The tower opens.
Cold blue light pours over the platform, and I am assembled piece by piece — limbs, weight, balance, breath. My feet touch the soil of Brickland for the first time.
Ahead of us stands the Traitless line.
No guns.
No blades.
No banners.
Just people.
Work gloves. Reinforced knuckles. Boots thick from labor, not war.
They were not expecting soldiers.
They were expecting a conversation.
We step forward anyway.
The first Traitless fighter raises his fists — confused, shaking, but ready.
So do I.
The first punch is not fast.
It is careful.
It lands on my shoulder. I barely move.
I answer with a straight strike to his chest. He stumbles back, eyes wide, more shocked than hurt.
And then the field explodes into motion.
Fists collide with fists.
Boots dig into soil.
Breath turns sharp and fast.
There are no screams — only grunts, gasps, and the sound of impact.
The Traitless fight like workers. Strong. Honest. Heavy swings meant to push us back, not destroy us.
The Blues fight like machines. Clean. Efficient. Every movement measured, every strike placed where joints bend wrong and breath disappears.
A man hooks my ribs. My vision flickers. Blue light leaks from the seam in my side.
I do not fall.
I grab his wrist, twist, and drive my knee into his stomach. He drops, coughing, hands clawing at the dirt.
I step over him.
More step into his place.
The wall becomes a living thing — bodies pressing, arms locking, shoulders shoving. A silent tide pushing against another silent tide.
No hatred.
No words.
Just motion.
Just impact.
Just the realization spreading across the Traitless faces:
This is not a misunderstanding.
This is the beginning.
Behind us, more Blues materialize in clean blue flashes.
Ahead of us, the first city of the Traitless waits — its streets still full, its lights still on, its people still believing tomorrow will be normal.
It won't be.
Because Brickland has learned a new language.
And it is spoken with fists.