Eastern flank

The wind howled across the treetops, whispering secrets to the open field beyond. Unit Two stood motionless, just on the cusp where forest turned to plains. The soldiers’ armor caught glints of faint light, their weapons raised, disciplined, waiting.

Marshal Sear stood at the front, back straight, radio in hand.

He brought it to his lips with measured calm.

“This is Marshal Sear. With this transmission, the mission officially begins.”

His voice was sharp, unwavering, clean as a blade through fog.

The moment he spoke, the forest exploded with muzzle flashes.

Fallo units and Unit Two opened fire, their shots crisp, controlled—not a wild barrage, but deliberate bursts. This wasn’t about dominance. It was bait.

Draw them in. Make them think we’re overextended.

Make them panic.

And it worked… partially.

The UAF didn’t fully commit—but enough of them surged forward. From across the field, silhouettes emerged from the chaos, their weapons firing blindly into the treeline.

Sear lifted his radio again, lips curling in a smirk.

“Initiate phase two.”

The response came through immediately.

“Western flanks moving in,” came a sharp voice over the comms. It was Abiit, commander of Unit Seventeen—efficient and brutal.

Perfect. West moves smooth. Now… the east.

He waited.

Silence.

Sear’s smile faltered slightly. He lifted the radio again, more deliberate this time.

“Eastern flank, report status.”

Nothing.

Not good. Seems like there is some incompetent fools here after all.

His grip tightened.

“Unit 9, respond.” His tone sharpened. “Commander Ignis, report in.”

The radio spat static—then a voice. Gritty. Pained.

“This is Exitus. Unit Nine Captain. We’re under attack. Commander Ignis is down—badly wounded.”

Sear’s expression cooled instantly, as if ice had passed beneath his skin.

He inhaled slowly, exhaled through his nose.

Disappointing. He should’ve held position. Why did they break protocol?

“You were ordered to hold. No engagement until our signal.”

There was a short pause before Exitus answered, voice strained.

“This isn’t UAF, sir. Exo-suits. No markings. No insignia. They hit us from behind.”

Exo-suits? Sear’s eyes gleamed, mind racing.

Well, well. A wildcard.

“Numbers?” he asked, a faint thrill in his voice now.

“Four confirmed. Plus infantry support. We didn’t see them coming.”

Clever bastards. They’re not after a front-line skirmish—they’re hitting weaknesses. Such as Unit Nine.

“Report casualties.”

A heavy pause. The silence said more than words could.

“Z9 and Y9 are confirmed KIA. Twenty Fallo units—gone. Ignis is hanging on by threads.”

Sear stood, his movement precise, body coiled like a spring. He turned east, his boots crunching over dead leaves.

Behind him, Havoc noticed the shift, stepping up immediately.

“I’ll take over while Sear is handling the eastern flank!” he barked. Orders flowed naturally from his mouth—clean, authoritative.

Sear, already on the move, lifted the radio.

“Unit Nine. I’m coming. Fall back with whoever you can. Do not engage those exo-suits.”

He was already running.

Interesting. Let’s see what you’re made of, mystery squad.

Minutes later—Eastern Flank

The trees opened to a battlefield drenched in crimson.

Shattered limbs. Smoking debris. Bodies littered the field like discarded dolls. Metal creaked under dying breaths.

Sear arrived with an eerie calm, eyes sweeping the carnage. A grin cracked his face.

“Marshal… please… help me…”

A wounded Fallo unit, barely alive, clung weakly to Sear’s boot. Blood gushed from his ribs, soaking the earth. His eyes—desperate, human.

Sear didn’t flinch. Instead, he closed his eyes before he turned both of the remaining Invicta injectors on, He twitched. The pain was immediate. The high followed.

He stepped over the dying man without a word.

“Damn you, BLOOD COMMANDER!” the soldier screamed, voice breaking. “Damn you…”

But Sear never looked back.

His daggers gleamed as he drew them from his sides. Smooth. Familiar. Like shaking hands with death.

Ahead of him stood five exo-suit operators—heavily armored, standing in a loose semicircle. They had discarded their rifles, their shoulder-mounted cannons drained of energy. Ammunition was a precious thing these days.

Sear stepped forward into their line of sight.

“Hello there, Mr. and Mrs. Exo-suit Pilots!” he called, his voice light, almost playful.

The suits all turned toward him. Five, not four.

Tch. Poor intel. Doesn’t change anything.

Behind the enemy, Fallo remnants and Unit 9 survivors were exchanging fire with enemy infantry—keeping them distracted. It was just him and the suits now.

My kind of party.

He shifted his grip, daggers angled downward, close to his thighs.

Moments earlier—Inside the Exo-Team’s Comm Channel

“Hello there, Mr. and Mrs. Exo-suit Pilots.”

“What was that?”

“I don’t know. Someone we missed?”

“Probably some joker with a death wish.”

They chuckled, relaxed behind composite plating.

“Guys,” a female voice cut in—tight, sharp, tense. “Take this seriously.”

“Alis, it’s just some guy with knives. Relax.”

Upon closer inspection Alis recognized him, his unforgettable haunting eyes shined

“No. That’s Target One. Im telling you take this seriously”.

Silence fell.

“What…? Target one” one asked, uneasily.

Sear kept walking, slowly. His Red hair drifted with the wind, the white illuminate eyes never blinking. His face was scarred—weathered, but calm.

“Wow, you guys keep real antique junk around, don’t ya?” Sear mocked, eyeing the rust-covered exo-plates. “These modules even calibrated this decade?”

“You hot mouths son of a—”

“I’ll take him.” One pilot stepped forward. Brash. Confident. His gauntlets humming with power.

Good. I was hoping one of them would be dumb enough to come alone.

The pilot raised a fist and charged.

Sear grinned.

“Let’s dance”.