be called a Mandalorian. I will kill you to avenge my parents!" Kote's entire body of muscles coordinated and erupted in a split second. He did not choose conventional blocking or retreating; his body, like a taut bowstring, suddenly sprang forward diagonally! His movements were so swift they almost left afterimages!
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