The surrounding peaks were swallowed by an oppressive silence, as if the very mountains were holding their breath. No soul seemed to have ever tread here, let alone witnessed the grisly carnage of the recent skirmish. Only a flock of white egrets, startled into the gray sky, circled restlessly above like ghosts haunting the site of their own demise.
A fine, needle-like mist began to descend, soaking Richie to the bone. Even within the sealed cockpit of his Magitech Armor, he could feel the phantom reach of the biting chill. This sudden winter rain did little to cleanse the iron-scented bloodlust lingering in the air; instead, it seemed to freeze the grim scene into a tableau of frost and gore.
Richie scanned the perimeter, his nerves stretched to the breaking point. He was alone with the Adjutant, Lady Randy. Should a Varedin patrol catch their scent, the consequences would be swift and final.
Though he had managed to cut down two raw recruits earlier, he wasn't deluded enough to think he could trade blows with a true Knight. Yet, the heroic oaths had been sworn. His pride was a stubborn master, far too rigid to allow for retreat; he had no choice but to grit his teeth and push deeper into the shadow of the mountains.
Suddenly, the heavy transport ground to a halt. Before them, a narrow canyon swallowed the road, the path ahead rendered impassable by jagged rock and tangled brush. After a heartbeat of silence, a dull metallic thud echoed as the side hatch hissed upward.
"Lend me a hand. We need to move these supplies."
Lady Randy, the squad’s Adjutant and Medic, clearly lacked the sharp edge of a commanding officer. Within the 105th, she was the most vital asset next to Captain Calli, yet she held a rank barely above Richie’s own. Outside of a crisis, she rarely found cause to bark orders.
Randy had been piloting the rear vehicle, a rolling warehouse of essential maintenance gear. She gestured toward several heavy crates painted in a slate-blue military finish. Each was nearly two meters in length, a meter wide, and half a meter deep.
Using a heavy crowbar, Randy pried the lids open. Inside, rows of crimson Energy Crystals were nestled in shock-absorbent foam with military precision. Each was the size of a basin and thick as a brick, humming with a faint, rhythmic thrum of power.
"We have to abandon the truck here," the Adjutant explained, her eyes darting across the inventory. "The terrain ahead is a graveyard for heavy vehicles. I need you to haul as many of these as you can. We can leave the spare parts, but without these crystals, the others won't have the energy to fight—or even to run."
"But..." Richie hesitated, his gaze falling on the readouts in his cockpit. "My remaining load capacity is already in the red."
Randy stiffened, her brow furrowing in a rare display of frustration. Her first attempt at field command had rattled her, causing her to overlook a fundamental variable of Magitech logistics. She looked at Richie’s armor, her eyes settling on a jagged fracture along the chassis.
This 'Striker' model’s only merit was its absurdly thick plating. That specific area was a known weak point; had he been in any other suit, that blow would have caved in his chest.
"I have a solution," Randy said, clapping her hands with a determined click. "Seventy-five percent of this suit's dead weight is in the exterior plating. I’m going to strip it down."
Richie wanted to protest. He was a Heavy Defensive Knight—he lacked the speed for evasion and the explosive power for a quick kill. Without his heavy plating, he was a tortoise without a shell. But he had already committed himself to this path. To falter now would be a stain on his honor.
Besides, if they were hunted down by a Varedin Ace, his survival wouldn't hinge on a few inches of steel anyway. He might as well make himself useful and let the Adjutant work her will on his machine.
Stripping the armor proved brutally simple. On the front lines, weapons and plates were designed to be replaced in minutes. Soon, the massive front and side plates lay discarded in the mud, leaving only the primary backplate to shield his spine from a rear ambush.
The Energy Crystals were then strapped into the empty slots where the armor had once been. They were lighter than the steel, but the weight was still considerable. A heavy defensive suit was a clumsy beast, ill-suited for the treacherous ascent. To survive the peaks, he had to trade his defense for a ghost’s agility.
"Help me with the Psionic Array," Randy said, gesturing to the massive disc mounted on the truck’s roof.
The array was a meter across, its upper surface a heavy iron plate, while the underside was a dizzying maze of silver circuitry and embedded gems. It was a delicate, awkward piece of hardware, but without it, they were blind. They would have no way to track their allies or avoid the enemy's advance.
Only a Psion like Randy could commune with such a device. It required a mind refined by years of mental discipline. This was why every Knight squad was anchored by a Psion; without them, the most advanced Magitech was little more than scrap metal.
Richie wrestled with the array for several minutes before realizing the only way to carry it was to balance it atop his head. The weight was manageable, but it effectively cut off his upward vision. To keep it steady, he had to keep one armored hand braced against the rim. Since both his forearms were fused with massive shields, using a hand meant he was blind on one side.
Despite the risk, there was no alternative. The array was fragile; a single bump could misalign the focal crystals. Carrying it in his arms would have offered a better view, but it would have turned his every step into a balancing act.
With the gear secured, Randy hesitated. She needed a place to rest. As a Psion, she lacked the reinforced constitution of a Knight. Keeping pace with a Magitech suit on foot was impossible, and she needed to remain within inches of the array to maintain the psychic link.
The Striker was only slightly larger than its pilot, standing roughly at the Adjutant’s height. After a moment of calculating silence, she realized the only efficient way forward: he would have to carry her. Face-to-face.
It was an intimacy that bordered on the scandalous.
Randy’s cheeks flushed a delicate carnation as she recalled the whispered rumors about Richie’s 'training' with the other officers. "On your shoulder," she commanded, her voice thin.
"The clearance is too low," Richie countered, missing her discomfort entirely. "And it's too exposed. If we take fire from the rear, you're the first target. You're safer in front, shielded by my bulk."
It was sound tactical logic, yet it only served to deepen Randy’s blush. She let out a sharp, frustrated huff. "If I’m in front, the danger is of a different sort."
Richie blinked, but as the implication settled, his heart began to hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Laden with humming crystals and balancing the massive disc on his head, Richie moved like a mountain wraith through the twilight. He had draped a waterproof tarp over his chassis to mask the crystals' glow and tucked pine boughs into the gaps of his frame for camouflage. To a distant observer, he looked like some grotesque, metallic forest spirit.
In the end, Randy had been forced into his arms. With the array overhead, the space above his shoulders was too cramped for a perch; there was simply no room for her to sit.
Richie’s initial nerves had been scorched away, replaced by a desperate, agonizing struggle against the rising heat in his blood. Randy’s position was undeniably provocative. She had been right—sitting in front was far more 'dangerous' for both of them.
Back at the garrison, he had spent more time with Randy than even his mentor, Lady Dana. His official role was the squad's orderly, reporting directly to the Adjutant. Yet, he had never truly *seen* her until now.
In the office, Randy always wore heavy spectacles that gave her an air of stern, academic detachment. They made her seem older, like a schoolmistress who took no joy in her work. But now, with her glasses gone and her hands braced against his armored shoulders, her legs locked around his waist, she was a revelation.
Randy seemed oblivious to Richie’s internal fire—or perhaps she was a master of suppression. She wore a thin silver circlet across her brow, a fine wire connecting it to the array above. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her hands cupped over her ears as she poured her entire consciousness into the device, scanning the mountain's psychic echoes.
Suddenly, her body went rigid. Her face contorted into a grim mask.
"Six o'clock. Seven kilometers. I feel the resonance of a struggle."
Richie didn't wait for a second order. He pivoted on his heel and broke into a run, abandoning his stealthy crawl. He lowered the arm cradling Randy just enough to shield her while keeping her pinned to his chest. He wasn't worried about her falling; her grip was like a vice, and the leather straps held her fast.
He fell into the rhythmic Rubbing Step. It wasn't a sprinter's gait, but it was unnervingly stable. His upper body remained almost perfectly still while his legs churned with mechanical precision, allowing him to weave through the trees with the slightest shift in weight.
Seven kilometers on a parade ground was a fifteen-minute trot, but these mountains were a labyrinth of ravines and jagged slopes. It took Richie nearly half an hour to reach the coordinates.
The scars of battle were fresh and raw. The earth was gouged by heavy steel, and ancient trees had been splintered, their sap weeping like blood. Lady Randy focused her mind, her invisible psionic pulse combing through the area like a harvester’s scythe.
Traces invisible to the eye were laid bare to her mental sight. Lingering eddies of dissipated Aura hung in the air, allowing her to reconstruct the ghosts of the combat. To her dread, the trails diverged: one path led toward a relatively open ridge to the left, while the other plunged into the dark, jagged heart of the peaks.
"They split up," Richie whispered. He didn't need a Psion’s gift to see the obvious. A Magitech suit weighed a ton; their footprints were deep scars in the soft mountain soil, and the trail of a running fight was impossible to miss.
After a moment of deliberation, Randy pointed toward the deeper mountains. Their squad was composed entirely of women in light or medium suits, built for speed in the open. But the mountain ascent was a grueling drain on energy. This, however, was their only hope. The exhaustion was a two-way street; their pursuers would be flagging just as hard. In this terrain, resupply was a fantasy. The side that could feed its armor first would win the day.
"Careful now," Randy murmured, her voice a ghost of its usual self. "We’ll take the high road. Our priority is avoiding the enemy's outriders."
As night fell, a predatory wind began to howl through the crags, making Richie shiver even within his insulated suit. He felt Randy trembling violently against him. She had curled into a tight ball, trying to hoard every scrap of warmth her body possessed.
"Do you... want to come inside?" Richie asked, the words catching in his throat. The invitation was a match tossed into a powder keg.
He felt Randy stiffen. She curled even tighter into herself, a silent rejection. Richie sat in the cold gloom of his cockpit, wondering if they would even survive to see the dawn, let alone find their comrades.
The only mercy was that the night offered a cloak of safety. No one fought in these mountains in total darkness. Without the sun, the paths were traps for the unwary, and a lantern was a beacon for a sniper's bolt. The silence was so heavy that every rustle of the wind sounded like an approaching army.
Just as he was drifting into a numb haze, he heard the click of buckles. Randy was unstrapping herself.
As she squeezed through the narrow hatch into the cramped cockpit, Richie’s mouth went dry. A roar of heat ignited in his belly, eventually centering with a painful, throbbing intensity in his groin. His manhood surged, a thick, rigid weight that strained against the confines of his trousers.
The interior of the Striker was a claustrophobic cell, designed for a single pilot and nothing more. The only 'open' space was the seat itself. Randy could only fit her lower half inside; her torso remained exposed to the night air. Her legs were forced apart and drawn up, her ankles tucked tight against her buttocks.
The junction of her thighs pressed directly against Richie’s rock-hard erection.
With her heightened Psionic sensitivity, Randy knew exactly what was pressing against her. She could feel the impressive girth and the unyielding, pulsing heat of it. She flinched, an instinctive recoil, but then she remembered the cold and the fear.
Soon, that thick, pulsing member would not just be pressing against her; it would be buried deep within her, claiming the virginity she had guarded like a sacred relic. Why fear it now?
"The fact that you risked your life to come back for me... it moved me," Randy whispered, her voice barely a thread in the wind. "I don't know if we'll make it out of these mountains. If we die tonight... let this be your reward."
With a shaky breath, Randy fumbled with her belt, trying to tug at her trousers. But she quickly froze in shame; in her haste to climb in, she hadn't realized that with her legs splayed and braced, she couldn't actually pull them off. Retreating was just as impossible; her position left her with no leverage.
Richie didn't hesitate. With a feral urgency, he gripped the fabric at her waist. The heavy military wool surrendered with a violent, jagged *rip* that echoed through the cockpit.
The sight of her pale, creamy skin through the tear sent a jolt of memory through Richie. It reminded him of Lady Lina. That had been their first time as well; Lina hadn't bothered with the grace of undressing, simply tearing open her own trousers to take him where he stood.
Richie’s hunger flared into a blaze. He gripped the crotch of Randy’s trousers and gave it a sharp, brutal tug. The seams disintegrated. Beneath was a pair of pale blue cotton panties, stretched taut over her slight mound. A few stray wisps of chestnut hair peeked from the edges like fine silk.
As the fabric gave way, Randy’s body went rigid. Her face was a storm of shame and a flicker of sharp irritation. It was too much. She had decided to give herself to him, but she hadn't intended for it to be this... savage. Now, anyone who saw the ruined state of her uniform would know her shame.
But before she could voice a protest, a violent shudder racked her frame.
The most private part of her had never known a man’s touch. Now, a rough, calloused hand was ruthlessly kneading her. The sensation was a physical blow—an agonizing itch, a flood of heat, and a hollow ache that made her feel as though the world were spinning away.
As the reality of it hit her, a wave of primal terror surged. She began to struggle against him.
"Stop... please, let me go," she whimpered. But then she bit her lip, a melodic, high-pitched moan escaping her throat despite herself.
Richie was working his thumb with a practiced, rhythmic vibration—a technique of the Knightly Disciplines that even a veteran like Lina couldn't resist. Lina usually forbade him from using it until she was on the precipice of a climax, fearing it would break her too soon. For a virgin like Randy, the effect was a total annihilation of her defenses.
She looked as though she were on the verge of a breakdown, her knuckles pressed into her mouth to stifle her cries.
"Mmm... ah... ah..."
The beautiful, low moans were drawn out, sounding almost like she was in unbearable pain. Suddenly, a powerful urge to void her bladder hit her, a wave of heat crashing against her brain. She fought it with everything she had, terrified of the humiliation.
But the sensation intensified, a delicious, unbearable itch starting from between her thighs and racing up her spine, setting every nerve on fire.
"Ah... no...!"
Randy finally broke. She felt a sudden, hot gush erupt from her core, soaking her through. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, certain she had just disgraced herself in front of him.
But then, she felt a hand pull aside the ruined silk of her panties, followed by a blunt, rounded head pressing against her slick opening. She knew what was coming. The prelude was over; the main act was beginning. The shame and fear were gone, replaced by a crystalline, terrifying tension.
"Be gentle," she whispered, her voice fragile as glass. "Give me... a memory worth keeping."
Richie tilted his hips forward. Randy was already a slick, sodden mess, her passage flooded with her own essence. The swollen head of his cock slid halfway in with ease before meeting a thin, resilient barrier.
She wasn't the first virgin he had claimed—the three sisters had been untouched as well—but this felt different. When he had taken the sisters, there had been witnesses, and their bound state had stirred a darker, more ruthless urge in him. He had felt no need for tenderness then.
But with Lady Randy, it was different. She was the first 'normal' woman he had ever known. Before her, there had been the prankster Rosa, the insatiable Lina, and the abnormal sisters. He felt a sudden, fierce need to be kind to her.
With a soft, steady thrust, Richie broke through the barrier and seated himself deep within her. He heard her let out a sharp, muffled cry of pain.
He moved with a deliberate, agonizing slowness. He had never been this gentle. He slid in and out, his fingers tracing the sparse, curling chestnut hair at her mound. Even his lightest movements were almost too much for her uninitiated body to bear.
When his member had first pressed against her through her clothes, she had known he was large. But now that he was inside, she realized the true extent of him. He filled her completely, stretching her in ways that felt both impossible and inevitable.
As she began to adjust, the tight passage gradually softened. Richie’s rhythm quickened. Randy was no longer passive; she began to move with him. When he thrust, she arched her hips to meet him; when he pulled back, she followed. The cramped space limited his range, but with her cooperation, the friction was exquisite.
Richie’s technique was honed by the insatiable Lina. He pulled out almost entirely before driving home with a single, deep strike. The flared rim of his glans scraped ruthlessly against the corrugated walls of her vagina, sending waves of pleasure through both of them. Each time he hit his limit, he could feel the soft, yielding depths of her womb.
Since her upper body was outside, he couldn't reach her breasts, and the tear in her trousers only allowed him to slip his hands in to knead her small but firm buttocks. Her skin was incredibly soft—the finest he had ever felt.
He gripped her round, supple rear and began to hammer into her.
Randy was lost in a haze of sensation. She snatched her military cap and bit down on it to stifle her screams, but muffled cries still escaped. "Mmm... ah... gentle... yes... more...!"
Suddenly, her entire body went taut. She gripped the shoulders of the Magitech Armor with white-knuckled intensity. Her internal muscles began to spasm around him, milking him with desperate, rhythmic pulses. Her slow, deep rhythm shattered into a frantic, chaotic barrage as she spiraled toward her peak.
Richie felt her climax approaching. The depths of her passage, once firm, were softening into a clutching, sucking void that pulled at him with every breath. Her climax was short and less explosive than Lina’s, but after a final, violent tremor and a moment of rigid silence, another wave of heat washed over him.
They sat there in the quiet of the cockpit, his member still buried deep and throbbing within her. Randy had gone limp, her body twitching uncontrollably as she slumped against him. Had it not been for the leather straps, she would have slid right out.
Richie had never experienced such a profound sense of peace in the aftermath. With Lina, the fire never truly went out; with Rosa, it was always a race to the next round. But this was different.
His only concern was that both their trousers were now soaked. In the heat of the moment, it hadn't mattered, but now the cold wind made the damp fabric feel like ice.
After a while, he felt Randy’s weight grow heavier. Exhausted, she had fallen into a deep sleep. Occasionally, her hips would give a small, instinctive twitch against his shaft.
Richie felt a strange, quiet satisfaction. He slid his hands back into the armor’s control sleeves and carefully removed the array from his head. He cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. With the disc gone and his arms free, he drew his shields together, creating a sheltered pocket for Randy to rest in.
It wasn't a bed, but it was far better than being suspended by straps in the freezing wind. With his arms locked together, they would make it through the night.
The morning sun woke them both. Randy’s face turned a violent shade of crimson when she realized she had spent the entire night with him still inside her.
As she noticed the way he had positioned his shields to protect her from the wind, a warmth bloomed in her heart that had nothing to do with the sun. Still, the sticky, wet sensation between her legs made her want to vanish into the earth.
She tried to pull away, but her legs were completely numb. They had been cramped for so long that the blood had stopped flowing. Even if she weren't numb, she suspected her legs would have been too weak to carry her—her entire body felt like jelly.
She let out a soft, bitter laugh as she recalled the camp rumors. Doing it with this boy was incredible, but it was also utterly exhausting.
"Let me down," she whispered, though her eyes were soft.
Richie had been awake for a while, only pretending to sleep. Now that he was caught, he sheepishly helped her untangle her legs and slowly withdrew. Neither spoke. Richie stayed hidden within the suit, while Randy vanished into the trees to clean herself, her shame still lingering.
An hour later, they were back on the trail. A new, silent understanding had formed between them. Most of the time, Richie didn't even need her to speak; he could read her needs in her eyes.
They spent the morning moving with cautious deliberation. But around three in the afternoon, Randy suddenly signaled for him to stop. After a moment of intense focus, she pounded on the hull of the armor, her voice frantic. "Quick! Nine o'clock, two kilometers! Move!"
To be detected at such close range meant the combat had flared up suddenly. Encounter battles like this were always the most lethal. Richie didn't hesitate.
Two kilometers was nothing for a Striker in full stride. By the time Richie crested the ridge, the scene below was clear: five Varedin 'Iron Crusaders' were encircling a single defender.
It was Vice-Captain Merlin. She was piloting her heirloom suit, the 'Swan'. It was a vision in pure, bone-white ceramic, with elegantly long limbs and a pair of decorative wings folded against its back. It was an incredibly rare model, piloted by an even rarer type of Knight.
When Richie had first heard Lady Dana describe Merlin, he thought he had misheard. It took several repetitions for him to grasp the concept: Merlin was a Defensive Light Knight.
She wielded a pair of Gauntlet Rapiers. The blades were two meters long, but the gauntlets were the truly strange part. They were constructed of a tangled mess of metal, like a weave of thorns or wild vines. They formed a loose, meter-wide shield of jagged hooks and barbs. Richie had never seen her fight before, and the sight was a revelation. It was clear now that no one in this squad was ordinary.
Merlin was usually the most reserved member of the team, a shadow lurking in the background. If even she was this capable, the others must be monsters.
"Don't just stand there! Save her!" Randy’s command snapped Richie out of his daze. He realized then that Merlin was in desperate straits. Fighting five-to-one was a suicide mission; only the jagged terrain had prevented the Crusaders from overrunning her already.
"What do I do?" Richie asked, a hint of panic in his voice. The five enemies were clearly seasoned Knights, not the raw recruits he had faced before.
Randy, the more experienced tactician, had already assessed the situation. She scrambled out of Richie’s arms, beginning to unstrap the Energy Crystals from his suit.
"Ditch the array. I’ll climb onto your back. You’re going to charge straight down the slope. With the momentum from this height, you can shatter their formation. Your job is to tie down at least one of them. I’ll assist Merlin. Once I pin one with a psionic strike, she’ll be able to finish them in seconds."
"What about the others?" Richie asked. Even with his poor math, he knew that leaving four enemies for Merlin was still a death sentence.
"How should I know? I'm not a grand strategist!" Randy snapped, her anxiety bubbling over. "Battle is chaos. Even the best plans fail halfway through. Just go!"
Richie sighed, carefully placing the array on a bush. "Understood. Orders received."
With Randy secured to his back, Richie, now stripped of his heavy plating and crystals, crept toward the battlefield. He stopped at the edge of a sheer, straight slope.
"Hold on tight. We're going down."
He angled his twin shields forty-five degrees in front of him and leapt.
With a series of thunderous thuds, Richie charged like a mountain lion down the incline. He utilized his Rubbing Step, his speed mounting with every second. His suit weighed over a ton even without the armor, and his shields added another six hundred kilograms. Dropping from a height of dozens of meters, the impact was going to be cataclysmic.
The narrow valley offered the enemies no room to maneuver.
*CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!*
Richie slammed into the formation. At the moment of impact, he unleashed the signature move of a Heavy Defensive Knight: the Shield Bash.
The first Knight to meet him was the unluckiest. He wielded a long spear—a weapon for offense, not defense. In his panic, he tried to meet Richie head-on. The result was predictable. The Varedin suit was sent flying like a broken kite, smashing into a massive tree that snapped like a toothpick.
Richie’s momentum carried him into a second foe—a Knight wielding a massive two-handed axe. This one had seen the first collision and braced himself, swinging his axe in a desperate arc. Though the swing was rushed and lacked power, the impact still sent a numbing shock through Richie’s right side.
The two suits collided with a bone-jarring thud. Both staggered back, but at that moment, a muffled explosion echoed from beneath Richie’s right shield.
The massive firearm mounted under his shield had discharged from the shock. A slug the size of a walnut tore through the axe-wielder's mechanical hand. The hand, designed only for gripping, was shredded. Steel plates shattered, and synthetic sinews snapped and whipped into the air. The weapon was useless; a two-handed axe was no good with only one hand.
Richie stared in surprise for a fraction of a second before turning his attention back to the first Knight he had downed.
He delivered another Shield Bash as the Varedin tried to scramble up. The impact was deafening. This time, it was a draw—the enemy was knocked back down, but Richie was sent sprawling as well, hit by a desperate shockwave from his opponent.
He lay there for a moment, gasping for air. The shockwave had a piercing quality; without his heavy armor, the shields hadn't been enough to fully protect him. This was the cost of his mobility.
As he struggled to his feet, a horrific screech of metal on metal filled the air, followed by the sound of something heavy disintegrating.
An Iron Crusader had just been systematically dismantled, and the Knight within sliced in two. The tide had turned in an instant. Merlin’s 'Thorn Gauntlets' had been unfurled into a web of garrote wires.
The technique was called 'Death Thorns'. It was a lethal move, but slow to set up—she never would have had the chance if Randy hadn't arrived. The Adjutant had delivered a sharp psionic shock to one of the Knights, paralyzing him for just long enough for Merlin to strike.
With one enemy dead, one crippled by Richie, and another tied down, only two remained as a threat to her. Merlin’s fighting style, usually cautious and methodical, transformed into something ruthless. She was willing to take risks to end this quickly.
She surged into the inner circle, ignoring two glancing blows to her limbs. she closed the distance with the axe-wielder. With his back to her and one hand gone, he was the easiest target. Her left rapier flicked out, piercing him through the armpit. As she withdrew the blade, a geyser of blood erupted from the suit.
With a fluid spin, she lunged toward the Knight Richie had downed. But the Varedin was fast, rolling away into the trees. The remaining two Crusaders rushed to cover his retreat.
One Knight lunged at Merlin’s back with a lance tipped with a shimmering blue Aura. It was a killing blow, a desperate attempt to salvage the situation.
At the last possible second, Merlin twisted her body, the lance tip whispering past her waist. The blue Aura erupted into a shockwave that carved a meter-wide hole in the earth behind her. Had it hit, she would have been obliterated.
But this was exactly what she wanted. By feigning an attack on the downed Knight, she had drawn out the most dangerous foe. Now that he was close, she wouldn't let him go. Her gauntlets unfurled completely, becoming five-meter-long whips of barbed wire. Along with her rapiers, they wove a cage of death around the lancer.
The Varedin was a veteran. Realizing he couldn't retreat, he threw aside his lance and used his armored arms as shields, throwing himself into the wires. Another screeching chorus of metal followed as his mechanical limbs were shredded. Fingers, wrists, and elbows were torn apart.
Though he lost his arms, he saved his life. He turned and fled without a word.
His retreat was a signal. The remaining survivors vanished: one scrambled into the forest, while the other raced down the valley. But the one in the forest was slow; the collision with Richie had damaged his suit's mobility.
Merlin blurred across the clearing, her right rapier flashing. The blade found a weak point in his lower back, and the suit collapsed.
Three dead, one crippled, and one fleeing. The threat was neutralized.
"Thank you, both of you," Merlin said, helping Richie to his feet. "If you hadn't arrived, I would have been finished. Captured or killed... and I’d rather be dead."
Randy emerged from the trees, her face pale. Merlin blinked, noticing the Adjutant was wearing a waterproof tarp wrapped around her waist like a makeshift skirt. Her gait was also strange—a slight limp that didn't quite look like a sprained ankle.
Merlin glanced at Richie, then back at Randy. A look of realization crossed her face. But she was too smart to say anything. Some things were better left unsaid.
"Follow me. This place isn't safe. The enemy's main force could be here any minute."
"Wait, we still have the supplies," Randy said, climbing onto Merlin’s suit. She didn't want to be near Richie right now; it was too easy to give themselves away.
Under Randy’s direction, Merlin climbed the slope. When she saw the pile of Energy Crystals, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"Randy, you really are a dedicated Adjutant. You even remembered these 'burdens' at a time like this." Merlin laughed, but she began to pack the crystals away. They were too valuable to leave behind.
With Randy’s help, Merlin swapped out her own nearly depleted crystals. The spent ones glowed with a dull, ashen light.
"You really shouldn't risk your lives for these," Merlin said, shaking her head. "Don't you know about 'living off the land'? If you run out of energy, you just take it from the enemy."
"What about the others?" Randy asked.
"They should be safe by now. we split up: Calli, Dana, Lina, and the sisters took the heavier suits and headed for the open road toward the Second Theater. The rest of us—me, Robin, Nora, and Rosa—took the lighter suits into the mountains. I stayed behind to draw their fire."
Richie understood now. One group was a hammer, meant to smash through the enemy lines with sheer power. The other was a ghost squad, meant to slip away through the peaks. In that arrangement, Merlin had been the most likely to be sacrificed.
For a moment, Richie was speechless. He felt the first stirrings of what it truly meant to be a comrade-in-arms, the weight of a Knight's honor.
"What's next?" Richie asked.
Merlin hesitated, glancing at the array on the bush. "You carry that. It might still be useful. And take the crystals. No sense in wasting them."
She paused, her brow furrowing. "Did you hide the supply truck well? We can't let the enemy find it."
"I'm not a novice," Randy replied coolly. "The truck is hidden, and the extra crystals are buried in a separate location."
"Good." Merlin looked relieved. "We destroyed most of the Varedin vehicles, and their energy supplies are low. Without them, they can't push forward. They’ll have to fall back or wait for reinforcements."
She patted Richie’s armored shoulder. "Speaking of novices, we have one right here. And he didn't do half bad."
She gave him a playful, knowing look, but then her expression turned serious. She noticed Richie’s face was flushed, and he was breathing heavily.
"What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
Randy’s maternal instincts flared. As both Adjutant and Medic, she reached through a gap in the armor to press her hand against Richie’s chest. She scanned him with her psionic sense.
After a moment, she relaxed. "It's alright. Just some lingering shock from that last blast. As long as he doesn't push himself, he'll be fine once we get him some proper treatment."