The Crimson Wind.

5 years ago, Kuro had had dreams of becoming a mechanic. Not a big-shot job like at the newly established Neos Inc., but just something like his father did—fixing various equipment and cars that the local populace would commission him for. He enjoyed the challenge of breaking down and putting together random junk objects he would forage from the local scrapyard.

One night, Kuro was helping his father in his workshop. A faint glow of candlelight illuminated the dilapidated shed, casting dancing shadows across the boarded-up windows, while a subtle scent of motor oil lingered in the air.

“Machines won’t lie to you. They’ll tell you when they break; after that, it’s up to you to persuade them to run again.”

His father’s soft voice was loud in the quiet workshop. At the time, Kuro had no idea what he meant by this, simply disregarding it as metaphorical jargon.

However, now thinking back—although it still was metaphorical jargon—Kuro had decided to take those words to heart.

And now, as he soared through the smoke-filled air, boosters red hot from the exodus of flames, he finally understood. The words his father told him that day—the ones he had once disregarded as an old man’s rambling—now rang true within the shuddering cockpit of his Revenant.

“They’ll tell you when they break.”

His machine wasn’t broken. Not yet, at least. However, the same couldn’t be said for Kuro; something within him had snapped the second Ren’s voice faded into the battlefield.

Clenching his jaw, he glanced at his map. Sector 5D was just ahead, marked by piles of rubble and a column of smoke snaking into the sky. Friendly dots flickered erratically across the display, signalling some of his squadmates were still alive. Kuro could only pray Ren was one of them.

As the mech began to descend, he skilfully manipulated the joysticks, angling the machine to a more graceful landing. The G-force yanked at his trembling body, threatening to pull him out of his seat, but his vice grip on the controls didn’t falter.

He could hear the Revenant rumbling beneath him, every seam of the machine straining under the immense stress Kuro was applying to it. The boosters spat and sputtered with fatigue, but the machine still obeyed, carrying out its orders with the utmost precision.

Kuro landed hard behind a ruined overpass, the shockwave of his landing blowing out the glass of nearby buildings. The bright searchlights mounted on the head of the Revenant turned on, shining beams into the thick dust generated by his arrival.

He pressed on, forcing the Revenant forward, each step cracking the concrete below like glass. Each motion was precise, calculated, efficient.

Kuro began to pick up the pace, pressing his foot on the accelerator to full throttle. The Revenant began to take larger and larger strides, each one descending with a heavier thud, creating small craters beneath its legs. Ahead of him, a sharp turn prompted Kuro to skid on the floor, sparks spraying as the Revenant slid around the corner.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint. Having barely dodged the spray of bullets, he immediately raised his weapon and aimed.

Rapidly, a squad of rebels burst from a dilapidated building, guns drawn—and now that they were closer, Kuro could analyse their machines. Heavily modified Type RT-1 Revenants, the first prototype of the mech Kuro was operating. He also caught a glimpse of an emblem on the arm of one machine.

A bleeding gust of wind.

Kuro's eyes couldn’t help but widen in fear. That couldn’t be right.

A long time ago, back when the new emperor’s controversial policies were in full swing, they had to find a way to deal with the ever-increasing rebel attacks in the rural areas of Japan.

After the formation of Neos Incorporation and the development of the first Revenants, various factions began to reverse-engineer—or even flat-out steal—units produced by Neos. This eventually became a huge issue to the emperor who, in response, declared war upon all rebels.

While most rebels were wiped out without much resistance, having their weapons confiscated and members executed, there was one group that stood apart.

They appeared on battlefields without announcement and disappeared just as quickly, leaving a wake of destruction. They rarely spoke and never took prisoners. When survivors were asked to recount any events involving them, many reported “unknown machines” and an intense nausea mid-battle.

Their identities remained unknown, the only clue to their presence being a single note left after each battle:

“The Crimson Wind sends their regards.”