Below Gutter and Medical Pods— the former refers to a research facility, and the latter is a code term for Unchained.
To protect the secret, Anis and Neon proposed it— a rather peculiar code indeed.
Moore also thinks that Alpha or Bravo would have been fine, but in the end, as long as the designation can keep the secret, it doesn't matter.
The research facility, or rather the destination, the sewer— was built within a larger area than imagined. As Snow White and the others had informed, it's at the edge of the lake.
Glancing at the calm ripples on the lake's surface— he casually wondered what could be caught.
At that moment, a sharp pain surged deep in his skull.
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—A huge trout!!
—Is it a rainbow!?
—Well then, let's clean it for now— Hmm... Kiddo, It's too early to eat, so wipe off the drool.
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Suddenly, a scene unfolded before him— by the lakeside, where lush greenery spread, men who had joyfully caught fish in the warm sunlight.
"...Ha...Ha...!"
"Commander...?"
"...A...!!"
The headache worsens. The skull tightens, and the intense pain, as if his brain is about to burst, is unbearable even for him. Beads of sweat form, and reflexively, he has to press his head with both hands over the helmet due to the pain.
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—I'm not good with injections...
—Don't say childish things.
—How old are you? You probably get injections quite often.
—Dick... it's just a little blood. Get it done quickly.
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Unknown familiar men collectively express disapproval, sighing in a dismayed manner.
With an attitude that seems to say there's no other way, one of the men kicks his back— even the shock of being sent off with a casual attitude and mercilessness can be felt.
"—Commander!!"
A familiar subordinate's voice. The clear voice, passing through the noise-canceling of the headset, involuntarily conveyed a sense of urgency to him.
Before he knew it, right in front of his eyes—just a hair's breadth away, were Rapi's crimson eyes. Recognizing that, he felt a sense of discomfort that her eye level and his were almost the same.
"…Are you okay?"
"...I'm fine."
He returned a slight nod and cast his gaze down to his feet. Both knees were on the ground. Apparently, he had collapsed.
It's pathetic. Just because of a headache—self-deprecating, he forced himself to stand up, putting strength into his legs.
"Commander, are you really okay?"
"Master. If you're not feeling well, take a short break first…"
"I'm fine. No problem. Rapi, any signs of enemies around?"
"...Clear."
While Anis and Neon expressed concern on their faces, Moore, either stubborn or resilient, insisted that there was no issue.
The headache still persisted. The squeezing pain continuously corroded him, but he had no choice but to consciously ignore the pain.
He conveyed to the others the intention to infiltrate the research facility, and once again signaled to move forward.
They looked at each other, but following his orders, they started moving cautiously with Lapi at the forefront.
"Major, are you really okay?"
"I said there's no problem."
With deep vertical wrinkles on his forehead, he responded curtly to Papillon, who approached him with repeating breaths that remained rough.
Seeing the sweat beading up and eventually flowing down in thick streams, she sighed and directed a handkerchief she pulled out towards his face.
"...You won't be convincing anyone with that face."
He must be gritting his teeth. While his rugged facial features—well, somewhat to her liking—didn't lack charm, stubbornly making such a face without a sense of composure made him less adorable.
Exhaling, Papillon's slender hand with the held handkerchief absorbed the sweat, floating on the skin.
It's a small gesture, but—of course, the pain doesn't subside, but hiss mood isn't bad. It feels like his body has lightened up emotionally after the sweat was absorbed.
"...Thank you."
"...U-uh, there's no need for thanks..."
When thanked sincerely, something about her composure seems to falter. Moore's current demeanor is strikingly different from his earlier evasive speech.
Feeling bewildered, she wiped away most of the sweat and handed the handkerchief to him while averting her gaze.
"...Make sure to wash it and give it back."
"...I appreciate it."
He expressed gratitude once again and stowed the handed handkerchief into his pouch.
Fortunately—or is that the right word?—the security of the research facility had been deactivated. The alarms didn't ring, and the defensive firearms didn't activate, allowing them to infiltrate the facility without any issues.
"...Nevertheless, we can't relax."
"...Someone may have entered here before us."
"Yes... are you really okay?"
"...No problem."
The facility's interior was also in disarray. Naturally, there were no signs of researchers or staff who had been on duty. It had undoubtedly been abandoned for several decades.
Moving cautiously down the corridor, Rapi stood next to him, casting a sidelong glance at Moore, who was holding a large-caliber assault rifle. His complexion could not be described as good, to say the least.
She thought it might be better if he didn't put up such a fight, but she knew his personality all too well after their long association.
It's frustrating to be unable to inquire further, but if Moore himself, and not anyone else, judged that there was no problem, then there was no choice but to believe it.
"...It smells... here. ...Is it because of the water gutter after all...?"
"...Can't you guys stop that? We already know it's a research facility, so using code words is pointless, right?"
"Sorry. It's become a habit."
Voices of Anis, Neon, and their companion—or perhaps the observer—Papillon, echoed in the deserted corridor.
Especially Neon's way of speaking reminded Moore of a past mission in a coastal city, making him smile wryly.
"...Really, I seem to have a connection to drainage and gutters. ...Where do you think the medical pods are?"
It seems he has recovered enough to make sarcastic remarks. Rather, he might not have fully recovered from the discomfort. Following the coded words uttered by him, which seemed to be becoming obsolete, Lapi, walking beside him, discovered a plate on the wall depicting the internal structure and guide of the research facility. Approaching it, she confirmed their current location.
"...We are here. Considering the typical structure of a research facility, we should move up a few more floors."
"...Is this the Information Integration Headquarters building?"
From the sound of the name on the plate, it's probably a department responsible for collecting or planning information and research results for the entire research facility.
In any case, there's a high possibility that information has been left behind.
"All right! Let's go get the medicine pods in the sewer!"
"Yes!"
"...You guys are getting too excited."
Rapi, expressing her disapproval, followed by exhaling a sigh. Moore lightly patted her back with the palm of his hand a few times.
----
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They proceeded down the corridor and ascended the stairs.
They found a room on the second floor of the Information Integration Headquarters building with a plate indicating the Analysis Division, and Lapi slid into the room with Moore following.
There were no booby traps set. No signs of enemies. All clear. Acknowledging this, Lapi prompted the others to follow.
"...Seems like we hit the jackpot. Just as the Holy Maiden mentioned."
"Rapun—Next time, we'll have to thank the Holy Maiden."
Once, many analysts from various departments would gather to evaluate the results of their analysis and compile reports.
Is it a remnant of those times? Many documents—paper documents—were piled up or scattered on desks and floors.
Moore picked up one of the documents that had fallen to the floor, quickly read its contents, and it seemed to be a record of engagements. The date was—
"...Around the time of the First Invasion."
"What's that?"
Anis, intrigued, peeked into the report that Moore held in his hand.
If you want to read it, Moore handed it to her, then bent down again, picking up another document that seemed to be a report.
"Marine Expeditionary Force... Marine Division..."
The printed unit numbers were blurred, but the names of units and organizations that no longer existed appeared in his field of vision. As his gaze moved downward—suddenly, his heart pounded loudly.
"Werewolf Battalion... A Company...!?"
His heart raced, and within his skull, a pain that made even the expression of intense pain seem trivial circulated.
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—Don't remember.
—Look away.
—Don't see it.
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As if receiving a warning, he couldn't endure the intense pain, and he dropped the document he had picked up with his fingertips. The strength left his knees, and he collapsed onto the floor.
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The sound of artillery echoes.
The loud and joyous shouts of numerous soldiers roar.
"To the Rapture tins—turn those damned enemies into scrap!" someone shouts.
"Squad, follow me!!"
"It's payback time!!"
"Let's go, you damn Marine bastards!! Charge in first, and fight until the very end!!"
"Prepare the Panzer Neunon! Those damn heavy-class bastards will definitely show up!!"
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Vulgarly—but with soldiers exuding both determination and a killer instinct—wielding large assault rifles, they charge forward, confronting the approaching horde of Rapture.
The robust soldiers, without flinching even in the face of gunfire that seems to strike them head-on, charge in with laughter, not even batting an eye at the exploding tracers overhead.
Soon, close-quarters combat unfolds—slaughtering enemy machines from point-blank range, utilizing bayonet techniques, and using rifle butts to strike.
For mere humans, the damage inflicted upon the Rapture seems insignificant—presumably.
However, when struck with the butt of the assault rifles they wield, the enemy machines are significantly dented, and whether it be the system or the drive system, damage is sustained, causing their mobility to become erratic.
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"The heavy-class is here!!"
"They showed up!! They brought the onion-carrying ducks with them!!"
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What appeared was a Rapture, a size or even two sizes larger than many other enemy machines. Even facing their ominous, glowing crimson single eye, the soldiers didn't hesitate, but instead rushed forward.
Large-caliber shells fired by enemy machines turned allied soldiers into blood mist.
Bathed in the blood mist of the vanished soldiers, a massive soldier, drenched from head to toe, closes in on the enemy machines.
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"Cover them! Don't let the tin cans get close!!"
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Deafening gunfire restrains the surrounding swarm of enemy machines, destroying several in quick succession.
Receiving covering fire, the large soldier swiftly approaches the heavy-class, aiming for vital points with gunfire from point-blank range.
Several bullets penetrate the enemy machine. Its movements slow down.
"Looking down on us from above with your annoying red eye! Damn irritating!!"
The large soldier takes out a syringe and presses it against his own neck. The injected drug from the ampule flows into his body, causing his heart to race instantly, and his eyes become bloodshot.
"Hahaha!!!"
Feeling exhilarated. An illusion of being able to defeat a hundred beautiful women all at once floods his mind. His gleaming red eyes seem to drip with blood.
The heightened sensation increases both the will to fight and the desire to kill, tightening every muscle in his body. With veins bulging on the surface of his skin, the large soldier grips his assault rifle as if it were about to collapse and—with all his might—smashes the enemy machine.
Then, what about this? Clearly, the enemy machine with a mass almost equivalent to a ton pounded the ground with its four-legged limbs.
"Ha ha ha! Die! Die! Just die!!"
The soldier, who had pulled up the corners of his mouth as if they would tear apart, recognized that the posture of the heavy-class had collapsed—posture control was now unreliable. He aimed once again at the critical point, the core of the enemy machine, and pulled the trigger.
One of the shots crushed the core, and without a moment's respite, the heavy-class collapsed to the ground.
"It's destroyed!!"
"Well done!! They're still coming! Guys, do we have enough ammo!?"
"Oohrah! Lieutenant! The girls have arrived!!"
"They're here! Our goddesses! The ladies have arrived! Guys, don't show an ugly side! Our tombstones won't be standing anyway!! If we're going to die, let's die looking cool! "
In front of them is a horde of enemy machines. The numerous ominous red eyes shine as if to fill the field of vision.
Clearly a desperate situation—however, the soldiers do not falter.
They have not been afraid in the battles so far, and they are not intimidated now. And they will continue to be so in the future.
Day after day, they fight, kill, and are killed—yet still, there is absolutely no fear of death.
No, there never was such a thing. It simply doesn't exist.
That's why they can engage in such reckless battles. Fight as dead soldiers, and then die.
They are werewolves. A group of monsters. Genuine monsters beyond human.
Therefore—there was never any fear to begin with. No mercy or hesitation either.
Countless enemy machines are in front of them. Goddesses, who rushed as reinforcements, are closing in from behind.
The best situation.
As if planned, the soldiers grip syringes in one hand—almost simultaneously pressing them against their necks.
The robust muscles of the soldiers tighten even further, and steam begins to rise from their entire bodies.
Bloodshot eyes, partly due to excitement, open wide, and despite being in the midst of a battlefield, they draw a grotesque smile on their faces.
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—Kill—
—Crush—
—Massacre them all—
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They shout loudly and charge forward simultaneously.
Even if their arm is blown off by enemy bullets, a soldier, showing an indescribable eerie smile, deftly holds an assault rifle with the remaining arm and pulls the trigger.
If their leg is blown off, they provide cover fire for charging soldiers from a prone position with assault rifles and machine guns.
If a bullet hole pierces their abdomen—ignoring spilled entrails—they charge forward.
Continuing to kill the enemy until the moment the heartbeat stops, and eternal silence dominates the mind and body—such is the life that must be lived. Otherwise, the created and crafted existence would be in vain. It would lack value.
They continue to fight day after day. They continue to kill. Single-mindedly—
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"…Is a life of perpetual warfare not boring?"
"…What's with the sudden question? Not suitable for small talk. It's unlike you."
"…Have you ever wished for a different life?"
"…Unfortunately, no. I, we, can only fight. There was never any choice to begin with."
"…Because you were born to fight?"
"…Born? No, that's wrong. It's 'created.' We, werewolves, exist only for the sake of fighting."
"…That's not it. You were not crafted. I'll say it as many times as it takes for you to acknowledge it. You were born. Besides, you are not a werewolf. You are a Kratos. The embodiment of strength and power."
"…Ultimately, a monster, huh?"
"…Don't like it? Well then, let me rephrase. You are a brave, fearless, proud wolf."
"…A wolf. Not bad, but in fairy tales, most likely, you end up being the one defeated."
"…Enough with the sarcasm. You need to fix that habit, Rick. It's no good to be called stubborn."
"…Can you stop using that nickname? Only you call me that."
"Dick, huh? Well, there's a slang meaning to it, but—"
"That's why I call you Rick. Got it? Lieutenant."
"…Call me whatever you want, Captain."
"Embarrassed?"
"…Not embarrassed."
"Liar. You're embarrassed. You're really not honest. My Rick—"
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"Commander!"
A clear voice echoed from a very close distance. It passed through the housing of the headset, conveying a sense of urgency, vibrating Moore's eardrums.
Continuing, slender hands—much thinner and more flexible than his own—shake both of his shoulders.
"Pull yourself together, Commander!"
In his field of vision, a black jacket—first, he sees the swell of the chest. Realizing he's bowing, and gradually raising his head, which feels heavy with the helmet on, he speaks.
"…Rapi…?"
As if confirming, the name is uttered, and she lets out a sigh of relief.
Suddenly, the reliable commanding officer, who had been groaning in pain and enduring excruciating agony while on his knees, spoke words with meaning, and it's only natural for her to feel relieved.
"Yes, it's me. …Are you really okay? If you're not feeling well—"
Attempting to suggest he take a short break, driven by concern, she is interrupted when he, seemingly having gathered strength in his knees, stands up.
"I'm fine. No problem. Just a simple headache."
"Commander, are you sure? Don't push yourself too hard."
"I'm really fine. I'm sorry for worrying you."
He doesn't want her to apologize. It's not just Lapi who rushed to his side when he collapsed.
Annis, Neon, and surprisingly, Papillon also hurried to Moore's side, watching with bated breath as Lapi shook his shoulders.
Their consideration is appreciated, but he might end up feeling pathetic. Moore takes out a water bottle, drinks a mouthful of water, rinses his mouth, and swallows. He feels somewhat better.
The single sheet of paper that fell to the floor— the document with the unreadable unit number. After returning the water bottle to its original position, he bends down, picks it up, folds it, and puts it in his pouch.
"Hey, Major. This…"
Papillon casually hands him a document. He directs his gaze to the paragraph indicated by her slender fingertips.
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"Experimental Subject: RH X (Temporary) Blood Type Owner 1
Summary and Conclusion: A special substance was extracted from the subject's blood. When the corresponding substance was injected into the Heretic Anakiorl, it was confirmed that nano-substances within the Heretic were destroyed. This substance is named 'Unchained.'
Sample Collection: 10ml. A total of 12.
Storage Location: Within the premises of this research facility. Building 9, Room 503."
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Ink is faded in some places, and the paper itself has significantly discolored. The readable parts contain information sought by him and his colleagues.
"…What Major and the others are looking for… could it be… Unchained…?"
"Well, who knows. Rapi, where's Building 9?"
"According to the floor plan, it seems to be a nearby building."
Responding to the question from the squad leader, she provides eloquent words. As Moore nods approvingly to her, still outstanding performance, he orders the squad to advance.
The headache has not subsided; deep vertical wrinkles remain between his eyebrows.
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"…There's something."
"Commander, let me conduct reconnaissance—"
"No, it's not necessary. Wait here, Isabel."
In a high-collared military uniform—a uniform designated as the old type in the Ark's military system—a tall man wearing a long coat strides forward. His voice is low, calm, and lacks emotional fluctuations.
Staring at the research facility in the distance, he narrows his ice-blue eyes. The man called Commander, who wore an air of composure, gives the order to his subordinates behind him to advance.
Whether it's a strange coincidence, the whims of fate, or perhaps the amusement of some god, the encounter is imminent.
----
Author: Next chapter... The fated meeting of two commanders!
Below Gutter and Medical Pods— the former refers to a research facility, and the latter is a code term for Unchained.
To protect the secret, Anis and Neon proposed it— a rather peculiar code indeed.
Moore also thinks that Alpha or Bravo would have been fine, but in the end, as long as the designation can keep the secret, it doesn't matter.
The research facility, or rather the destination, the sewer— was built within a larger area than imagined. As Snow White and the others had informed, it's at the edge of the lake.
Glancing at the calm ripples on the lake's surface— he casually wondered what could be caught.
At that moment, a sharp pain surged deep in his skull.
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.
—A huge trout!!
—Is it a rainbow!?
—Well then, let's clean it for now— Hmm... Kiddo, It's too early to eat, so wipe off the drool.
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Suddenly, a scene unfolded before him— by the lakeside, where lush greenery spread, men who had joyfully caught fish in the warm sunlight.
"...Ha...Ha...!"
"Commander...?"
"...A...!!"
The headache worsens. The skull tightens, and the intense pain, as if his brain is about to burst, is unbearable even for him. Beads of sweat form, and reflexively, he has to press his head with both hands over the helmet due to the pain.
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—I'm not good with injections...
—Don't say childish things.
—How old are you? You probably get injections quite often.
—Dick... it's just a little blood. Get it done quickly.
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Unknown familiar men collectively express disapproval, sighing in a dismayed manner.
With an attitude that seems to say there's no other way, one of the men kicks his back— even the shock of being sent off with a casual attitude and mercilessness can be felt.
"—Commander!!"
A familiar subordinate's voice. The clear voice, passing through the noise-canceling of the headset, involuntarily conveyed a sense of urgency to him.
Before he knew it, right in front of his eyes—just a hair's breadth away, were Rapi's crimson eyes. Recognizing that, he felt a sense of discomfort that her eye level and his were almost the same.
"…Are you okay?"
"...I'm fine."
He returned a slight nod and cast his gaze down to his feet. Both knees were on the ground. Apparently, he had collapsed.
It's pathetic. Just because of a headache—self-deprecating, he forced himself to stand up, putting strength into his legs.
"Commander, are you really okay?"
"Master. If you're not feeling well, take a short break first…"
"I'm fine. No problem. Rapi, any signs of enemies around?"
"...Clear."
While Anis and Neon expressed concern on their faces, Moore, either stubborn or resilient, insisted that there was no issue.
The headache still persisted. The squeezing pain continuously corroded him, but he had no choice but to consciously ignore the pain.
He conveyed to the others the intention to infiltrate the research facility, and once again signaled to move forward.
They looked at each other, but following his orders, they started moving cautiously with Lapi at the forefront.
"Major, are you really okay?"
"I said there's no problem."
With deep vertical wrinkles on his forehead, he responded curtly to Papillon, who approached him with repeating breaths that remained rough.
Seeing the sweat beading up and eventually flowing down in thick streams, she sighed and directed a handkerchief she pulled out towards his face.
"...You won't be convincing anyone with that face."
He must be gritting his teeth. While his rugged facial features—well, somewhat to her liking—didn't lack charm, stubbornly making such a face without a sense of composure made him less adorable.
Exhaling, Papillon's slender hand with the held handkerchief absorbed the sweat, floating on the skin.
It's a small gesture, but—of course, the pain doesn't subside, but hiss mood isn't bad. It feels like his body has lightened up emotionally after the sweat was absorbed.
"...Thank you."
"...U-uh, there's no need for thanks..."
When thanked sincerely, something about her composure seems to falter. Moore's current demeanor is strikingly different from his earlier evasive speech.
Feeling bewildered, she wiped away most of the sweat and handed the handkerchief to him while averting her gaze.
"...Make sure to wash it and give it back."
"...I appreciate it."
He expressed gratitude once again and stowed the handed handkerchief into his pouch.
Fortunately—or is that the right word?—the security of the research facility had been deactivated. The alarms didn't ring, and the defensive firearms didn't activate, allowing them to infiltrate the facility without any issues.
"...Nevertheless, we can't relax."
"...Someone may have entered here before us."
"Yes... are you really okay?"
"...No problem."
The facility's interior was also in disarray. Naturally, there were no signs of researchers or staff who had been on duty. It had undoubtedly been abandoned for several decades.
Moving cautiously down the corridor, Rapi stood next to him, casting a sidelong glance at Moore, who was holding a large-caliber assault rifle. His complexion could not be described as good, to say the least.
She thought it might be better if he didn't put up such a fight, but she knew his personality all too well after their long association.
It's frustrating to be unable to inquire further, but if Moore himself, and not anyone else, judged that there was no problem, then there was no choice but to believe it.
"...It smells... here. ...Is it because of the water gutter after all...?"
"...Can't you guys stop that? We already know it's a research facility, so using code words is pointless, right?"
"Sorry. It's become a habit."
Voices of Anis, Neon, and their companion—or perhaps the observer—Papillon, echoed in the deserted corridor.
Especially Neon's way of speaking reminded Moore of a past mission in a coastal city, making him smile wryly.
"...Really, I seem to have a connection to drainage and gutters. ...Where do you think the medical pods are?"
It seems he has recovered enough to make sarcastic remarks. Rather, he might not have fully recovered from the discomfort. Following the coded words uttered by him, which seemed to be becoming obsolete, Lapi, walking beside him, discovered a plate on the wall depicting the internal structure and guide of the research facility. Approaching it, she confirmed their current location.
"...We are here. Considering the typical structure of a research facility, we should move up a few more floors."
"...Is this the Information Integration Headquarters building?"
From the sound of the name on the plate, it's probably a department responsible for collecting or planning information and research results for the entire research facility.
In any case, there's a high possibility that information has been left behind.
"All right! Let's go get the medicine pods in the sewer!"
"Yes!"
"...You guys are getting too excited."
Rapi, expressing her disapproval, followed by exhaling a sigh. Moore lightly patted her back with the palm of his hand a few times.
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They proceeded down the corridor and ascended the stairs.
They found a room on the second floor of the Information Integration Headquarters building with a plate indicating the Analysis Division, and Lapi slid into the room with Moore following.
There were no booby traps set. No signs of enemies. All clear. Acknowledging this, Lapi prompted the others to follow.
"...Seems like we hit the jackpot. Just as the Holy Maiden mentioned."
"Rapun—Next time, we'll have to thank the Holy Maiden."
Once, many analysts from various departments would gather to evaluate the results of their analysis and compile reports.
Is it a remnant of those times? Many documents—paper documents—were piled up or scattered on desks and floors.
Moore picked up one of the documents that had fallen to the floor, quickly read its contents, and it seemed to be a record of engagements. The date was—
"...Around the time of the First Invasion."
"What's that?"
Anis, intrigued, peeked into the report that Moore held in his hand.
If you want to read it, Moore handed it to her, then bent down again, picking up another document that seemed to be a report.
"Marine Expeditionary Force... Marine Division..."
The printed unit numbers were blurred, but the names of units and organizations that no longer existed appeared in his field of vision. As his gaze moved downward—suddenly, his heart pounded loudly.
"Werewolf Battalion... A Company...!?"
His heart raced, and within his skull, a pain that made even the expression of intense pain seem trivial circulated.
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—Don't remember.
—Look away.
—Don't see it.
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As if receiving a warning, he couldn't endure the intense pain, and he dropped the document he had picked up with his fingertips. The strength left his knees, and he collapsed onto the floor.
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The sound of artillery echoes.
The loud and joyous shouts of numerous soldiers roar.
"To the Rapture tins—turn those damned enemies into scrap!" someone shouts.
"Squad, follow me!!"
"It's payback time!!"
"Let's go, you damn Marine bastards!! Charge in first, and fight until the very end!!"
"Prepare the Panzer Neunon! Those damn heavy-class bastards will definitely show up!!"
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Vulgarly—but with soldiers exuding both determination and a killer instinct—wielding large assault rifles, they charge forward, confronting the approaching horde of Rapture.
The robust soldiers, without flinching even in the face of gunfire that seems to strike them head-on, charge in with laughter, not even batting an eye at the exploding tracers overhead.
Soon, close-quarters combat unfolds—slaughtering enemy machines from point-blank range, utilizing bayonet techniques, and using rifle butts to strike.
For mere humans, the damage inflicted upon the Rapture seems insignificant—presumably.
However, when struck with the butt of the assault rifles they wield, the enemy machines are significantly dented, and whether it be the system or the drive system, damage is sustained, causing their mobility to become erratic.
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"The heavy-class is here!!"
"They showed up!! They brought the onion-carrying ducks with them!!"
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What appeared was a Rapture, a size or even two sizes larger than many other enemy machines. Even facing their ominous, glowing crimson single eye, the soldiers didn't hesitate, but instead rushed forward.
Large-caliber shells fired by enemy machines turned allied soldiers into blood mist.
Bathed in the blood mist of the vanished soldiers, a massive soldier, drenched from head to toe, closes in on the enemy machines.
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"Cover them! Don't let the tin cans get close!!"
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Deafening gunfire restrains the surrounding swarm of enemy machines, destroying several in quick succession.
Receiving covering fire, the large soldier swiftly approaches the heavy-class, aiming for vital points with gunfire from point-blank range.
Several bullets penetrate the enemy machine. Its movements slow down.
"Looking down on us from above with your annoying red eye! Damn irritating!!"
The large soldier takes out a syringe and presses it against his own neck. The injected drug from the ampule flows into his body, causing his heart to race instantly, and his eyes become bloodshot.
"Hahaha!!!"
Feeling exhilarated. An illusion of being able to defeat a hundred beautiful women all at once floods his mind. His gleaming red eyes seem to drip with blood.
The heightened sensation increases both the will to fight and the desire to kill, tightening every muscle in his body. With veins bulging on the surface of his skin, the large soldier grips his assault rifle as if it were about to collapse and—with all his might—smashes the enemy machine.
Then, what about this? Clearly, the enemy machine with a mass almost equivalent to a ton pounded the ground with its four-legged limbs.
"Ha ha ha! Die! Die! Just die!!"
The soldier, who had pulled up the corners of his mouth as if they would tear apart, recognized that the posture of the heavy-class had collapsed—posture control was now unreliable. He aimed once again at the critical point, the core of the enemy machine, and pulled the trigger.
One of the shots crushed the core, and without a moment's respite, the heavy-class collapsed to the ground.
"It's destroyed!!"
"Well done!! They're still coming! Guys, do we have enough ammo!?"
"Oohrah! Lieutenant! The girls have arrived!!"
"They're here! Our goddesses! The ladies have arrived! Guys, don't show an ugly side! Our tombstones won't be standing anyway!! If we're going to die, let's die looking cool! "
In front of them is a horde of enemy machines. The numerous ominous red eyes shine as if to fill the field of vision.
Clearly a desperate situation—however, the soldiers do not falter.
They have not been afraid in the battles so far, and they are not intimidated now. And they will continue to be so in the future.
Day after day, they fight, kill, and are killed—yet still, there is absolutely no fear of death.
No, there never was such a thing. It simply doesn't exist.
That's why they can engage in such reckless battles. Fight as dead soldiers, and then die.
They are werewolves. A group of monsters. Genuine monsters beyond human.
Therefore—there was never any fear to begin with. No mercy or hesitation either.
Countless enemy machines are in front of them. Goddesses, who rushed as reinforcements, are closing in from behind.
The best situation.
As if planned, the soldiers grip syringes in one hand—almost simultaneously pressing them against their necks.
The robust muscles of the soldiers tighten even further, and steam begins to rise from their entire bodies.
Bloodshot eyes, partly due to excitement, open wide, and despite being in the midst of a battlefield, they draw a grotesque smile on their faces.
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—Kill—
—Crush—
—Massacre them all—
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They shout loudly and charge forward simultaneously.
Even if their arm is blown off by enemy bullets, a soldier, showing an indescribable eerie smile, deftly holds an assault rifle with the remaining arm and pulls the trigger.
If their leg is blown off, they provide cover fire for charging soldiers from a prone position with assault rifles and machine guns.
If a bullet hole pierces their abdomen—ignoring spilled entrails—they charge forward.
Continuing to kill the enemy until the moment the heartbeat stops, and eternal silence dominates the mind and body—such is the life that must be lived. Otherwise, the created and crafted existence would be in vain. It would lack value.
They continue to fight day after day. They continue to kill. Single-mindedly—
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"…Is a life of perpetual warfare not boring?"
"…What's with the sudden question? Not suitable for small talk. It's unlike you."
"…Have you ever wished for a different life?"
"…Unfortunately, no. I, we, can only fight. There was never any choice to begin with."
"…Because you were born to fight?"
"…Born? No, that's wrong. It's 'created.' We, werewolves, exist only for the sake of fighting."
"…That's not it. You were not crafted. I'll say it as many times as it takes for you to acknowledge it. You were born. Besides, you are not a werewolf. You are a Kratos. The embodiment of strength and power."
"…Ultimately, a monster, huh?"
"…Don't like it? Well then, let me rephrase. You are a brave, fearless, proud wolf."
"…A wolf. Not bad, but in fairy tales, most likely, you end up being the one defeated."
"…Enough with the sarcasm. You need to fix that habit, Rick. It's no good to be called stubborn."
"…Can you stop using that nickname? Only you call me that."
"Dick, huh? Well, there's a slang meaning to it, but—"
"That's why I call you Rick. Got it? Lieutenant."
"…Call me whatever you want, Captain."
"Embarrassed?"
"…Not embarrassed."
"Liar. You're embarrassed. You're really not honest. My Rick—"
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"Commander!"
A clear voice echoed from a very close distance. It passed through the housing of the headset, conveying a sense of urgency, vibrating Moore's eardrums.
Continuing, slender hands—much thinner and more flexible than his own—shake both of his shoulders.
"Pull yourself together, Commander!"
In his field of vision, a black jacket—first, he sees the swell of the chest. Realizing he's bowing, and gradually raising his head, which feels heavy with the helmet on, he speaks.
"…Rapi…?"
As if confirming, the name is uttered, and she lets out a sigh of relief.
Suddenly, the reliable commanding officer, who had been groaning in pain and enduring excruciating agony while on his knees, spoke words with meaning, and it's only natural for her to feel relieved.
"Yes, it's me. …Are you really okay? If you're not feeling well—"
Attempting to suggest he take a short break, driven by concern, she is interrupted when he, seemingly having gathered strength in his knees, stands up.
"I'm fine. No problem. Just a simple headache."
"Commander, are you sure? Don't push yourself too hard."
"I'm really fine. I'm sorry for worrying you."
He doesn't want her to apologize. It's not just Lapi who rushed to his side when he collapsed.
Annis, Neon, and surprisingly, Papillon also hurried to Moore's side, watching with bated breath as Lapi shook his shoulders.
Their consideration is appreciated, but he might end up feeling pathetic. Moore takes out a water bottle, drinks a mouthful of water, rinses his mouth, and swallows. He feels somewhat better.
The single sheet of paper that fell to the floor— the document with the unreadable unit number. After returning the water bottle to its original position, he bends down, picks it up, folds it, and puts it in his pouch.
"Hey, Major. This…"
Papillon casually hands him a document. He directs his gaze to the paragraph indicated by her slender fingertips.
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"Experimental Subject: RH X (Temporary) Blood Type Owner 1
Summary and Conclusion: A special substance was extracted from the subject's blood. When the corresponding substance was injected into the Heretic Anakiorl, it was confirmed that nano-substances within the Heretic were destroyed. This substance is named 'Unchained.'
Sample Collection: 10ml. A total of 12.
Storage Location: Within the premises of this research facility. Building 9, Room 503."
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Ink is faded in some places, and the paper itself has significantly discolored. The readable parts contain information sought by him and his colleagues.
"…What Major and the others are looking for… could it be… Unchained…?"
"Well, who knows. Rapi, where's Building 9?"
"According to the floor plan, it seems to be a nearby building."
Responding to the question from the squad leader, she provides eloquent words. As Moore nods approvingly to her, still outstanding performance, he orders the squad to advance.
The headache has not subsided; deep vertical wrinkles remain between his eyebrows.
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"…There's something."
"Commander, let me conduct reconnaissance—"
"No, it's not necessary. Wait here, Isabel."
In a high-collared military uniform—a uniform designated as the old type in the Ark's military system—a tall man wearing a long coat strides forward. His voice is low, calm, and lacks emotional fluctuations.
Staring at the research facility in the distance, he narrows his ice-blue eyes. The man called Commander, who wore an air of composure, gives the order to his subordinates behind him to advance.
Whether it's a strange coincidence, the whims of fate, or perhaps the amusement of some god, the encounter is imminent.
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Author: Next chapter... The fated meeting of two commanders!
