Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(0-1) UnDemocratic Surprise

Chapter Text

(0-2) —Dive Into The Deep End—

After a turbulent descent onto an unknown, potentially Automaton-controlled planet, A1 stumbled out of his Hellpod, still disoriented from the chaos that had destroyed the Fire of Liberty. The weight of his helmet felt heavier than ever as he tilted his head back to observe the sky. The enormous, otherworldly crack that had marked his entry was still visible, though it was slowly mending itself in a surreal, undemocratic fashion. Smaller, fleeting fissures around the main crack suggested that other pods had punched through before vanishing just as quickly.

“They made it,” he muttered, the thought equal parts relief and dread. If his comrades were alive, they were scattered across vast distances.

Still shaking, A1 raised his arm to activate the integrated radio built into his suit. It sparked faintly—damaged, but operational. He adjusted the frequency knob with shaking fingers, hissing static answering his every attempt to connect.

“This is Helldiver A1. Does anyone copy? Over.”

Silence was the only crackling white noise of static greeted him.

He tried again, his voice firm but edged with desperation. “This is A1. Any survivors of the Fire of Liberty, please respond. Over.”

The response was the same—nothing. Lowering his arm, A1 clenched his jaw. A faint, metallic taste lingered in his mouth, a mix of adrenaline and the blood dripping from his nose. His grip tightened until his gloves creaked as he fought against the growing knot of frustration in his chest. His crew—his friends—they could still be out there. The faint hope that they had used the escape pods flickered in his mind.

Scanning the sky again, his sharp eyes caught subtle signs—the trails of fire that once marked escape pods breaching the atmosphere had dissipated, but the faint patterns of entry remained. If they survived, they could be anywhere. Far, far away.

Or worse.

His thoughts darkened. If this planet was Automaton-controlled, the survivors might already be in hiding, forced to maintain radio silence to avoid detection. Or perhaps their comms was jammed by the same enemy that tore apart the Fire of Liberty.

Strange, though—there were no immediate signs of a mechanical presence. A1’s gaze swept across his surroundings. He stood amidst rolling green fields that stretched endlessly toward the horizon, bathed in the warm glow of a descending sun. It was eerily serene, a stark contrast to the chaos he had just endured. The landscape reminded him of the agricultural sectors of Super Earth, a place where he had once spent his youth working on his family’s super farm.

The memories brought an ache to his chest. He had traded those simpler days for a life of duty when he joined the Helldivers, pledging to defend democracy at any cost. Regret never entered his mind—not once. Yet now, standing in an unfamiliar land with no allies and no guarantees, the weight of his decision pressed heavier than ever.

Snapping out of his reverie, A1 forced himself to focus. Survival was paramount.

“Think, man,” he muttered, addressing himself as if to ground him in reality. “Radio’s not an option. No backup. No reinforcements. Just me.”

His hand hovered near his sidearm as he scanned the horizon once more. There were no visible threats—no glint of metal, no sound of gears or servos. But the absence of danger only made the silence more oppressive.

A cold realization began to settle in his chest: he was utterly alone. For the first time since joining the Helldivers, there was no squad, no ship, no chain of command to lean on.

But A1 shook his head, forcing the dread away. “Democracy never faltered. Neither will I.”

A1 scanned the skyline and spotted it—a jagged crack through the clouds, visibly close from his vantage point, bearing 330, Northwest. Of course, "close" was relative. The crack could easily be miles away, but for him, that was manageable. Distance wasn’t the challenge—it never had been.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he prepared to move. But before setting off, the reality of his situation began to press against him. Supplies were low. His injuries—untreated since the chaotic escape from the Fire of Liberty—were starting to catch up with him. He winced as he shifted his weight, the dull throb in his ribs a harsh reminder of the brutal three consecutive operations he’d survived in the Valdis Sector.

Three bloody missions fought tooth and nail, each meant to cripple the Automaton war machine. Barely making it out of the last operation alive, he knew his survival so far had been a mix of sheer willpower, stims, and the unwavering fire of patriotic resolve.

But resolve didn’t mend wounds, and adrenaline only lasted so long.

Still, none of that mattered now. He was alive. And as long as he drew breath, he could fight.

A1 forced himself to take stock of his situation.

His sidearm, the P-19 Redeemer, was still functional. The compact SMG had saved his life countless times in the close-quarters chaos of firefights. He ejected the magazine, noting grimly that he’d burned through half of it earlier. Three mags left—not much, but better than nothing.

Next, he checked his primary weapon, the AR-23P Liberator Penetrator. This rifle was his ace against Automaton infantry and striders alike, its armor-piercing rounds designed to punch through even the toughest plating. He smirked, remembering how many clankers he’d sent to the scrap heap with it. But his optimism faded as he counted his ammunition. Four full magazines remained, but his current mag had only a quarter of its rounds. He’d have to make every shot count.

Finally, he turned to his grenades—or rather, grenade. Singular. One thermite grenade. He held the small device in his gloved hand, its weight far heavier than it should have been. One chance to destroy something big. He grimaced at the thought of coming up against a tank or factory strider with only this as his trump card. He’d need to pick his moment perfectly.

And then there were the stims. He patted the pouch on his belt where they were stored. Two left. Not enough to treat his injuries properly, but enough to dull the pain and keep him moving a little longer. He’d managed to grab them during his final dash to Pelican-1, moments before the Automatons intensified their assault. They were the only thing keeping his battered body upright, but he knew their effects wouldn’t last forever.

As he finished his inventory, a grim thought surfaced in his mind. If this truly was an Automaton-controlled planet, he would likely die here. But not quietly. He’d take as many of them down with him as he could. Hundreds, maybe more, before making his last stand. The thought brought a flicker of dark satisfaction. If the clankers thought they’d won, they were sorely mistaken.

Tightening the straps on his gear, A1 took one last look at the horizon. The crack in the clouds loomed in the distance, a silent beacon calling him forward. His mission was unclear, his fate uncertain. But if this was to be his final battle, he would face it head-on.

Freedom never sleeps. And neither would he.

It wasn’t an ideal start, but it would have to do. A1 sheathes his rifle in its scabbard, secured his sidearm, and with a determined grunt, set off toward the Northwest, the direction where the escape pod might have landed. Every step felt heavy, but his resolve was firmer than ever.

The countryside around him was stunning—almost suspiciously serene, untouched by the chaos that had consumed so many other planets. It didn’t add up. If this were an Automaton-occupied world, there would be signs of destruction—scorched earth, stripped resources, endless rows of factories belching smoke and the robotic socialist chants of the clankers. But here, the landscape was vibrant, alive—untouched by the flames of the galactic war.

Tall trees stretched their canopies skyward, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze. Sunlight dappled the ground, filtering through the branches. A shallow creek snaked through the terrain, its waters shimmering as they danced over smooth stones. The air was cool and clean, carrying the faint scent of flowers blooming somewhere nearby.

A1’s boots crunched against the twigs on the grass, his rifle held loosely on its stock. As he moved, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. This place reminded him of home—of the super farm where he’d grown up. He could almost see the fields of golden super wheat swaying in the wind, smelling the earthy aroma of the soil after a summer storm.

For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine being back there. He saw his father’s hound trotting alongside him, heard his mother’s voice calling him in for supper, the warm light of the kitchen spilling out into the yard.

It had been years since he’d left that life behind, and he doubted he’d ever return to it. Even if he did, he knew it wouldn’t be the same. The galaxy had a way of erasing the past, of leaving scars too deep to heal.

The thought was bittersweet, but it reminded him why he had joined the Helldivers in the first place. Enemies of democracy sought to strip humanity of everything it held dear. They would turn places like this, untouched and beautiful, into charred wastelands. A1 had seen it happen too many times. Battlefields burned into ash. Silent cities reduced to rubble. Beautiful fields turned into strongholds and factories.

It was why he couldn’t let them win. It was why he couldn’t stop fighting.

His thoughts drifted back to the Fire of Liberty. His comrades were gone—whether alive or dead, he didn’t know. The crack in the sky above him, still faintly visible as it slowly mended itself, offered little comfort. He knew some pods had made it through. He just didn’t know if anyone else had survived.

Reaching the top of a small hill, A1 stopped, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. His body tensed, throwing caution to the wind in case a sniper had him in their sights. But there was nothing—no shadow of an enemy, no hum of a machine—just the wind, the gentle flapping of his cape, and the distant song of birds.

Birds?

He hadn’t heard them in so long. Their melody was almost foreign to him now, like an artifact of a life that no longer existed. He paused, letting the sound wash over him, a fragile reminder that some things in the galaxy still endured.

A1 tightened his grip on his rifle’s stock and pressed on. He needed to find the escape pod. He needed to know if anyone else had survived.

As he moved, he glanced up at the sky once more. The crack loomed above, larger than it had seemed before, though still slowly knitting itself closed. It was a clear sign he was heading in the right direction.

But this hill wasn’t high enough. He needed a better vantage point. His instincts told him to keep moving, and so he did, pushing himself forward, step by step, toward whatever awaited him.

A while into his hike, A1's throat felt as dry as super sandpaper, each step on the trail sapping what little moisture remained in his battered body. The aftermath of his plunge through the vacuum of space had leeched much of it, leaving his lips cracked and his tongue a rough, parched slab. Overhead, the sun blazed mercilessly, its heat hammering down on his shoulders like an anvil.

The hydration pack slung beneath his cape was nearly drained, reduced to a faint sloshing of a few precious sips. He'd rationed it carefully, but even careful planning couldn't stave off the inevitable.

"Liberty be damned," he muttered under his breath, frustration prickling at the edges of his resolve. His eyes scanned the landscape—rolling hills giving way to a forest denser than the fields he had crossed earlier. He strained to hear anything resembling running water, his ears twitching at the faintest sounds.

And then, faintly, salvation: a distant gurgling.

Relief rippled through him. The survivors could wait another few minutes—he wouldn’t be much use to them if he almost keeled over from dehydration anyway. Adjusting his course, A1 pushed through the thickening underbrush, his boots pounding the forest floor. Branches snagged at his armor and cape, dragging against him like clinging claws.

The forest felt unsettlingly alive, every crackle of leaves or rustling branch sparking memories of ambushes from his time in Malevelon Creek. He half-expected to hear the grating cadence of Automatons droning behind him at any moment, but he forced himself to shove the paranoia down. There was no room for it now—not when he needed water, not when there were survivors waiting.

Then, without warning, something jerked him backward. He lost his footing and landed hard on his back, a sharp thud reverberating through his armor.

Groaning, A1 propped himself up, his cape having cushioned part of the fall. Looking up, he realized what had happened—the ceremonial wings on his helmet had snagged on a low-hanging branch, leaving him momentarily tangled like a rookie on their first training op.

"For Liberty's sake," he growled, wrenching his helmet free with a sharp tug, "I'm gonna wring the neck of whoever designed this armor." He brushed himself off, shaking off his frustration and bruised pride. Glancing around to make sure no one—or nothing—was watching, he muttered under his breath, "Glad nobody saw that."

Standing tall again, he resumed his trek toward the sound of the creek, his irritation ebbing slightly with each step. Survival came first. Dignity could wait.

Within minutes, A1 broke through the tree line and found himself at the edge of a flowing river. The water was crystal clear, tumbling over smooth stones and sparkling in the sunlight like a mirage of salvation.

Crouching down, he scanned his surroundings, every instinct honed from years of combat urging him to remain alert. The area seemed calm, almost too calm. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of leaves, the faint song of birds, and the steady ripple of water. Even so, his survival training whispered caution—water, no matter how pure it looked, often hid unseen dangers, much like trusting a silver-tongued politician.

A1 reached into his hydration pack and pulled out a small vial of water purification tablets tucked into one of its side pouches. He let out a dry chuckle that rasped in his throat.

"Good thing I kept these around," he muttered, shaking the vial before setting it aside.

He removed the bladder from his pack and leaned forward to siphon water into it, the cool liquid tantalizingly close. Just as he began to fill the bladder, something on the far side of the river caught his eye—a flicker of movement along the bank.

At first, he dismissed it as a cluster of rocks or perhaps a piece of driftwood stirred by the current. But then the shapes moved. Slowly, they came into focus, and his chest tightened. "Warning," his suit's narrator blared in urgency, a massive "Warning" sign flashing before his HUD. "Multiple alien lifeforms detected," a small square appeared at the bottom right corner of his HUD, with multiple red dots pocked across the grid, with himself at the center, a small rectangular icon that says "A1."

This isn't good.

They weren’t rocks. They were creatures—large, insectoid crabs, each the size of a grown wolf. Their metallic shells shimmered faintly in the sunlight, mottled with strange, shifting patterns that gave them an almost chameleonic appearance. Their claws, jagged and cruel, gleamed like freshly sharpened blades, each nearly the length of his leg.

"Terminid crabs?" he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. No, these weren’t like the Terminids he’d encountered before. Something was... off. Their shells, their movements, even their aggression—it was too refined, too alien.

One of the creatures lunged suddenly, its massive claw smashing into the ground with a deafening crack, sending shards of stone flying.

"What in Super Earth's name is that!?" A1 hissed, stumbling back as the creatures charged toward him.

More of them scuttled into view, moving with a swiftness that belied their size. He didn’t hesitate. Instinct kicked in as he drew his AR-23P Liberator and fired. The crack of the rifle echoed across the river, and the bullet slammed into the skull of the charging crab. For a moment, the creature froze, as though confused. Then black, viscous blood sprayed from the wound, and it collapsed to the ground, its legs twitching violently before going still.

The remaining creatures hesitated, their formation breaking apart as they scattered around him, their angular bodies moving with unsettling precision. A1 counted five in total, their encirclement tightening like a noose.

Despite their size and ferocity, A1 remained steady. This wasn’t the first time he’d been outnumbered by hostile lifeforms, and it wouldn’t be the last. He could gun them all down right here—five shots, five kills—but his dwindling ammo supply flashed in his mind. He couldn’t afford to waste resources on every hostile he encountered.

With a resolute sigh, A1 sheathes his rifle back in his scabbard. He squared his stance, his fists clenched, and his gaze locked on the nearest crab.

"Alright," he muttered, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips. "Let’s see what you’ve got, you damn bugs."

[Screech!]

One of the bugs lunged from behind, snapping its jagged claws toward his boot. A1 didn’t flinch. He stomped down hard, driving its head into the ground with a sickening crunch as it was too eager for his boot. Another came from his side, leaping through the air with its claws aimed at his head. He sidestepped and delivered a fierce uppercut, sending the creature soaring into a bush.

"Home run!" he muttered, watching it flail helplessly, its claws snapping at nothing.

A flicker of movement at the riverbank caught his eye. More of the creatures were emerging from the water, their metallic shells glinting in the sunlight as they scrambled onto land. His hydration bladder was still by the water’s edge.

"Damn it!" he growled under his breath, pivoting toward the pack.

The bugs surged forward, their numbers multiplying faster than he could kill them. He darted for his pack as they charged, narrowly dodging their snapping claws. One creature blocked his path, skittering toward him with surprising speed. A1 vaulted over it, landing on its skull with precision—only to slip on the damp soil. He hit the ground hard but scrambled back to his feet, dirt clinging to his armor as he bolted toward the riverbank.

More creatures emerged from the shallows, their chittering growing louder and more frantic. They swarmed the area, relentless and unnerving in their coordination. A1 didn’t have time to hesitate. He grabbed his hydration bladder, dunking it into the river and filling it to the brim as fast as he could.

Another bug launched itself at him, its claws spread wide for a killing blow. A1 reacted instantly, catching it mid-air. With one hand gripping its writhing body, he drew his combat knife with the other and drove the blade deep into its skull. The audible crack of its carapace breaking was oddly satisfying. Lifting the lifeless creature, he punted it into the river with a grunt, the splash sending ripples across the surface.

A1 hears a faint whoosh behind him and the man dives™ to the right, seeing a bug soar through the air moments where he was before landing into the water, his eyes focused on the heavy thuds coming on his left, “Sweet Land of Liberty!” He quickly draws his AR-23P Liberator once more and aims it at the two bugs coming at him in a pincer formation.

He swiftly turns his body to them and shot 3-round bursts on each one, hearing his weapon click empty after the rounds were discharged from the assault rifle. The bullets successfully lands on the two bugs and their charge began to falter, which then turns to them stumbling to the floor instead of at him.

The momentum behind their charge sent the dirt in the floor to fly everywhere, leaving behind a trail of disturbed earth as their two bodies stumbled meters away from A1’s position, the black blood slowly pouring out of their bullet riddled bodies.

Chapter Text

(0-3) A Knight in Shining Armour

“What a beautiful day today…”

A1 trudged through a field of green, his steps automatic, his mind preoccupied with the haunting memories of his fallen comrades. His body moved on autopilot, driven by sheer instinct rather than conscious thought.

“Grr?” came a curious sound from the slug nestled in his pocket. It wriggled slightly, as if wondering why its companion’s pace had slowed.

A1 smacked his lips, his tongue brushing over the dry, cracked surface. Exhaling sharply, he closed his eyes, and without realizing it, an old tune surfaced in his mind—a song from his childhood, one he used to sing to steady his nerves. The Super Earth intergalactic anthem. To keep his patriotic spirit up and liberated from despair, he sung this to himself in tight situations, often inspiring some of his allies as well. Even now, as an adult, it still serves as a comfort.

“Freedom must reign…” he muttered, his steps falling into rhythm with the words. “Over every last star…!” His voice rose, though it cracked and wavered, his tone more passion than melody. “ThroUgH CiTizeN’s BloOD sPiLLeD IN Our RiGHteOuS WaRS!”

He paused mid-stride, glancing around the endless grassy expanse. His helmet’s visor scanned the horizon for any movement. Finding nothing, he resumed, a faint smirk playing at his lips as he straightened up.

Confident that no one could hear him, he continued with renewed fervor, his steps transforming into a spirited march. “HonOR theiR deaTHs, dO yOur paRT foR the caUse!”

The effort of singing caught up to him, and a sudden cough rattled his chest, breaking his momentum. He cleared his throat, grimacing as he rubbed at his neck. The strain from countless battles, barking commands, and hollering victory cries had taken its toll.

“Guess screaming my lungs out at tin cans, bug scum, and squids finally caught up with me,” he muttered, shaking his head. The vivid memories of chaotic firefights flickered through his mind—his laughter ringing out as he dispensed "freedom" to Super Earth’s enemies.

“Alright,” he said aloud, shrugging off the nostalgia. “Focus.”

He drew in a steadying breath and began again, albeit more cautiously. “Steadfast support! Of our regime! Is hOw HumaNkiND wiLL reIGN supREME!” But once again, his voice faltered at the end, his off-key rendition making even him cringe.

“Haaa…” He groaned, but powered through with determination, belting out the next line, “No QuEstions Or doUBts shaLL bE aLloWed! TraiToRS will AlL BE dISavowEd!”

His high-pitched, wobbly singing echoed across the field, piercing through the howling wind. It was objectively awful—akin to a broken clarinet or a novice band struggling to find harmony.

Yet, somehow, the slug in his pocket seemed to enjoy the performance. It swayed in rhythm with the vibrations of his voice, its small body bobbing enthusiastically. At one point, it even mimicked his cough, mistaking it for part of the melody.

A1 chuckled under his breath, amused by his unlikely audience. As the wind whipped across the field, he pressed on, singing his heart out with patriotic fervor. Step by step, one boot in front of the other, he crossed the vast expanse, his determination to keep going a testament to his unwavering loyalty to Super Earth.

Despite the solitude, A1 found solace in the simple act of marching forward, his terrible singing a small rebellion against the weight of his grief. With the grass rustling beneath his boots and the slug swaying along, he strode toward the unknown, his voice cutting through the emptiness like a banner carried high into battle.

A1 continued his march through the fields, his tiny bug companion trailing by his side. Hours passed, and the landscape gradually shifted. The open grasslands gave way to a dense forest, the canopy above casting dappled sunlight across his armor in shifting patterns.

“Whew…” A1 came to a halt, his legs trembling with the strain of his disciplined march. He’d been at it for what felt like ages, his body now begging for respite. He finally found a suitable spot—a boulder beside a tree that offered a sliver of shade. The rock provided some extra cover, just in case the enemy decided to ambush him again.

“Lady Liberty, I’m drained…” he muttered, the weight of exhaustion sinking deep into his bones. “I could really use a drink. My mouth’s as dry as a desert.”

He reached for his hydration pack, inspecting the contents he’d taken from a nearby river earlier.

A1 unsealed the bladder and peered inside. “Looks like the tablets did their job.” The water was clear, the purification tablets now dissolved and gone. “Seems safe enough.” He took a cautious sip, letting the cool liquid ease its way into his throat.

“Mmm…” He smacked his lips, a contented hum slipping from his chest as the water refreshed his parched body. “Huff…” He exhaled, setting the water aside, feeling his fatigue slowly ebb away.

His eyes shifted to his bug companion, who had somehow managed to clamber up the boulder next to him. The tiny slug was making slow progress, leaving a glistening trail behind it.

“Whatcha doing, little guy?” A1 chuckled, watching the determined creature inch its way toward the top of the boulder. It finally reached the summit, and the bug paused, as though taking a moment to admire its accomplishment.

“Heh, good job.” A1 approached the boulder carefully, reaching out to stroke the slug’s shell with his gloved hand. He was gentle, making sure not to squish the little creature by accident.

“Mrr…” The bug purred contentedly, its soft, slimy body leaving a faint residue on A1’s gloves.

“Oh?” He smiled, raising an eyebrow. “So, you want a lift, huh?” He chuckled, a hint of warmth in his voice. “You pesky little bug.”

With a careful hand, A1 scooped up the tiny slug, lifting it to his shoulder. The bug seemed to settle there contentedly, its small body nestled into the curve of his neck as if claiming it as its new perch.

Sitting back in his chosen resting spot, A1 placed his hydration pack beside him and carefully poured a small amount of water into a nearby leaf, fashioning it into a makeshift plate for his tiny companion. “Here’s your water, little buddy. Heh, you’re a squishy fella, aren’t you?” he said softly, gently helping the slug from its perch on his shoulder to the edge of the water-filled leaf. “Think I’ll call you…Cadet Squishy?” He snaps out of his revelry of spoiling a possible terminid, and feels ashamed of it. “Sweet Lady Liberty, I’m officiating a bug. Now I’m definitely a traitor if there are still some of my crew alive.”

He watched with curiosity as the slug approached the water, tasting it hesitantly at first. Once it determined the water was safe, it eagerly drank, its movements quick and purposeful as it slurped up the water A1 gave it.

“Huh.” A1 raised an eyebrow, observing as the tiny creature drained every last drop from the leaf, its body noticeably swelling in size after hydrating itself.

“I guess you were pretty thirsty, huh?” A1 chuckled, reaching out to prod the slug lightly. In response, the bug rubbed its shell against his gloved finger in a show of affection, careful to avoid scratching him with its spiky edges.

“We’ll go on another hike soon, so let’s just rest for a bit,” he murmured, leaning back against the boulder. The rough stone provided decent support, doubling as a recliner for his weary body.

The slug remained on its leaf, appearing to mimic A1’s relaxed posture, though its gastropod body made the effort amusingly ineffective.

While the two recovered, A1 let his thoughts drift, considering his next course of action in this strange world.

Should he settle down and live out his days here? The idea was tempting but felt wrong. No, that would be a betrayal of his duty as a Helldiver—a dishonor he couldn’t accept. A1 resolved to leave thoughts of peace and retirement for after the 2nd Galactic War. Only when Super Earth was truly free of her enemies would he allow himself the luxury of working in a Super farm, tending super crops, raising super cattle, and being surrounded by his super family.

Perhaps he should search for signs of civilization? Establishing communication and a foothold in this new world seemed logical, but the odds weren’t great. His earlier encounter with Terminid-like creatures made it clear that hostile lifeforms dominated this land.

And then there was the possibility—no, the threat —that the tin cans were here as well. Perhaps they lurked underground, hiding far from the righteous light of democracy, scheming in secret. The thought of them plotting to overthrow Super Earth, replacing freedom with surveillance states and traitorous systems, ignited a simmering frustration within him.

A1 clenched his fists briefly before relaxing again. He exhaled, focusing on the serenity of the forest around him, though his thoughts never strayed far from his mission.

“Perhaps there’s still someone out there…” A1 muttered, thinking back to the spears he had seen earlier. Their crude craftsmanship suggested a primitive origin. At first, he considered the possibility that his crew had managed to fashion the weapons, but that hope was quickly extinguished. The grim reality of his crew’s fate—confirmed by the wreckage and the charred bodies he had encountered—left no room for doubt.

If not his crew, then who had thrown the spears?

“Maybe there really is someone out there…” The thought sparked a flicker of hope, but A1 quickly tempered his expectations. After all, hope in this alien wilderness could easily lead to disappointment—or worse, a trap. He glanced again at the direction of the destroyed escape pod, and let out a dry laugh. “Pfft, as if that’s going to happen.”

Believing himself to be utterly alone, A1 stood and stretched, his joints popping from the exertion of constant marching. The slug, perched on its leafy perch, mimicked his movements in its own awkward, gastropod way, sliding off the leaf in what appeared to be an attempt at solidarity.

“Come on, little cadet. Let’s keep moving to… wherever Lady Liberty decides to lead us,” A1 muttered, kneeling down to retrieve his tiny companion. He carefully picked up the slug and tucked it into his pocket, making sure it was snug and secure.

“I really hope there’s something edible out there,” he sighed, patting the pocket as if reassuring the bug—or maybe himself. “I can’t keep myself going on rations forever.”

So far, his encounters with the planet’s wildlife had been anything but promising. The insectoid creatures he’d killed were riddled with terminid spores, their black ichor oozing with an unmistakable air of danger. Whatever pathogens or toxins those creatures carried, A1 had no intention of finding out firsthand.

“Onwards to the unknown…” he murmured, steeling himself for whatever lay ahead. 

A1 trudged through the forest, the ceremonial wings of his helmet constantly snagging on branches and twigs. No matter how much he ducked or adjusted his path, the dense canopy seemed determined to slow him down.

Reaching a small clearing, he stopped and began the tedious task of freeing his helmet from the debris that had accumulated during his march.

A1 let out a frustrated growl, yanking at the twigs and leaves tangled around the wings. His gloved fingers worked furiously, and his temper flared with each stubborn fragment. He could practically feel the vein on his temple throbbing, a visceral reminder of his growing irritation.

“Whoever designed this helmet deserves to wear it in the middle of Malevolon Creek,” he muttered bitterly.

Finally freeing the last twig, A1 exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Haaa… calm down,” he said to himself, pushing the anger out of his mind. Rationality returned, and with it, his focus.

He resumed his march, ducking and weaving through the branches. The faint crunch of his boots over fallen twigs and leaves echoed softly in the dense silence. Cadet Squishy, sensing his earlier frustration, remained nestled deep in the safety of his suit’s pocket, its tiny form trembling slightly.

“Such is the life of a Helldiver,” A1 muttered as he pressed onward, the forest gradually closing in around him once more.

[Not long after, something unusual caught his eye.]

“What’s this?”

Ahead of him, a cluster of slugs lay scattered across the ground. The scene was grim—bodies riddled with spears, arrows, and jagged shells. Some were scorched black, others crushed as if under immense weight, and a few were frozen, their glossy surfaces frosted with ice crystals. Nets and debris were strewn among the carnage, suggesting a fierce struggle.

A1 knelt by one of the charred corpses, his brow furrowing as he studied the remains.

“This is odd,” he muttered. He scanned the area around the slug, but the surrounding foliage and ground showed no signs of burning. No singed grass, no blackened earth—nothing to indicate a fire had passed through.

His attention shifted to another slug, its body flattened unnaturally. Pebbles and small rocks were scattered nearby, but none large enough to explain the destruction.

“Hmm…” A1 rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “Whoever did this had to be desperate, using whatever they could to take these things down.”

He stood and surveyed the area again, his eyes narrowing. Something didn’t add up. The crushed slug had been hit with something heavy—possibly a boulder—but no such rock was in sight. Even stranger, the surrounding rocks showed no trace of blood or impact marks.

“Where’s the weapon?” he murmured. “Or whatever did this?”

The unsettling scene left him with more questions than answers. Whoever—or whatever—was responsible clearly knew how to kill these slugs. But the methods, and the lack of evidence left behind, hinted at something far more sophisticated than desperation.

A1 straightened, his senses on high alert. “Guess I’m not as alone as I thought,” he said softly, his voice edged with caution.

With one last glance at the carnage, A1 tightened his grip on the stock of his weapon and moved forward, his pace slow and deliberate. Whoever was out there, they weren’t just surviving—they were fighting back.

The last corpse to catch A1’s attention was frozen solid. The signs of hypothermia were unmistakable—rigid, frostbitten limbs, a shell dusted with snowflakes, and long icicles protruding from its back. Judging by the direction of the icicles, the unfortunate slug had faced the brunt of the icy assault head-on, its body flash-frozen in the chaos.

“Now what the heck happened here?” A1 muttered, his brows knitting together as he crouched for a closer look. The circumstances surrounding these corpses were far too peculiar to be chalked up to standard wildlife encounters.

He rose to his feet, pondering aloud. “I know some Helldivers use pyro and cryo tech to eliminate Super Earth’s enemies, but having both units in the same area? That’s just asking for trouble. Cryodiver freezes the target, Pyrodiver melts it right after—completely counterproductive… but really funny if you’re watching from the sidelines.” He shook his head at the imagined scenario, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the grim setting.

“This is strange, don’t you think, Cadet Squishy?” A1 reached into his pocket and pulled out the small slug. He gently poked at it with a gloved finger as it wiggled slightly, seemingly taking in the carnage around them.

“Taking a good look, huh?” he murmured, noting the slug’s behavior. “Don’t worry, little guy. You won’t end up like this—as long as you’re a bug that loves democracy, freedom, and voting!” A1 declared, raising his free hand in a triumphant fist pump.

The slug twisted and turned in his hand, its tiny body moving as if curiously examining the battlefield.

A1 held the salute for a moment before letting it fall. He stared at the slug, his expression softening. “Yeah, no need to worry,” he said quietly before slipping it back into the safety of his pocket.

Straightening his posture, he scanned the scene one last time, committing the details to memory. “Let’s keep moving. Super Earth’s fate isn’t going to save itself, and staying here won’t get us any closer to it,” he muttered.

With that, A1 continued his march, the oddity of the scene lingering at the back of his mind like an unsolved puzzle. Whatever had happened here wasn’t natural—and he had a gut feeling he hadn’t seen the last of it.

After only a minute of walking, A1’s ears caught a faint commotion up ahead. His pace slowed as he tried to identify the source of the sound. “Hmm?” He stopped in his tracks, his senses straining beneath the constraints of his helmet.

“What is that?” he muttered, focusing harder. Among the cacophony of noises, something stood out—a voice.

“Is someone…?” A1’s heart raced as his mind latched onto the faint trace of human speech. Without hesitation, he whipped out his AR-23 and broke into a sprint toward the disturbance.

As he approached, the sounds grew louder—guttural growls, sharp chittering, and above all, the unmistakable cry of a distressed voice.

“Pomoc!” The shout pierced through the chaos, clear and frantic. A1’s eyes widened beneath his visor. It wasn’t just any voice—it was human. The language sounded familiar, akin to the dialect spoken by Helldivers from the Winged Hussars regiment he had served with.

“This isn’t mimicry,” A1 thought, his doubts fading as he zeroed in on the authenticity of the voice. It wasn’t the eerie, soulless imitation he’d encountered from enemies before. This was real—raw, desperate, and human.

Driven by a surge of urgency, A1 tightened his grip on his weapon and pushed forward, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

“Cofnąć się! Te głupie ślimaki!” The voice boomed with a mix of defiance and desperation, echoing through the clearing. A1 slowed his run to a jog, finally stopping behind a tree at the edge of the treeline.

“What on Super Earth is happening here…” he muttered under his breath, peeking out cautiously.

The scene unfolding before him was grim. As his eyes adjusted to the light, A1’s gaze fixed on the source of the commotion—a pair of humans locked in a desperate struggle.

The duo stood in the clearing, their blonde hair and medieval-style clothing catching the sunlight. The younger of the two, a woman clad in light leather armor, held a crossbow in trembling hands. A satchel dangled behind her as she braced herself, her expression tense. Behind her was an older man with broken javelins behind him—presumably her father, judging by their resemblance. His appearance was rough: leather armor stained with a mix of red blood and black ichor, his hand pressing against a deep wound on his side as he leaned heavily against a tree.

Surrounding them were bugs—different from the ones A1 had encountered earlier. These were medium-sized, their spiked shells glistening with a faint bioluminescent glow. They moved with a menacing purpose, forming a tightening circle around the pair.

Scattered across the forest floor were weapons—mostly medieval, like maces, spears, and crossbows. A1 scanned the scene, piecing it together. “Looks like a hunting expedition gone wrong,” he mused. “Judging by the weapons, they were likely a group of five or six. How the hell did they screw this up so badly?”

“Uciec!” The woman’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. She was trembling, her crossbow trained on the encroaching slugs. The tension in her body was palpable, her fear bleeding into every motion.

“Damn,” A1 muttered, watching as the pair backed closer to the tree, their escape routes blocked by the writhing horde. The woman’s attempts at intimidation were faltering. One slug inched closer, undeterred by her shaking aim.

“Tato! Zbliżają się!” she screamed, her words unintelligible to A1.

Suddenly, his helmet’s built-in translator kicked in with a crackle. “Familiar language detected. Initiating auto transactional translation module,” a monotone voice announced, followed by a few moments of garbled noise.

The translator finally deciphered the language. “Damn it! Watch out, Alicja!” the father shouted, his voice now a surreal mix of his own tone and the deadpan translator. It reminded A1 of those awkwardly dubbed films back on Super Earth.

“Father! I will protect you! Don’t worry!” Alicja yelled back, her voice trembling with resolve. Her finger tensed on the trigger as a slug crept dangerously close.

“Fuck off!” she screamed, loosing a bolt. It sailed through the air and struck the slug’s shell, but the tip barely penetrated, leaving the shaft jutting uselessly.

“Damn it all!” she cursed, retreating to her father. The crossbow now empty, she was defenseless. The bugs closed in, cutting off any hope of escape. Alicja dropped her weapon, kneeling beside her father.

As she held him tightly, A1 saw the resignation in her eyes. They were bracing for the inevitable.

Sensing the desperation of the situation, A1 felt a surge of heroism ignite within him. His eyes darted to the weapons strewn across the ground, likely abandoned by the other hunters during their ill-fated retreat.

“If I recall, the speaker has a built-in translator for outgoing audio.” A1 hoped it would transmit his message clearly. He toggled the system and spoke, “Testing... testing... Testowanie... Testowanie.” Faintly, he heard his voice outside his helmet, distorted but audible. It worked.

“Alright... time to deliver freedom upon these pests!” A1 declared boldly, stepping out of the shadows. He shoved past the thickets that dared to obstruct his path, his presence exuding purpose and determination. Although his rifle was more than suited for this situation, he holstered it. The risk of friendly fire or spooking the already-panicked couple outweighed its usefulness. After all, Helldivers were infamous for their penchant for collateral damage.

“You vile vermin! Leave those two be!” A1 roared, his translated voice amplified by the translator. The system mimicked his tone and emotion perfectly, delivering his statement to all within earshot.

The sudden outburst startled everyone in the clearing, human and slug alike.

“You have threatened their sovereignty long enough! And I won’t stand for that!” A1 continued, scanning the ground before scooping up the nearest weapon—a heavy mace. He hefted it in one hand, tapping its business end against his palm. “Yeah, this will do.” He nodded, satisfied, and allowed himself a grin beneath his helmet.

The small slug in his pocket, Cadet Squishy, poked its head out at the commotion. It let out a curious squeak, then cowered back inside upon sensing the presence of the larger, hostile slugs.

Turning his attention back to the horde, A1 tensed, his shoulders squaring. Adrenaline coursed through him as he prepared to fight, but he forced himself to stay focused.

“One, two, three... four...” He counted under his breath. “Ten bugs. Not bad.” His grin widened, the thrill of combat taking over.

“You pests shall taste a well-blended cup of Liber-tea! With a side of scones of justice!” he quipped, swinging the mace experimentally at the nearest slug to gauge these creatures’ defenses. The weapon struck with a resounding thud, but the slug’s shell deflected the blow. The impact left a noticeable dent, and a trickle of black ichor seeped from the wound.

“Ah, so you’re tougher than you look,” A1 grumbled. Now knowing how much he needed to make more than a dent, without hesitation, he swung again, this time with full force. The mace connected, shattering the slug’s carapace and sending its mangled remains flying. Black blood splattered the ground as the slug’s glowing orifices flickered out.

“Nine left,” A1 counted, but a sudden blur in his peripheral vision made him whirl around. A slug lunged at his leg with terrifying speed, a spike aimed for his thigh.

“What the—?!” A1 barely dodged, sidestepping just in time. “These things are fast for snails!”

“HAAAGH!” With a two-handed grip, A1 swung the mace down on the charging slug’s rear. The shell cracked with a sickening crunch, and black ichor poured out from its mouth. Its light dimmed, then faded.

“Eight left,” A1 muttered, catching his breath. “Looks like their weak point’s at the back. Good to know.”

One slug circled him, its spikes aligning as if preparing to launch. Recognizing the danger, A1 dove to the ground just as the spikes shot out with explosive force.

Thud! A1 hit the dirt, his armor kicking up a small cloud of dust. His mace, already battered from the fight, shattered upon impact. “Damn it!” he hissed, tossing the broken handle aside.

A nearby tree splintered as the slug’s spikes embedded themselves into its trunk, sending shards of bark flying.

“Sweet Liberty…” A1 muttered, rising to his knees. His eyes landed on a crossbow lying just within reach. The string was drawn back, but the chamber was empty. He cursed under his breath, frustrated by the lack of ammunition—until he spotted something.

A bolt protruded from the carapace of a slug nearby—the one the woman had fired earlier.

“Get over here!” A1 growled, standing up and charging toward the oblivious slug. Two others tried to block his path, but he leapt into the air, his massive frame crashing down on them. The force of his boots crushed the slugs into unrecognizable smears, their lights extinguished instantly.

Their shells, under immense pressure, shattered into millions of tiny shards, followed by a steady stream of black blood leaking from the cracks. “Hah!” A1 jumped away, leaving two pancaked slugs beneath him, their shells bearing the unmistakable imprint of a skull under the soles of his boots.

“Six left,” he muttered, his focus already shifting to the next target—the slug with the bolt lodged in its shell. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Come here!” A1 roared, charging toward the slug. It attempted to flee, but A1 was faster. With a swift motion, he grabbed the bolt’s shaft and slammed his boot down on the slug’s head, crushing its soft, exposed skull with a sickening crunch. The creature went limp.

He yanked the bolt free, his fingers moving with practiced ease.

“There we go!” A1’s voice was filled with satisfaction as he quickly loaded the bolt into the crossbow, his familiarity with such weaponry, albeit primitive, attributing to his sleight of hand. His eyes locked on the nearest slug, narrowing with intent. “Taste democracy, you Terminid scum!”

He pulled the trigger, sending the bolt streaking through the air, embedding itself deep in the slug’s vulnerable backside. 

Blood poured from the slug as it spun in circles, desperately trying to shake the bolt loose. Its body twisted and writhed, leaving behind a trail of black ichor that slowly darkened as its glow faded. “Five left… and as for you…” A1’s gaze zeroed in on the damaged armor of the slug. Noticing movement at his flank at the tactical radar on his HUD, he hurled the crossbow at another slug creeping up behind him. The weapon struck it square in the face, stunning it momentarily. A1 wasted no time; he returned his attention to the slug with the cracked shell, and stomped down on it with his boots to pin it in place.

With ease, he gripped the edge of the slug's shell and hoisted it off the ground. "You shall die by my righteous hands of justice!" A1 shouted, plunging his other hand into the wound where the bolt had embedded itself. He grasped a shard of shell still clinging to the creature’s body.

“RaaaAAAH!” A1’s roar echoed through the forest as he tore into the slug, ripping its shell away with brutal force. The sound was a sickening symphony of popping bubbles and the tearing of flesh. It was like music to A1’s ears.

He worked with precision, peeling the shell back and exposing the slug’s soft, yellowish body to the elements. It shriveled in agony, black ichor pouring from every pore as it writhed in its final moments. “Four left,” A1 muttered, holding the now-dried-out slug carapace in his hand.

As the remaining slugs began to advance, A1 took a step back. The first, the one he’d stunned with the crossbow, charged at him with renewed fury. His pulse quickened—this was the kind of fight he lived for. A1 ripped the spikes from the broken shell, throwing them at the charging slug with impressive dexterity.

His mind raced as he calculated the slug’s trajectory. Imaginary targets formed in his head. “Eat this!” he shouted, launching the first spike. It struck the slug’s front but was deflected by its tough shell. The second spike landed with a satisfying crack but was quickly dislodged as the slug continued its charge. The third found its mark, piercing the creature’s shell and weakening its charge.

“Kiss my boot of freedom!” A1 declared, planting his foot firmly on the slug’s shell as it came at him. He carefully avoided the spikes, letting the rest of the shell crunch under his weight with a soft, satisfying sound. “How does the grass feel, you disgusting insect?”

The slug staggered back in pain, its blood beginning to seep from the cracked shell. A1’s grin never faltered. "Oh, I’m not done yet."

He grabbed a nearby spear and advanced on the injured creature. The slug tried to flee, but A1 was quicker. With a swift motion, he thrust the spear into the exposed wound, driving it deep into the creature's flesh. The tip of the spear punctured through to the other side, burying itself into the earth as the slug’s life force drained away.

“Three left…” A1 muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as he sized up the remaining slugs. Their sluggish movements slowed to a halt, and the fear in their eyes was palpable—clearly, they were scared of what A1 had just done to their brethren.

Demoralized, outmatched, and dwindling in numbers, the slugs began to retreat. At first, they pulled back cautiously, but then their retreat turned into a desperate, panicked sprint. “How do they go from slow and sluggish to charging at full speed? Their physiology makes no sense.” A1’s thoughts were momentarily consumed by the mystery of their sudden burst of speed, even more so that they had the intelligence to retreat, but the fight was over, and the two hunters were saved.

Taking a brief moment to catch his breath, A1 scanned his surroundings. The ground was littered with the mangled remains of the slugs, a testament to his brutal handiwork. But as his eyes swept across the battlefield, something caught his attention—a gleam of light reflecting off a crossbow bolt aimed directly at him.

Wait, a crossbow?

A sharp voice broke the silence. “Don’t you try anything!” The woman holding the crossbow shouted, her finger hovering near the trigger. A1 blinked in surprise, momentarily stunned by the sudden hostility from the very people he had just risked his life to save.

She must’ve retrieved the bolt during his rampage, using the distraction to ready her weapon. A plan was forming in her mind, likely to rob him while he was distracted and exhausted. But A1 knew better. The bugs hadn’t even managed to tire him, and he was certain this primitive weapon wouldn’t even scratch him.

A1, still bewildered by the situation, crossed his arms over his chest and regarded the frightened woman with a quizzical tilt of his head. "Young lady, I just slaughtered a bunch of bugs without breaking a sweat. You really think that pointy stick is going to rattle my chain?" His voice dripped with confidence, knowing her primitive weapon wouldn’t even make a dent in his armor.

“Alicja! Stop!” The man from earlier intervened, reaching out to lower the crossbow with a firm but bloodied hand.

"Huh, that's strange." Now that A1 had a better look at them, something caught his eye—both of them had ears positioned on top of their heads, strikingly similar to those of the horses back on Super Earth.

"If they've got ears on top of their heads, why the extra set on the sides?" A1 thought, a small furrow forming between his brows. "Whatever. Maybe they’re those weird ‘furry’ people Super Earth treats like second-class citizens."

He paid little attention to his musings, deciding instead to stand still and allow the couple to sort out their differences, hoping they wouldn't do something foolish in their panic.

“What are you doing? That knight saved us!” He spoke to the woman—Alicja, incredulous by her impulsive action.

A knight? A smirk tugged at the corner of A1's mouth. If I wasn’t in such a dire situation, I'd probably be laughing right now. But he was curious. "Wait... he thinks I’m a knight?" He watched as the woman stole a second glance at his appearance, waiting to see what she'd do next.

“O—Oh my goodness, I am so sorry!” Alicja dropped her crossbow and knelt before him, her voice trembling. "Sir knight, please forgive my insolence! I mistook you for bandits, or scavengers, and thought you meant to harm us!" She bowed low, and her father quickly followed suit, kneeling in submission, his wounded body shaking with fear.

“How… Wha—?” A1 choked on his words, momentarily taken aback. How did they mistook me for a bandit? Then again, the way I took care of those bugs wasn’t classy. He coughed to regain his composure, watching as they flinched at the sound. "Please, stand up. I understand your fears," he added, his tone softer. "Do not worry, I am not here to harm you. I am simply here to help."

I wonder if they know about the bodies I’ve encountered, or if they’re responsible for it. Especially that huge slug... A1’s mind raced, hoping they could answer some of his questions.

He also realized something else. Wait, they don’t know I’m a Helldiver. So, why are they calling me a knight? Was it just a metaphor? A title given in desperation, or did they truly believe him to be a knight who had come to their aid?

"Oh, sir knight! Thank you! Thank you so much!" Alicja exclaimed, her relief palpable as she raised her head, her horse-like ears now relaxed. The tension in her posture eased, replaced with gratitude.

"Uh, you're... welcome, I guess?" A1 fumbled, uncomfortable with the sudden praise. "Are you two hurt, by any chance?" The question was almost redundant—her father was clearly injured, clutching his bloodied side, but A1 felt the need to ask nonetheless.

"M—My father..." Alicja’s voice wavered as she looked to her father, struggling to stand. "Pioter... he's badly hurt, sir." Her eyes welled with tears as she watched him struggle, the strain of his injuries clearly weighing on him.

A1 nodded. "Okay, okay. Let’s get him to some shade. I’ll try to treat him." He moved to help Pioter, attempting to drape the man’s arm over his shoulder—but his size made it a bit difficult. Pioter was much smaller than A1, and the weight of his injured form was awkward to support.

Instead of letting Alicja carry her father, A1 scoops Pioter into his arms and leads them to a tree far from the mass grave of slugs. Once there, he carefully unbuttons the man’s shirt and assesses the wound. “Not bad, but not good either.” The gash runs an inch deep along Pioter's side, but it’s nothing A1 can't handle.

“Do you have bandages, disinfectant, or anything you can use for field dressing?” A1 looks at Alicja, his expression calm yet expectant. Her worry is palpable, but the wound isn’t as dire as she seems to think. Superficial wounds like this are better treated with conventional methods rather than using the precious stims he’s got—and he wouldn’t waste his last one on some random stranger.

“H-H-Here…” Alicja stammers, fumbling through her bag to pull out a small roll of bandages and a tiny glass bottle filled with crushed green powder. A1 takes them, noting how small they feel in his large hands, the bottle almost delicate in comparison to his rough grip. He hopes he won’t crush them by mistake.

“It’ll do. Thank you for your help.” He uncorks the small bottle and carefully pours the contents over Pioter’s wound.

“Agh!” Pioter groans, his body tensing. He instinctively reaches for his side but forces himself to grip the grass beneath him instead, gritting his teeth in an effort to bear the pain.

“You alright, sir?” A1 asks, watching the man’s pained expression.

Pioter nods, though his face betrays the discomfort. “I’m fine.”

A1 doesn't wait for further acknowledgment, unfurling the bandages. He presses them against the wound with steady hands, ignoring the faint wince from Pioter as the cloth soaks in the blood.

Once the wound is properly dressed, A1 stands up and reaches for his hydration pack. "That should do. Here, take a drink." He offers the tube to Pioter, who looks confused at first but takes it after A1 explains.

Pioter awkwardly sips from the pack, clearly unused to the contraption. When he finishes, A1 takes the pack back, noting that a quarter of the water is gone. He shrugs, unbothered.

“Eh, I’ll find more if there’s a river nearby,” he mutters to himself. The only real problem would be if the crab-like creatures or those slugs decide to ambush him again. Or worse, something even more dangerous lurks in the area.

A1 glances around at the scene, the carnage from the battle still fresh in the air—bodies of slugs litter the ground, and discarded weapons are strewn about. The stench their corpses leave behind are at least not as pungent as the Terminids he fought before. He takes a deep breath, then turns to Alicja.

“Now, uhm…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Can you explain what happened here?” With Pioter treated and the immediate threat gone, A1 takes this moment to ask the question that’s been on his mind since he arrived in this strange world.

“Good sir Knight, let me first thank you for saving me and my father.” Alicja once again dropped to one knee, bowing her head low in gratitude toward A1.

“We would’ve been dead if it weren’t for you. We are forever in your debt,” Pioter added, tipping his wide-brimmed hunter’s hat to the imposing Helldiver.

A1 was no stranger to receiving thanks from grateful civilians. Yet this level of reverence—almost royal treatment—caught him off guard. He didn’t quite know how to feel about it. Gratifying? Certainly. But it was also… alien.

“It’s no problem, citizen. It’s my duty to protect people like… you, after all,” A1 replied, though his words faltered as his eyes lingered on their unusual features. The equine ears atop their heads twitched, seemingly responsive to their emotions. They weren’t like the eccentric furry oddballs from Super Earth who embraced bizarre proclivities, but they were undeniably… different. A new species, perhaps? They weren’t Illuminates, that much was clear. So, what other surprises did this strange world hold?

Alicja stood and glanced at the carnage surrounding them. Though the methods A1 employed were unconventional—brutal, even—his efficiency was undeniable. “Sir Knight, you’ve arrived at a critical time. You see, my father and I are exterminators, and we were tasked with culling the population of Originium slugs in this area.”

A1 perked up at the mention of an unfamiliar term. “Originium slugs?” 

“They may not look like much, Sir Knight,” Pioter said, adjusting his position to sit upright against the tree. “But they’re a scourge. Invasive pests that wreak havoc wherever they spread. They devour crops, frighten off game, and even attack livestock. Worse still, they disrupt trade routes by swarming caravans. This month, their population has spiraled out of control, so we were sent to handle the problem.”

A1 nodded along, processing the explanation. He glanced at the battlefield littered with ichor and broken shells, the so-called Originium slugs he had slaughtered. But something gnawed at him: Were these truly Terminids, or something else entirely? If they weren’t Terminids, then technically, he wasn’t violating any protocols. And if he wasn’t violating any protocols, he wouldn’t face a court martial for taking in Cadet Squishy, right? 

He shook his head, dispelling the distraction. This wasn’t the time to dwell on military regulations or hypothetical scenarios. The slugs, the alien-like inhabitants—everything about this place screamed “new.” An entirely different species of lifeforms, here in the middle of nowhere? For someone who’d traveled across countless star systems, it was staggering to encounter something so completely off the grid. 

“What else is out here?” he muttered under his breath, casting a glance toward the horizon. 

“Good sir Knight?” Alicja waved her hand, concern etched across her face. “Are you okay?”

“What?” A1 snapped out of his thoughts, looking at her in confusion.

“You spaced out,” she said softly.

“Oh, just… thinking about your safety. If I wasn’t here, then these bu— I mean, slugs could’ve gotten you,” he said, shaking off his distraction. He couldn’t press the issue about these so-called Originium slugs right now, so he opted to change the subject. “So… they sent the two of you to exterminate these slugs?”

Pioter chuckled grimly, though the sound was more bitter than amused. “There were more of us, good sir Knight.”

Alicja scanned the battlefield, her eyes lingering on the scattered weapons and remnants of a larger struggle. “We were simply… overwhelmed,” she admitted, her voice heavy with lingering fear and guilt.

A1 felt a pang of regret deep in his chest. He didn’t know these people—or their kind—but the idea that he might have been able to save more of them still gnawed at him. “Oh… I’m… sorry.”

“Why?” Pioter quirked an eyebrow at him. “They’re not dead. They ran away and left us here to die!” His voice rose sharply, tinged with bitterness and anger.

“Father, to be fair, there were too many of them,” Alicja argued gently, trying to soften his frustration. She turned back to A1. “But yes, that’s what happened. We were on our way back to our village when the slugs ambushed us. They must’ve been following us after we torched their nest and killed their brood mother.”

Pioter grinned, clearly proud despite the ordeal. “Oh, it was massive! Took nearly all of our spears to bring it down! But that beast won’t be birthing any more of these pests anytime soon.”

A1 froze at her words, something clicking in his mind. A brood mother. Massive. Dozens of spears lodged in its back. 

Could it be the same creature he had encountered before? The one that had led to him taking in Cadet Squishy? He replayed the memory in his head: the grotesque monstrosity, the endless swarm, and the small, squishy survivor that had climbed into his pocket.  

Thinking of Squishy, A1 instinctively reached into his pocket, fingers feeling for the familiar gelatinous texture. But his heart skipped a beat when he realized it wasn’t there.

His pulse quickened, his mind racing. Where could it have gone? 

Alicja shrieked, “Look out, Sir Knight! It’s on your shoulder!”  

A1 flinched and turned his head, spotting the small, curious creature—Cadet Squishy—climbing up to perch on his pauldron again.  

Alicja grabbed a nearby tree branch, raising it above her head. “I’ll get it!”  

“WAIT!” A1 threw up a hand to stop her. “You’re going to hit me with that thing. Striking a knight is a heinous offense, is it not?”  

“But the slug! I was going to take it off your shoulder!” she argued.  

A1 sighed, pointing to the gelatinous creature on his armor. “It seems this little one has bested me, catching me off guard. In the spirit of… uh… knightly tradition, I declare it only fair to let this creature live. It has managed to approach me unarmed, and it poses no real threat. Besides, it’s just a small slug. What harm could it possibly do?”  

“That thing will grow and become a bigger problem,” Pioter said, his tone sharp with disapproval.  

“Then I shall take it as a squire and teach it the ways of a knight, ensuring it causes no harm,” A1 proclaimed confidently.  

“That… what?” Alicja gaped at him, disbelief painted across her face. “That doesn’t make any sense!”  

A1 laughed heartily. “Ah, but it is dictated in the codex of knightly conduct! Any living being who catches a knight off guard, yet poses no true threat, may be spared or taken as a squire or apprentice.”  

Pioter raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That sounds like an awfully outdated rule. I’ve never seen knights do anything like that. They’d sooner kill the thing and be done with it.”  

A1 straightened, fixing them both with a firm look. “Are you going to let this dubious creature be, or continue to pester me with questions? I will hear no more objections.” His tone turned stern, and Alicja instantly dropped to her knees, groveling at his feet, while Pioter shook his head, clearly disappointed in his daughter’s theatrics.  

“I’m so sorry, good sir Knight! I shall never doubt your wisdom again!”  

“Alright, alright!” A1 said, exasperated. “Please, have some dignity, woman, and stop grabbing my boots. They’re covered in who-knows-how-much slug parts.”  

Embarrassed, Alicja scrambled to her feet, her face flushed as she avoided both her father’s and A1’s gaze.  

Pioter sighed. “You’ll have to forgive her, Sir Knight. This is her first time meeting someone of your, uh, stature.”  

“It’s fine,” A1 said, brushing off the awkwardness. Alicja’s jittery reactions towards A1, excusing her trying to hit him with a branch and aiming a crossbow at him, is reminiscent to how the ladies of Super Earth react in utter amazement seeing their caped space-liberating crusaders parade through the streets of their city. With a gentle touch, he scooped up Cadet Squishy and placed it back in his pocket, ensuring the slippery creature wouldn’t escape again.  

Turning his attention back to the pair, he resumed their conversation. “You said your fellow hunters abandoned you two?”  

“That they did,” Pioter confirmed bitterly. “Perhaps they wanted to get rid of us, or maybe they’re just cowards. Either way, if I ever see them again, I’ll muster what strength I have left in this old body to teach them a lesson.”  

“Let me handle that, citizen,” A1 replied, his voice darkening. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s deserters. I’ll deal with them personally.”  

Pioter chuckled nervously. “You’re kind to offer, but… please don’t kill them.”  

“We shall see.” A1 looked around the area. The silence was thick now that the battle was over, but the stench of slug corpses made lingering here unpleasant. His interest piqued when they mentioned a village—somewhere he could finally rest and gather intel on this strange world. “Now that we’re safe, it would not be knightly of me to leave you here unprotected. Direct me to your village. I will escort you there.”  

Alicja’s eyes widened, sparkling with gratitude. “Again, we are most thankful to you, good sir Knight. Please, tell us your name so we may sing your praises to all we meet.”  

A1 hesitated. Helldivers rarely referred to one another by name, and many veterans had abandoned their identities entirely. But his name was his last tie to the life he left behind—a piece of himself he wasn’t ready to sacrifice. Still, anonymity was a cornerstone of their creed.  

Letting out a weary sigh, he finally answered, “I am but a wandering knight. Personal achievements and recognition serve only as distractions, so we relinquish our names to history. Instead, we are known by codes. You may call me… Avenger-1.”  

Alicja and Pioter exchanged uncertain glances before Pioter shrugged. “Alright. Our village is just west of here—not far. Take us back, and we’ll make sure you’re properly thanked for saving us.”  

Avenger-1 nodded, resolute. “Affirmative.” 

Chapter Text

Happy Lunar New Year 2025

In a peaceful, serene meadow nestled in the mountains of Yan, A1 opened his eyes to find himself lying flat on his back atop a bed of grass and wildflowers. The lush greenery felt soft beneath him, and the delicate scent of flowers permeated even the filters of his helmet—a sweet, almost dreamlike aroma.

He pushed himself upright, scanning his surroundings. The meadow stretched out endlessly in every direction, a vibrant mosaic of orchids, lotuses, and peach blossoms scattered across the landscape. The sight stirred something deep within him. These flowers… it had been so long since he’d seen them. Memories of his family’s super farm surfaced, along with flashes of his great aunt’s super botany store, where these blooms thrived in abundance.

A1 hesitated before retracting his visor. The unfiltered scent of the flowers rushed to greet him, washing over him in waves of sweetness and nostalgia. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to bask in it, letting out a contented sigh. The memories of his childhood were bittersweet, tinged with the regret of a life left behind. But as always, his sense of duty snapped him back to reality.

The meadow was peaceful—too peaceful. Something felt… off.

He rises from the ground, the flowers beneath his boots crushed underfoot. Glancing around, he notes the lack of defining landmarks—just an endless sea of blossoms. It feels like he’s in the middle of nowhere again. But then, something unusual happens. The flowers ahead part slowly, as though moved by an unseen force, revealing a narrow path. With no other direction to take, A1 marches forward, his senses sharp and his resolve unwavering. Whatever lies ahead, he’ll be ready.

The night sky above looms dark and vast, but the twin moons of Terra cast a faint, silvery glow across the meadow. Their light provides just enough visibility for A1 to continue, his boots crunching softly against the path. The air grows thinner as he treks uphill, leading him to the edge of the mountain where a lone peach tree stands tall and regal at the cliff’s promontory. The path seems to beckon him toward it, and he follows, his steps steady despite the increasing strength of the wind.

As he approaches, A1 notices a yellow pavilion nestled beneath the tree’s expansive branches. Yet his attention lingers on the tree itself. Something unusual catches his eye—ornaments hanging from its limbs, swaying gently in the breeze. Stepping closer, he inspects them. They’re small, red paper packets adorned with intricate golden engravings. The designs are delicate yet purposeful, the front and back marked with depictions of coins—gold circles with square holes at their centers.

The imagery stirs a distant memory. These coins, reminiscent of Sector 2’s cultural artifacts, were once a primary currency in Mega City 2. That was before the rise of the unified economy and the adoption of super credits. The uniformity had brought efficiency and unity to the system, but the artistry of these coins, now reduced to ornaments, carried a sense of history—a reminder of a time when things were simpler yet undeniably rich in tradition.

“Whatchu looking at, stranger?” A sultry woman's voice calls out from behind him. A1 turns and sees a striking figure: a woman with thick blue-grey hair, feathers—black-green in color—framing the sides of her scalp. She’s wearing a lab coat, topped with a black jacket adorned with exotic engravings. Her serpent tail flicks side to side as she locks eyes with him—piercing jade-colored eyes that seem to study him just as intently. “You lost?”

“I am,” A1 admits, his gaze lingering on her. From the brief time he’s spent in this strange world, he can tell she’s one of the Liberi—a race of bird-like people, judging by the feathers on her scalp. But the scaled tail, a trait typical of the Pythia—snake people—suggests something more complex. She must be a hybrid. ‘Odd,’ he thinks, ‘I thought hybrids weren’t a thing here.’

“Well,” the woman begins, pouring a pitcher filled with a red liquid into a cup. She slides the cup across the table toward him, gesturing for him to take it. “I think you're meant to be here.”

“What does that mean?” A1’s voice is cautious, skeptical. He watches her actions closely, studying both the cup and the way she moves.

“You got here out of nowhere, right?” She presses, her voice smooth as silk. “I can say the same. I was doing my own thing, and all of a sudden—boom—I’m sitting here in this Yanese gazebo. But hey, on the bright side, I’ve got free food and drinks. And now that you’re here, I’ve got a feeling I’m supposed to share it with you. Don’t worry, I saved some for you. So, please—have a seat.”

“How did you come up with all of that just by looking at me?” A1’s suspicion lingers, but curiosity pricks at him.

She takes a leisurely sip from her cup, finishing with a soft, exaggerated kiss of her lips. “I just know, alright? Can you dispute or disprove that?”

“I don’t know. I just got here,” A1 responds, his tone uncertain but firm.

“Exactly,” she nods, leaning back. “Both of us don’t know how we got here, or why we’re here. But if no one else is coming, it’d be pretty rude of me to finish all this by myself.” She gestures to the seat across from her. “So, again, I ask: Take. A. Seat.”

A1 sighs, resigned, and takes a seat across from her. He grips the cup firmly, swishing it around habitually before sniffing it. The sweet scent confirms it’s wine, with no signs of poison. Cautiously, he attaches the cup to the straw on his visor and lets a small drip touch his tongue. It's wine, alright.

“Why so hesitant?” she asks, her grin still as nonchalant as ever, her calm demeanor in sharp contrast to his wariness. “I don’t intend to poison you. I barely even know you.”

“Force of habit,” A1 mutters, setting the cup down. His eyes scan the table: moon cakes, dumplings, more wine and spirits—delicacies he’d expect from Mega City 2, along with rations he recognizes from his time with the oriental Helldivers. “Where did all this come from?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, her tone equally indifferent.

“So… you’re just fine with eating food from out of nowhere?” he presses.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” she answers, a shrug in her voice.

“Right…” A1 has no argument, nor any care, to dispute that. “Who are you?”

“I’m a seeker of knowledge, much like yourself,” she answers cryptically.

“I mean your name.”

She chuckles. “My name is rather complex. Are you ready to hear it?”

“Just tell me.”

“Fine,” she takes another, longer sip from her cup, savoring the moment. “I am Ho’olheyak.”

“… What?” A1 tilts his head, struggling to process her name.

“Ho’olheyak,” she repeats, her voice now firmer.

“Hulhoyuk?”

“Close enough,” she laughs. “Now, what’s your name?”

“I… that’s classified.”

“Hey, no fair!” She giggles. “I gave you my name, and you won’t give me yours? What gives?”

“I’m not refusing,” A1 replies. “It’s actually classified. See, my line of work—they have us forget our names so we can focus solely on the mission. Personal identity, possessions, names… they’re all just accessories. What matters is our duty to defend our home from those threatening our sovereignty and liberty.”

“Tch, what a noble cause,” she mocks lightly. “But forgetting yourself entirely?” She shakes her head. “I almost pity you.”

“Tch,” he mimics her tone, mocking her in kind. “Save your pity. If you knew what we’ve been doing out there, you’d understand. This sacrifice doesn’t even compare to what we’ve had to do.”

“Then pray tell, stranger,” she challenges. “What is it that you do?”

A1 looks up at the stars above. His thoughts drift back to the galaxies he’s traversed, defending Super Earth’s assets and people from the socialist Automatons, rogue Terminids, and the tyrannical Illuminate. And now, here he is, stranded on an uncharted planet. He looks back at Ho’olheyak, his expression solemn, as if the question had struck a chord.

“Do you see what’s up there?” he asks, pointing to the night sky.

“Hm…” She squints, trying to focus on the darkness. “Nope. Can’t see much. It’s too dark.”

“Ha, very funny.” A1 chuckles. “But this may sound outlandish—I’m from out of this world.”

“That’s what they call me, too,” she smirks, leaning back with a smug smile, biting into a plump moon cake.

“I’m beyond this world’s borders.”

“Ah…” Ho’olheyak’s smile falters for a moment as she stares at him. She senses the conviction in his voice, and slowly, she nods, as if understanding something unspoken. “You’re quick to share that with a stranger.”

“That’s because at some point, we won’t see each other again. And if you try to tell anyone else that story, they won’t believe you. But I’m telling you now, I am from out of this world.”

She nods slowly, her expression turning serious. “Now that… I believe you.”

A1 raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

“I have an associate,” she begins, her voice thoughtful. “She’s obsessed with what’s beyond. Spent most of her life researching ways to break through our cage and expose us to the stars. I don’t really subscribe to that notion. I’m fine with what’s here… at least until…” She shakes her head, as if snapping herself out of her thoughts. “That doesn’t matter. But with you here… that means there’s a way to break free after all. And that there are those who’ve already conquered the stars before us.”

“Just the stars?” A1’s voice swells with pride. “The stars are just fuel for our cities. We have dozens—no, hundreds —of planets under the banner of liberty and democracy.”

“I see…” Ho’olheyak raises an eyebrow. “Your technology must be on another level to achieve all of that.”

“You don’t even know,” he replies with quiet confidence.

“Can you… tell me what your people have achieved? Do your people’s technologies surpass Terra’s?”

“I came from space,” A1 says with a smirk, “while you’re still on the ground. I think that says a lot about who's technologically superior here.”

Ho’olheyak looks genuinely surprised by his boast. “Ohoho, you’re really bold, aren’t you? You’re not planning to conquer this planet too, are you?” She teases, but there's a flicker of concern beneath her humor.

“That remains to be seen,” A1 replies, “but this planet was left uncharted. We didn’t know it existed until now. But don’t worry. After spending so much time here, I’d rather just go home. Super Earth has too many planets as it is. Holding them is harder than just taking them.”

Ho’olheyak breathes a subtle sigh of relief, though she masks it with a playful laugh. “Great. But don’t get any ideas, stranger. We’re no pushovers.”

“That, I understand,” A1 acknowledges. “We know what it’s like to face an army threatening your home. We wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone else, but that’s just my opinion. I don’t know what the brass back home would say.”

“I don’t see how that’s reassuring,” she says with a smirk.

A1 chuckles and shrugs. “I’m really terrible at reassurance, sorry. You get little chances to comfort someone when time’s of the essence, and even when you do, the most you can offer is to keep them calm while they pass on.”

“Huh…” She watches him, her gaze softening. “Sounds like you’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

The two of them sit in a peaceful silence, their eyes turned to the night sky, the glittering stars taunting them with their unreachable beauty.

Ho’olheyak gazes at the stars with fascination, while A1 looks up with quiet longing—a longing to leave, to return to the fight for managed democracy.

After a moment, Ho’olheyak glances at him, as if a new question has occurred to her. “What’s it like out there, stranger?”

“Terrible.” A1 finishes his wine, then pours himself another cup, but hesitates before drinking. “Everywhere we went, nowhere was safe—not even in the vastness of space. I used to think it was so cool… but now that I’ve seen what waits out there, all I can think about is my family. If I stopped fighting, even for a second, the enemy would tip the scales of war in their favor.”

“So, there’s a war out there, and we didn’t even know about it?” Ho’olheyak laughs bitterly, her voice carrying a weariness that mirrors his. “Maybe it’s for the best that we stay on our planet, then.”

“They just won’t stop coming,” A1 mutters, eyes hardening. “Every time we thought we liberated a sector, more of them just showed up. Winning or losing doesn’t matter anymore. All we can do is buy our people a little more time to think of something.”

“Why do you think this ‘war’ is happening?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“It’s been like this for thousands of years, miss. But we’ve won one Galactic War. Who’s to say we can’t finish this one, too?”

“Even if it takes another thousand years?” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as she probes deeper.

“Hell, maybe even if the sun blows up. I don’t care.”

“Heh.” Ho’olheyak smiles faintly, sliding her fingers around the rim of her cup. “Such dedication to preserving your personal freedom. I can resonate with that.” She falls into thought, her eyes distant as she considers A1's words, the weight of them lingering in the air.

“So… what’s your story, miss?” A1 asks, his turn to ask the questions now.

“My story isn’t as interesting as yours, I’m afraid.” She laughs softly.

“Well, since we’re stuck here for a while, might as well pass the time by talking. Who knows? Maybe I’ll learn something outlandish about this world.”

“Oh, there are plenty of things wrong with this world, but that’s what makes it interesting, I suppose. Are you interested in a history lesson?” Ho’olheyak raises an eyebrow playfully.

“The many planets we’ve come across have had their histories erased in the name of liberation,” A1 replies. “I’m not used to a world that’s still holding onto its history.”

Ho’olheyak frowns, the idea of a world losing its history clearly unsettling to her. “How sad. I can’t imagine a world losing sight of its own history. But now that you mention it, I have a feeling your arrival here is no accident. As much as I’d enjoy enlightening an alien like you, I think it’s better for you to discover this world’s history on your own.”

A1 narrows his eyes, irritation creeping into his voice. “Why make this more difficult for me?”

“It would spoil the journey you’re meant to have,” she responds with a calm smile. “There are no shortcuts to knowledge—especially knowledge gained through personal experience. Relying on others’ wisdom can sometimes be worse than knowing nothing at all.”

A1 scowls slightly, unimpressed. “That’s a bit cryptic. What else can you tell me about yourself?”

She taps her chin, feigning deep thought. “Hmm… I like long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and I make a killer Minoan Mist.”

A1 scoffs, clearly frustrated by her vague, sarcastic answers. “You making fun of me?”

“Why,” she raises her hands in mock innocence, “I would never do that, Mr. Soldier.” She leans back with a grin. “Listen, I love rambling on, but maybe we save that for another time. After all, we’re here for a reason. We might never see each other again, like you said, if we disappear. I might've wasted my time rambling on if I did.”

A1 nods slowly. “At least it would put my mind at ease.”

“Then just keep your guard up, Mr. Soldier. I doubt whatever challenges this world has in store for you will be any match for someone of your caliber.”

A smirk tugs at A1’s lips. “Flattery won’t get you far. Besides, I’ve survived worse.”

Ho’olheyak chuckles, unfazed. “Just bear with me, stranger. Who knows? You might end up liking it here.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” A1 mutters, his tone resolute.

Their impromptu conversation was abruptly interrupted by the faint sound of wind chimes, carried by the breeze. There were no signs of life around them—just the two of them, until, out of nowhere, a tall woman with long, flowing blue hair appeared. She held an ornate flask in one hand and a small Originium slug in the other.

Draped in robes that shimmered with the colors of twilight, her serene smile was framed by the soft light of the pavilion. Dragon horns curved from her head, and her languid demeanor gave her an almost ethereal presence.

“I do believe this curious creature belongs to you?” she asked, her voice soft but commanding.

A1 leapt to his feet, startled. “Cadet Squishy?” His voice was filled with surprise as he quickly reached out and took the small slug from her hand. “Where did you…”

“I found him waiting for you on the bed of grass where you last rested,” the woman replied, her gaze distant yet knowing. “In the tapestry of existence, the bonds we share with our companions mirror the delicate threads of fate. As the river’s current guides the fish and the forest shelters the deer, so too must we remain close to those who share our journey. To lose sight of them is to invite the chill of solitude, for they are as integral to our path as the stars are to the night sky. Nurture these connections, lest the melody of life falters, and the verses of our story fall into dissonance.”

A1 blinked, taken aback by her words. He glanced at Ho’olheyak, whose expression mirrored his confusion. She stared at the woman for a moment, eyes shifting to the small slug A1 cradled in his hands, and then smirked.

“You’re holding that thing like it’s your baby. Better be careful, though,” she teased, her voice laced with mischief. “People don’t take kindly to those who try to keep pests as pets.”

The dragon woman’s gaze locked onto Ho’olheyak’s with a quiet disappointment. “In the vast theater of life, each soul selects its own company, seeking solace and understanding. As the lotus blooms in murky waters, so too can companionship arise in the most unexpected forms. To judge another’s choice is to overlook the harmony they find. ‘To bicker and squabble every day, knowing emotion’s gamut— is that not what a person is?’ Let us embrace the bonds that bring comfort, regardless of appearance, and honor the unseen threads that bind us together.”

Ho’olheyak scoffed dismissively but studied the dragon woman with renewed interest. Recognition flashed in her eyes. “Wait a minute. I know you. You're the third eldest sister of the Sui siblings—Ling, right?”

Ling nodded, her smile faltering slightly as her gaze fixed on Ho’olheyak. “In the annals of time, names and faces intertwine, and recognition becomes a fleeting shadow. If you, Ho’olheyak, have read the scrolls and heard whispers of my existence, then fate has woven our paths close. But remember—knowledge without sincerity is like a blade without a hilt—dangerous and unanchored. Deceit may cloud the waters, but the river of truth flows ever onward. Reflect upon your path, lest the echoes of your actions return in ways you cannot foresee.”

Ho’olheyak didn’t flinch, instead responding with a wide, unabashed grin. “Yes, yes. It was nice to meet you too, ma’am,” she said, unperturbed by the subtle admonishment.

A1, after placing Cadet Squishy on a plate of dumplings to let the dubious creature enjoy himself, sat frozen, completely baffled by what was unfolding before him. Ling’s words swirled around his head, and he couldn’t make sense of a single one. “Wha- I- Hu- Who are you?!”

Ling took a leisurely sip from her flask, her serene smile returning as she looked at him. “You've already heard my name spoken. But yes, who am I, indeed? A wanderer, much like yourself. Though my journey is not guided by orders, nor burdened by the weight of duty.” She took another sip, then gestured at the stars above them. “Tell me, soldier of distant stars, do you find solace in the clarity of orders, or do you ever long for the chaos of freedom?”

A1 furrowed his brow beneath his helmet, his patience wearing thin from all the cryptic nonsense. “I’m not here to debate philosophy. Hell, I don’t even know why I’m here.”

Ling tilted her head slightly, her expression curious. “A soldier, far from the warmth of comradeship. Or perhaps… one who carries the stars’ burden alone? Does the wind carry you here, or the weight of your purpose?”

“I. Don’t. Know!” A1 snapped, frustration building. “I don’t have time for riddles. If you know something we don’t—about what’s out here, about why we’re here—I need you to tell us. Right now. Otherwise, I’m moving on.”

Ling tilted her head again, as if studying him like a piece of abstract art. She tapped her wine flask lightly with her finger, her voice growing softer. “The stars above guide your kind, do they not? Charts and coordinates, points of light that bind you to your path.” Her tone shifted, a hint of melancholy weaving through her words. “But tell me, soldier: when you look up, do you see destinations… or dreams?”

“We see what we need to,” A1 shot back, unwilling to entertain any deeper thoughts. “Stars are just… tools. They help us navigate. That’s it.”

Ling sighed, her gaze fixed on the same stars, her expression unreadable. “How simple, yet how tragic. To see only the road and never the journey, only the light and never the wonder.” She set her flask down and rested her chin on her hand, her eyes thoughtful. “Do you ever wonder, soldier, what lies beyond your charts? Beyond the reach of your orders?”

A1’s grip on the side of the table tightened. “Wondering doesn’t get the job done. Focus does.”

Ling’s smile returned, enigmatic and knowing. “Focus is a blade, but even the sharpest blade dulls with time.” Her voice dropped, becoming more earnest. “You carry much weight, Helldiver. Too much for one soul. Perhaps… that weight is what binds you. What blinds you.”

A1 shifted uncomfortably, her words getting under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected. It was as though she’d peeled back a layer he hadn’t realized was there. But with his mind set on leaving this planet, he quickly dismissed it. “I don’t have time for this. You’re just another crazy woman with too many words and not enough answers.”

“Is… that referring to me?” Ho’olheyak piped up, raising an eyebrow.

Ling chuckled lightly, her laugh airy and musical. “Ah, but answers are dull things, wouldn’t you agree? It is the questions that keep life interesting.” She moved around the table, her robes flowing behind her like liquid silk. “But remember this: even the sharpest focus cannot pierce the veil of the unknown. Perhaps, one day, when the stars grow dim, you will see not the path… but the wonder.”

A1 stared at her, trying to suppress his growing irritation. “Okay… whatever you say, ma’am. Now, I’m gonna ask again, and I’d like a straightforward answer. Why. Are. We here?”

Ling smiled softly, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement as she tilted the flask toward him. “Would you like a drink, Helldiver?”

A1, on the edge of snapping, took a deep breath, then reluctantly grabbed the flask. As the liquid touched his lips, an unexpected wave of euphoria washed over him, dulling the last vestiges of his frustration. It wasn’t that the drink was spiked—no, it was simply so good that it instantly relaxed him, leaving him momentarily speechless.

Ling chuckled softly, watching A1 sway slightly as the drink took effect. “Your world and mine are not so different, Helldiver. You too celebrate the turning of a new era? It’s a clear indication that your world survived the turbulence of war and will continue to do so… until the next cycle.”

A1 blinked, the words sinking in. “So… this is what it’s all about? To celebrate the new year? Our fleet has traveled across many light years. What makes this so different?”

“To celebrate it with friends and family,” Ling replied, her tone gentle yet profound.

A1 paused, her words striking a chord deep within him. Ho’olheyak said nothing, merely watching as Ling took control of the conversation. Ling continued, “In the grand tapestry of existence, one’s origin is the root that anchors the soul. To forget where you come from is to sever the thread that weaves your identity. As I once mused, ‘Long have I contended with myself; myself I shall prefer to act.’ Embrace your lineage, honor your family, and carry the essence of your beginnings, no matter where duty or destiny’s winds may lead. For in the dance of time, it is the remembrance of our past that brightens the path forward.”

A1 was left speechless, caught off guard by her depth. “I… don’t know what to say. You brought me here just so… I could experience celebrating the new year with other people? But… I hardly know you, and certainly, I barely know her.”

“Hi~,” Ho’olheyak waved playfully, her grin wide.

Ling’s expression softened with understanding. “Be it strangers or people you are fond of, having company in such a significant time reminds you that you are not alone. Lest I must remind you of your own curious companion, delightfully enjoying himself.”

A1 turned, and sure enough, Cadet Squishy had already emptied a plate of dumplings and was now enthusiastically digging into a plate of egg rolls. It seemed A1 hadn’t fed him well enough during their entire journey.

“So… what? Should I thank you?”

“You need not thank me, Helldiver,” Ling replied, her voice serene. “You have sacrificed so much of yourself in your service, where survival is never a given, to protect not just your world, but the very cosmos itself.”

A1’s breath caught in his throat. He knew all too well the cost of his work. He and his fellow Helldivers had bled, some had died, just to push back a single mile of land taken by the Automatons, Terminids, and the Illuminate in the war. Not once had they received official commendation or celebration—only a brief pat on the back before being sent off to the next mission. But this… this felt different. Gratifying, even. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel the weight of her words.

Ling lifted her flask once more, a smile full of joy tugging at the corners of her lips as she held it high. “As the moon waxes anew and the year turns its page, we find ourselves amidst the tapestry of tradition and renewal. The Lunar New Year beckons, a time when families gather, lanterns illuminate the night, and the air is thick with the fragrance of festive delicacies. It is a moment to reflect upon the past, honor our ancestors and their sacrifices, and embrace the promise of beginnings yet to come. In this season, may your heart be as light as the drifting snow, and your fortunes as abundant as the blossoms in spring. Let us raise a cup of fine wine, savoring its lingering taste, and toast to the enduring harmony of life.”

As Ling spoke, the first paper lanterns were released into the air, rising slowly at first. The flickering lights painted the night in hues of red, yellow, and gold. Each lantern seemed to carry with it a wish, a prayer, a hope. The sky expanded before them, the floating lanterns ascending into the vastness above like tiny stars breaking free from the earth. Some drifted upward with delicate grace, their glow ethereal and peaceful, while others swayed gently in the breeze, uncertain whether to follow the others or remain grounded for a little longer.

A1 watched, mesmerized, as the lanterns floated away, their soft glow catching the wind. There was something about it—something freeing, almost. The night sky had suddenly become a canvas, and these lanterns were the strokes of light, painting a picture of hope that stretched beyond the reach of the stars.

As more lanterns soared into the night, a sense of wonder swept through A1 and Ho’olheyak. The lanterns were beautiful, their soft glow illuminating the night sky. But there was something deeper about them—something symbolic, something that transcended the material world. They weren’t merely floating lights; they carried the weight of wishes, the hopes of entire families, the dreams of a new year. Each lantern, a tiny beacon of light, rose higher and higher, until they seemed to blend with the stars themselves, merging the earth with the heavens in a delicate dance of light.

The only one not mesmerized by the sight was Cadet Squishy, who had grown significantly, his round belly a testament to the copious amounts of food he had consumed from the table.

A1, however, couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. The last time he had witnessed something like this was during the war, when the Automatons had fended off the Super Earth fleet’s advances with their AA guns. There were fleeting moments when the lanterns’ ascent reminded him of the shimmering flares and chaffs used as countermeasures. But now wasn’t the time to reminisce about those darker days. Perhaps it was the drink Ling had offered him, but for the first time in a long while, A1 allowed himself to relax, to enjoy the spectacle that Ling had invited him and Ho’olheyak to witness.

As for Ho’olheyak, she too was captivated by the lanterns, but something nagged at her. “Hey, this is really amazing and all, but… why am I here exactly? I mean, I’m not complaining, but I’m just kind of surprised. What have I done to deserve an invitation to witness the Lunar New Year at such a scenic spot?”

Ling’s response came, as always, in her cryptic fashion. “As the celestial serpent coils into the present year, we find ourselves under the auspices of the Wood Snake—a symbol of transformation, intuition, and healing. In this time, we are called to introspection and growth, to shed the old and embrace the new.”

Ho’olheyak mulled over her words, then frowned. “Wait, so… I’m here just to be a mascot for this Year of the Snake thing?”

Ling smiled knowingly. “Ho'olheyak, your presence is a living testament to the serpentine essence. Yet, remember, the snake’s wisdom lies not only in its knowledge, but in its sincerity. Deceit may offer a path through the underbrush, but it is the straight path that leads to true enlightenment. Let this year be a mirror, reflecting the virtues we must cultivate and the vices we must abandon.”

Ho’olheyak let out a laugh, sheepishly scratching the back of her head. “Right. Uh, thanks, I guess.”

Ling paused, as if something important had just crossed her mind. “Ah, how fortunate it almost slipped my mind.” She turned to A1, snapping him out of his reverie. “Soldier of the stars, you may not know him personally, but my young brother, Ji, has prepared a garment for you. Since you come from beyond this world, we would like to welcome you into ours, and provide you with a gift to make you feel more at home.”

A1 raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Really? This is… already too much, miss.”

Ling, as always, launched into another tangent. “In the grand tapestry of human interaction, hospitality serves as the golden thread that weaves hearts together. To welcome a guest with warmth and present them with a token of goodwill is to honor the ancient adage: Travel a thousand miles to bestow a feather; the gift may be small, but it’s a token of profound friendship. Such gestures, though modest in form, carry the weight of sincerity and forge bonds that transcend the material realm. In the delicate dance of first impressions, let your actions be the brushstrokes that paint a lasting image upon the canvas of memory. For it is through genuine hospitality that we reflect the depth of our character and the richness of our spirit.”

A1 let out a soft chuckle, feeling a bit of understanding stir within him. “If the guest deserves such treatment, that is… but, very well, where is this gift?”

Ling’s smile broadened, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You are already wearing it.”

A1 blinked, taken aback. “... What?”

Chapter Text

All the Same (0-4)

After heroically rescuing a pair of doomed hunters from certain death, Avenger-1—now hailed as a knight in their eyes—carries Pioter in his arms once more. The old man, too injured and exhausted to walk, has long since abandoned any shame over the arrangement. Alicja walks beside them, her steps light with newfound energy, her starstruck gaze fixed intently on A1.

She studies him from head to toe—the heavy cape draped over his form, the emblem he bears, and even the strange, squishy creature nestled against him. Her eyes narrow slightly at Cadet Squishy, suspicion flickering across her face. There is something peculiar about this knight, something that doesn’t quite fit.

A1 feels the weight of her scrutiny. He knows it's only a matter of time before the questions begin. His mind races, already piecing together a fabrication—something believable, something that won’t invite further suspicion.

Because the truth? The truth is not an option.

He doesn’t know what would happen if they discovered who—what—he really is.

And he has no intention of finding out.

Unable to contain her curiosity, Alicja steps closer, her hands clasped behind her back as she leans forward to get a better look at him. His visor—marred with cobwebbed cracks across the tinted glass—keeps his face hidden, concealing both his features and any expression he might have. But A1 watches her intently, studying every minute twitch in her face.

“So, good sir knight?” Alicja finally speaks, tilting her head. “What brings you back to the country?”

A1 hesitates. He doesn't even know what country he's in—doesn’t know what they call themselves. But Alicja is expecting an answer. So is Pioter.

“Ah… I’ve traveled across so many nations, I lost track of their names,” he says at last, forcing an easy tone. “They all start to look the same after a while.”

“When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all?” Alicja remarks, raising an eyebrow.

“I suppose you could say that,” A1 chuckles, trying to make it seem natural. “I’ve been away for so long, I forgot what this place is called.”

“Forgetting your homeland is unusual for a knight,” Pioter adds, his tone carrying a weight of quiet suspicion. “If you’re a knight from here at all.”

“Maybe he just needs a reminder, Father. It’s not like he’s forgotten about Kazimierz entirely, yes?” Alicja looks up at A1 expectantly.

Kazimierz?

He’s heard that name before—back in another place, under very different circumstances, tied to the old history of Super Earth’s Sector 4. But here? It’s a country?

This just keeps getting stranger.

“Ah, yes, I remember now.” A1 straightens slightly, pretending to have a moment of clarity. “But it doesn’t make much difference. Regardless, I’d still be far from home. In fact, I can’t even remember where my true home is. Not that it matters—I sacrificed my identity and my past for my duty.”

“How noble,” Pioter muses, though there’s an edge to his voice. “And yet, how sad. Would you really forget something like that, just for your dedication?”

“There’s more nuance to it than that, citizens,” A1 replies, the last word holding a certain weight. “If you were knights yourselves, you would understand.”

Alicja exchanges a glance with Pioter before shrugging. “I suppose there's much to see and much to sacrifice.” She sighs. “Well, I'm just glad you were there to save us. But there's no way you just happened to know we were in trouble and rushed to help. What were you doing out in the wildlands in the first place?”

“Yes,” Pioter adds. “Was there something you were looking for?”

A1 hesitates for a fraction too long.

“That’s… confidential.”

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Not really. He already found something he shouldn’t have—the remains of his crew, their bodies burned beyond recognition in the wreckage of their escape pod. And though he’s witnessed death countless times—watched teammates and enemies alike die in ways far more gruesome—that sight has etched itself permanently into his mind.

Alicja smacks the side of her head with a laugh. “Ah, silly me! Why’d I think you’d actually tell me?” Then, she narrows her eyes, playful but searching. “But… what can you tell us, sir knight?”

A1 exhales. “Where I go and what I do is not set in stone. I move where I am needed—just like I did today. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

She gives him a skeptical side-eye before stepping back, putting a bit of distance between them. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” Her tone is light, but the suspicion lingers in her voice.

A1 allows himself the smallest breath of relief.

Alicja’s eyes flick toward Cadet Squishy. The little slug slowly turns around, as if meeting her gaze in defiance.

“Mrr?”

Or maybe he’s just tilting his head in confusion, wondering why she’s staring at him like that.

“I still don’t understand why you’re so determined to keep this slug, good sir knight,” Alicja says, her voice tinged with disbelief.

A1 doesn’t hesitate. “My goals are beyond your understanding. If I wish to keep this slug, then I shall keep it. There’s no need to question it further.” His tone is firm, brooking no argument. He has no desire to entertain this line of thought—not when it reminds him of the traitorous act that may have forever barred him from entering Lady Liberty’s Super Heaven.

“Alicja, enough,” Pioter interjects wearily. “Obviously, he’s not going to give you a clear answer, so stop pressing if it’s just going to end the same way.”

He’s trying to defend A1’s privacy from his daughter’s relentless curiosity, though there’s an exhausted edge to his voice.

Alicja crosses her arms, pouting. “Well, since you did save our lives, fine. I won’t pester you any longer.” She exhales, looking away. “I was just… curious, is all. Sorry.”

She backs down after Pioter’s words, her skepticism tempered by both her father’s reproach and her own sense of guilt. A1 had saved their lives—it would be rude to keep badgering him.

A1 lets out a subtle breath of relief. He hadn’t realized how much the conversation was weighing on him until it finally ended. Though he feels a twinge of guilt for souring Alicja’s mood, he can’t afford to entertain questions he doesn’t even have the answers to himself.

Especially when it comes to Cadet Squishy.

An idea sparks in A1’s mind as he spots an opportunity to learn more about this world. If Alicja is eager for conversation—and she seems like quite the talker—her ramblings might hold useful information he can use to familiarize himself with this land.

“Maybe… I could learn more about you two instead?” A1 suggests, glancing at both father and daughter.

Alicja blinks, eyes widening in surprise before a slight blush dusts her cheeks. Pioter, meanwhile, chuckles.

“You refuse to answer our questions, yet expect us to answer yours? How unfair,” Alicja teases, though her bravado falters slightly. “But… you did save our lives, so I suppose we owe you.”

She twirls a lock of her hair, gazing up at the sky in thought. “There’s… not much to say about me, good sir knight. I’m a healing caster in training, but since our village’s physician returned to the main city, I’m one of the few healers left here.”

“A medic, then.” A1 nods, his tone taking on an approving edge. “That role is more important than you think, even if you’re still in training.”

His words seem to bolster Alicja’s confidence, and he decides to press further. “How long have you been training, citizen?”

He’s genuinely curious—not just about her personal experience, but about the state of medicine in this world. Even with his own knowledge of first aid, understanding their medical capabilities could give him an idea of their technological level.

Pioter cuts in before Alicja can answer. “Alicja, you’ve been practicing this for years. You’re far from a trainee.” His voice is firm, as though this is an argument they’ve had before.

“But, Father,” she counters, frowning. “All I can do is make healing potions, purify water, and preserve food. Those are just rudimentary skills.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Pioter says, shaking his head.

“I agree with your father,” A1 adds. “Those skills are incredibly useful.”

He hasn’t seen her healing potions in action—hasn’t even taken one himself—but if they were enough to help Pioter recover despite a laceration wound, then they must be effective. And her ability to purify water and keep food from spoiling? That would be invaluable in a survival scenario.

Out in the wire, finding clean rations that wouldn’t spoil in days or water that wouldn’t give you super dysentery was a luxury. If Alicja had fought alongside him, she probably wouldn’t have survived more than a few minutes after deployment—but if she had, she would have made long-term operations far more bearable.

Alicja giggles, cheeks reddening further, clearly pleased. “Aww, thanks~” she murmurs, appreciating both A1’s words and her father’s support.

“But if you’ve been training for years, why do you still consider yourself a trainee?” A1 asks.

“Every day, we still have much to learn, Sir Knight,” Alicja replies. “For my case, it’s not just a matter of skill. The food regulations imposed by our Lord prevent me from reaching my full potential.”

A1 tilts his head. “Food regulations?”

“Those who practice Arts—or who are known to—are given fewer rations than those who don’t,” Alicja explains solemnly. “If we openly practice or use our Arts, our food supply is restricted. It’s meant to keep our abilities at half strength… a precaution to ensure we don’t grow powerful enough to challenge our Lord.”

A1 stills.

The moment he hears the word Lord, distaste creeps into his chest. The thought of a ruler controlling and regulating the lives of others—depriving them of sovereignty—disgusts him to his core. It is a blight on democracy, an affront to everything he stands for.

“I have never much liked the idea of… ‘Lords,’” A1 states, his tone firm.

Alicja hums, amused. “But, good sir knight, aren’t you one?”

“I am not, nor will I ever be.” A1’s voice hardens. “I have no interest in controlling the lives of others. Managing them, yes. But not dictating them.”

“Wish we had more knights like you, then,” Pioter says with a weary smile. “But you’re probably one of the few with that mindset. You weren’t born in the cities, were you?”

A1 pauses, then shakes his head. “That’s confidential.”

Pioter chuckles. “Of course. How could I forget?”

A1 shifts his attention to the seasoned hunter. “And you, Pioter—how long have you been an… exterminator?”

“Oh, a long time, sir knight.” Pioter exhales, shaking his head with a tired smile. “Though, I’ll admit, I’ve never been injured badly enough to need carrying like this. My wife would kill me if she saw.” He chuckles, though Alicja groans and buries her face in her hands, clearly mortified.

“I started out as a hunter for my village, but when the slugs outnumbered the game, I had to switch priorities. Even before I met my wife, I was turning in slug bounties like there was no tomorrow.” He reminisces, voice tinged with nostalgia.

A1 narrows his eyes. “If you’re such an expert at exterminating those bugs, then how did I find you two overwhelmed ?”

Alicja’s expression hardens, and she crosses her arms. “My father was in his prime back then, sir knight,” she says pointedly. “And he meant that he hunted slugs one by one . You say that as if what you did—wiping out an entire pack in seconds—is normal.”

She studies him warily now, his abilities clearly unsettling her.

“For me, that is normal,” A1 responds matter-of-factly.

Alicja’s ears perk up, eyes flickering with curiosity. A1 notices the way she leans slightly forward, intrigued despite herself. The mystery surrounding him only deepens in her mind.

“What’s normal for you is something else entirely for us, sir knight,” she says, her tone edged with reproach.

A1 has to give her credit—she finally has some backbone, no longer acting so subservient.

He sighs. “Fair enough. How many have you killed so far, Pioter?”

Pioter looks skyward, as if counting in his head. “Mm… 400? Maybe more. Give or take.”

A1 nearly scoffs. To his Helldiver instincts, that number sounds like rookie stats. But he reminds himself—these Originium Slugs aren’t Terminids. Maybe even weaker. Still, quantity aside, surviving that many encounters is no small feat.

“Impressive,” he concedes. “Have you dealt with anything worse than slugs?”

Pioter strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Well… there are gloompincers. And sometimes fangbeasts.”

A1’s brow furrows. “Gloompincers?”

“Crab-like things. Mostly live in lakes and rivers, so we only run into them when drawing water. Nowadays, though, water merchants visit the villages, so we don’t need to hunt them—mostly just go after them for their claws as trophies, or to sell live ones to the Knights’ Guild.”

A1’s mind clicks. Crab-like creatures near water? That lines up with what he encountered when he went to fill his own canteen.

So, not just slugs. This world has other pests too.

Gloompincers? From Pioter’s description, they sound just like the crab-like creatures A1 had encountered when he went to draw water.

“What about fangbeasts?” he asks.

Alicja tilts her head. “Do… you know what they are, sir knight?”

“I do,” A1 replies. “I just want to hear from your father how he dealt with them.” His piercing gaze makes her flinch, shoulders drawing inward.

Pioter chuckles. “Calm down, sir knight. My daughter just likes asking questions—as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now.” He sighs, shifting his weight slightly. “Fangbeasts were common back when I was a regular hunter. They’d threaten livestock, compete with us for game… but at the end of the day, they’re just like us—just trying to eat and survive. And, well, they helped keep the slug population down too. Not many of them left around here, though.”

“Why’s that?”

Pioter’s expression darkens. “One winter, a pack got desperate and attacked a noble’s village. The lord didn’t take kindly to that, so he rallied the rival lords to exterminate them all. It was a mistake—now it’s up to exterminators like us to cull the slugs ourselves.”

Alicja crosses her arms. “A family was slaughtered that day. I can’t blame the lord for acting so drastically, but… wiping out the entire population? That was too far.”

“That’s about all I can tell you, sir knight,” Pioter says, exhaling slowly. “I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m like an old sword—still sharp, but brittle. Push too hard, and I’ll break.”

“Then why not retire and let Marek take over?” Alicja snaps.

Pioter frowns. “As long as I can still fight, I’m not letting your little brother throw his life away. He’s not ready.”

Alicja throws her hands up, exasperated. “Unbelievable.” She quickens her pace, walking ahead of them.

Pioter sighs, watching her go.

A1 shifts the conversation. “You have a son?”

“Yeah. Marek. He wants to come on these missions, but he’s still too young. And like I said—I can still fight. What happened today? Just one of many hunts gone wrong. We got lucky you were there, sir knight.” He chuckles weakly. “Alicja didn’t want to leave me behind. If you ask me, she’s the stubborn one.”

“She may have the right idea,” A1 muses. “And she has spirit.”

“What, getting yourself killed for an old man?”

“It’s about not leaving an ally behind,” A1 corrects. “Besides, your experience would be wasted if you died before passing it on. I’ve fought alongside knights older than me—older than even their commanding officers. They fought because they didn’t want the younger ones to die for nothing. But most of them didn’t live long enough to share what they knew.”

Pioter is silent for a moment. Then, he exhales through his nose. “I see… so you’re saying I should train my son before I get ahead of myself?”

“That’s the right idea.” A1 glances ahead, eyes flickering toward Alicja. He makes sure not to let them drift downward. “Which makes me wonder—why bring your daughter instead?”

Pioter tenses slightly. “Now don’t get the wrong idea. Alicja’s more capable than you might think.”

A1 refrains from pointing out her fumbled shot and lack of composure earlier.

“But she was the only one available to keep us alive,” Pioter continues. “The rest of our healers either needed healing themselves, were stuck helping our local doctor, or were too green to handle an expedition like this. You saw her—she refused to leave me behind. That’s more than I can say for some of the exterminators we had with us.”

A1 nods. “Speaking of which, who else was with you? Since you’re not in the best shape, I’ll talk to them for you.”

Pioter chuckles. “Nice of you to offer, sir knight. But please, don’t hurt them.”

Before A1 can respond, Alicja comes running back, grinning. “Hey, look alive!” she calls out, bouncing on her feet. “I can see the tower! We’re here!”

A tall wooden tower came into view, its belfry manned by a sentry. As soon as he spotted three figures approaching the village, he rang the bell twice. The chimes echoed through the air, carrying across the fields and toward the village below.

“Don’t be alarmed, sir knight,” Alicja said with a bright smile. “We do this every time. It gets boring this far from the city, so we make our own entertainment.”

A1 considered how dull life must be for them if ringing an alarm was a source of amusement.

Then again, he and his comrades got pretty excited whenever alarms blared aboard their ship—because that meant they got to dispense freedom and democracy on Super Earth’s undemocratic, socialist enemies.

“The response seems excessive, but very well,” A1 said, shrugging it off.

As they crested a gentle hill, the village came into full view. Fields of wheat and barley surrounded it, golden hues rippling in the afternoon breeze. Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys, drifting lazily into the sky. The homes were modest, their walls built from stone and timber, with thatched roofs lending them a quaint but sturdy appearance.

Some houses had small gardens, neat rows of carrots and turnips swaying in the wind. A low wooden fence marked the village’s boundary, though it seemed more for keeping livestock in than keeping threats out.

Near the entrance, creatures resembling chickens pecked at the dry soil, scattering as A1, Pioter, and Alicja approached. A stray hound lifted its head, watching them for a moment before trotting off down a side path.

“The biology of this place is alien… yet its creatures resemble those of Super Earth.” A1 found the similarities unsettling. It was strange—comforting, even—but unnatural all the same.

As they neared the village, the watchman atop the bell tower leaned over the railing, squinting down at them.

“Pioter?! Alicja?! You’re alive? We thought something bad happened!”

“Something bad did happen, Jakub!” Alicja cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted back. “But this wandering knight saved us!” She gestured toward A1, who stood beside her in a disciplined stance.

Jakub’s gaze locked onto the armored figure. “A knight?” he repeated, disbelief creeping into his voice. “I thought they all reported back to the cities!”

“He probably just got here,” Alicja mused.

A1 frowned beneath his helmet. Just got here? What exactly did that imply?

“Great,” he thought dryly. There’s probably a war or something. No matter where I go, it’s always the same.

Jakub pointed toward the heart of the village. “If that’s the case, the trade post just got restocked. If he needs supplies before heading to the city, send him that way.”

“I’ve got it handled, Jakub,” Alicja called back. “Just keep an eye out for anything strange, alright?”

She turned to A1 and nodded toward the center of the village. “Come along, good sir knight. Let’s stop at our house—I’ll take care of my father from here.”

“Very well, miss.”

As they made their way toward the village square, A1 took in every detail. The village was a patchwork of thatched cottages and sturdy stone barns, huddled together like family. A second layer of fencing enclosed the homes, their whitewashed walls mostly uniform—save for cracks and peeling paint marking the passage of time.

Cobbled lanes wove between the houses, their walls weathered by countless seasons. To the east, farmers were already tending to the dewy fields, their silhouettes moving in rhythm with the land’s quiet pulse.

As they turned right, the square came into view—modest like the rest of the village but inviting. A few villagers, their otherwise human bodies marked by the equine features of their race, paused in their afternoon tasks to gawk at the imposing knight accompanying Pioter and Alicja.

A1 ignored their scrutiny. It was a familiar sight—he’d seen the same reaction when visiting friendly planets during downtime—but he’d never quite gotten used to the animalistic traits of alien species.

“It is a… nice village,” A1 said, his gaze sweeping across the rustic yet lively settlement. “What’s its name?”

“Welcome to Rolnicze, good sir knight!” Alicja spread her arms wide as they reached the center of the village. “It may be small, but it’s right along a known trade route for caravans. We provide travelers with food and water in exchange for whatever they offer. Still, we have to pay taxes to our lord in the next town over.”

Taxes.

A1’s blood boiled at the thought. If it were to fund a campaign in times of desperation, that was one thing—but taking hard-earned resources from the people? That was undemocratic.

“To our right is our home,” Pioter added, snapping A1 from his thoughts. “Quickly now, before anyone else sees—this is getting embarrassing.”

Only then did A1 realize he was still carrying the older man in his arms. A1 exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip as he picked up the pace.

The village square was lined with several unoccupied stalls at each corner—a farmer’s market meant for selling produce to travelers. It seemed the harvest season had yet to arrive.

Laughter echoed from nearby cottages, where children peeked through the windows, their eyes wide with curiosity. It was time to move.

A1 and his companions took the east road, avoiding the growing stares of the villagers who were now stepping out of their homes, drawn by the sight of the unusual knight.

The murmuring crowd gathered, their conversations quieting as they recognized Pioter and Alicja. Some rushed forward instinctively—relieved to see them alive—only to hesitate at the sight of A1. Their excitement dulled into wary awe, eyes flicking up to take in his towering form.

He could hear their whispers from where he stood.

"He’s enormous."

"What kind of knight wears armor like that?"

"Look at the size of him!"

Glancing at the cottages, A1 noted that he was, in fact, taller than some of them. If he reached up, he could probably touch their thatched roofs, thick with soot, grime, and the occasional bird’s nest.

At the third house to their right, a young man with short blond hair and twitching horse-like ears stormed out the front door, his thick cuirass clanking against the padded coat beneath it. One hand gripped the handle of the short axe at his belt, while an older woman hurried after him, her flour-dusted apron fluttering as she grabbed at his arm.

“Let go of me, Mother!” he shouted, his tone brimming with reckless determination. “Father and Alicja are out there! If none of these cowards have the guts to go after them, I’ll do it myself!”

“You’ll get yourself killed, Marek! You’ve never even made it that far outside the village!” she cried, desperation lacing her voice.

Before Marek could retort, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

“Mother!”

Both Marek and the older woman froze. Their shocked expressions quickly melted into disbelief, and then—joy. The woman gasped before breaking into a sprint.

“Alicja!” Her voice cracked with emotion as she threw her arms around her daughter. Alicja clung tightly to her, sobbing into her shoulder, her relief spilling over.

Marek, still processing what he was seeing, let out a shaky sigh of relief. A grin spread across his face as he awkwardly stepped forward. Before he could say anything, Alicja grabbed his arm and pulled him into the embrace.

A1, watching the reunion, felt something stir within him. A familiar ache.

“You have a… nice family, Pioter,” he said, his voice tinged with something unspoken.

Pioter exhaled, grateful. “It’s all we’ve got to call ours, sir knight.”

Marek finally found his words. “I’m so glad you’re alive—but how?!”

“This brave knight saved us!” Alicja declared, letting go of her mother and brother before turning to gesture at A1. “We would’ve been dead if it weren’t for him!”

“I’m here as well, by the way,” Pioter deadpanned, raising a hand—still held in A1’s grasp.

Marek stifled a laugh at the sight, while his mother and Alicja turned their attention to Pioter’s injuries. Instead of immediate concern, the older woman fixed him with a withering look.

“What have you gotten yourself into again?!” she scolded.

Pioter sighed dramatically. “I think I’d rather be with the slugs right now.”

Alicja giggled. “You can put him down now, good sir knight.”

A1 let Pioter be taken by his loving wife and Alicja, the injured man still clutching his wounded side as they supported him.

“Bring him to my shop,” Alicja said firmly. “I have potions that’ll heal him up right away.”

She then turned to Marek. “In the meantime—”

Marek stiffened, his ears perking up, eyes widening with anticipation.

“Give our hero a tour,” she continued. “Make him feel at home while we figure out a way to repay him.”

Marek straightened, his posture snapping into something rigid—almost soldier-like, as if this were his first true mission.

“On it, sis.” His voice brimmed with determination as he accepted the task, both out of gratitude and a newfound sense of duty.

A1, standing there unfazed, simply watched the exchange.

Marek approached A1 with a wide, grateful grin, craning his neck back to meet the towering knight’s visor.

“I’m guessing you’ve heard this enough already, but—thanks.” His voice carried genuine appreciation.

“It’s no problem,” A1 waved off the praise. “Just doing my duty.” His tone was grounded, matter-of-fact.

Marek nodded. “How’d you come across them, anyway?”

“Surrounded by a horde of ten slugs,” A1 answered plainly. “It wasn’t much of an issue for me, but they’re lucky I got there in time. They said they were left behind.”

Marek’s grin faded instantly. His expression darkened, jaw tightening.

“Left behind,” he echoed, his voice turning cold. “I see…” He let the words settle before exhaling sharply. “We’ll deal with that later. For now, I know it’s not much, but let me show you around our humble town. You must be exhausted after saving my kin.”

“I could… use a bit of rest,” A1 admitted. “Very well, young man. Lead the way.”

Before they could move, a small crowd had gathered in their path—villagers murmuring among themselves, still awed by the sight of the “knight” who had just saved their own. Marek let out a sigh and stepped forward.

“Alright, everyone, the show’s over! Get back to work—give us some space!”

One by one, the crowd dispersed, people returning to their homes or unfinished tasks. But the children remained, wide-eyed and fascinated, whispering among themselves as they gazed up at A1 in silent admiration.

“Don’t mind them,” Marek said, shaking his head with a smirk. “Knights rarely pass through here.”

“I understand,” A1 replied, giving the kids a short Super Earth salute as he followed Marek’s lead. He glanced back to see the children mimicking his salute and giggling about it. He’d seen this kind of reverence before—back when he marched through liberated cities, fresh off another victory.

“So, what can you tell me about this town, citizen?” A1 asked as they returned to the village square.

“We’re just a small farming village, deep in Kawalerielki’s agricultural sector,” Marek replied. “Mostly a stop for travelers and caravans looking to stock up on supplies. The blacksmith and workshop keep us running, and in return, some caravans leave surplus goods at the general store—things we can’t produce ourselves. Raw materials go to the blacksmith and workshop to be refined. Speaking of which, if you’re looking to buy or trade, the general store is over there.”

He gestured toward the north side of the village, where a wide, flat road cut through. Beyond it stood three functional buildings dedicated to trade and industry.

On the left, a sizable wooden building had a kiosk at the front, above which hung a sign depicting a sack of grain—likely the trade post.

To the right, another large wooden structure stood out. Unlike the homes, it featured an open-air workspace with broad wooden tables for cutting and assembling furniture. Cut logs were stacked neatly outside. It had to be the carpenter’s workshop. A group of men had gathered around a broken wagon adjacent to the Carpenter's workshop, one of them gesturing animatedly—something was happening there.

Between the store and workshop, a small open-air forge burned brightly. At its heart, a stone furnace bellowed flames, while an anvil and hammer sat nearby, barrels of water at the ready. The shelves were stocked with metal bars, finished tools, and weapons. Plows, axes, nails, knives, and spears lined the walls, waiting to be sold or put to use.

A1 took it all in. As someone who had grown up on a farm, none of this was new to him. At the very least, the village was self-sufficient.

He couldn’t afford to waste what little ammo he had left. Finding a new weapon at the blacksmith should be his next priority—maybe resupplying his rations at the trade post while he was at it.

But as he mapped out his next steps, something Marek had said nagged at him.

Kawalerielki.

Was that the name of this region?

A1 set aside his curiosity. He could figure out the significance of the city later.

“Anything else you can tell me about the village?” he asked, scanning the surroundings for their next stop.

“Well,” Marek began, walking around A1 before pointing toward a large stone barn on the west side of the village. “That’s where we keep most of our livestock. Right now, it’s grazing time.”

He moved behind A1 and gestured east, back toward where they’d come from. “That building down there is where my sister works. She’s the local healer—also the only one we’ve got.”

A1 grunted in acknowledgment.

“Beyond that are our farmlands,” Marek continued. “I think you already know what purpose that serves. And down south is our—” He stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he squinted at something on A1’s back.

“…Didn’t you say you saved my kin from slugs?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Marek cocked his head. “You, uh… I think you missed a spot.”

He pointed to A1’s cape, where the dubious Cadet Squishy had slithered down from his pauldron and latched onto the fabric. A1 quickly grabbed the adventurous slug, holding it up in his palm.

Marek chuckled, resting a hand on the handle of his axe. “Cute little guy. Well, I’ll take care of this one for you.”

“That won’t be necessary, citizen.” A1 hastily tucked Cadet Squishy into his pocket. “This ‘slug’ is of no threat. In fact, it is my prisoner.”

“…Prisoner?” Marek raised an eyebrow. “Okay? And why exactly do you need to capture a simple slug?”

“Killing a defeated enemy is dishonorable—whether it be a creature or…” A1 hesitated. “Uh, human. That’s as much of an explanation as I can provide.”

Marek shrugged. “Well, alright then.”

A1 mentally sighed in relief.

“I hear knights capture gloompincers to train them for battle,” Marek mused. “I suppose that applies to slugs, too.” He resumed his explanation, pointing southward. “Anyway—see that large pond? That’s where we get our water. We fish there sometimes. Next to it is our water tower—it's connected to the main town’s water system, and sometimes water merchants drop off surplus. That extra water’s mostly used for washing clothes or bathing. Not for drinking, but that doesn’t stop some idiots from trying.” He rolled his eyes.

“I was wondering how you sourced water with no well in sight.”

“Ha! We wouldn’t need a well, sir knight. Anything below a hundred meters is basically hitting the lower compartments—might even strike the engine.”

A1 stiffened. “The engine?” His mind raced. “What engine? Are we on a ship? Just what kind of world did I land in?” But he bit his tongue, knowing that pressing Marek for details would only raise suspicion.

Instead, his gaze drifted toward the commercial buildings—specifically, the wagon where a group of people was gathered, working on it. “What’s going on over there?”

Marek leaned forward, squinting. “Looks like an accident.” He sighed. “Man, there’s been a lot of excitement in the village lately. Come on, let’s see if we can help out.”

A1 and Marek made their way toward the carpenter’s workshop. The grunts of struggling men filled the air as they strained in vain to lift the wagon. Wood creaked and groaned under the pressure, but the wagon refused to budge.

Two figures stood off to the side—a man and a woman, both bearing the ever-common horse ears. The man, his face weathered with age and irritation, crossed his arms as he watched the villagers fail. The woman, on the other hand, was tending to a massive, thick-furred beast with a pair of heavy horns atop its snout. She ran her hand through its shaggy neck as it contentedly munched on a bundle of hay, blissfully unaware of the struggle nearby.

Marek approached the older man, his eyes widening slightly in recognition before addressing him. “Excuse me, Mister Jan, what happened here?”

Jan glanced at Marek, his frown deepening. “Hey, Marek. We were on our way to Wilków to drop off supplies before heading to the main city. Lucky we made it to Rolnicze before the wheel gave out.” He let out an exasperated huff. “I told my wife Aldona we needed to fix that damn thing—it’s been in service for years—but did she listen? No. And now look what happened.” He sighed, then mockingly mimicked his wife’s accent, “‘Well, you should’ve told me more about it,’ she says. Unbelievable.”

Marek smirked. “Heh, women.”

His gaze flickered to the group of exhausted men, who finally gave up with a collective groan, letting the wagon drop with a heavy thud. Dust and stray bits of hay kicked up in the air as Jan clutched his head in frustration.

“Are you serious?! ” he barked. “Great. Just what we needed.”

A1 tilted his head, studying the wagon. It was old and worn like its owner, but still functional, having served for years in transporting supplies between towns. If the men were struggling to lift it despite their numbers, the issue wasn’t their strength—it was the wagon itself.

Marek and Jan watched curiously as A1 stepped forward. The exhausted men flinched, craning their heads up to take in his full height.

Jan nudged Marek. “Who’s your beefcake friend? He’s taller than my damn wagon.”

“Oh, him? He’s a wandering knight,” Marek said. “Saved my father and Alicja. Never gave us his name, though.”

Jan chuckled. “Really? That's odd. Most knights around here are too busy trying to make a name for themselves, so why would he keep his a secret?”

He looked to Marek for answers but the kid simply shrugged. Jan shakes his head and waves it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. They all get forgotten the moment they get cut down in the Knight’s Competition.”

“Maybe,” Marek mused. “Or… he just forgot.”

A1 ignored their chatter and turned to Jan. “Sir… Jan, was it?”

“That’s me. Yeah?”

A1 folded his arms, exasperation creeping into his voice. “Your wagon is full. How do you expect these men to lift it when there’s thousands of pounds weighing it down? The frame itself should be much lighter.”

The workers blinked. Some immediately rushed to check, and when they realized just how much weight was still loaded, their frustration erupted into groans of disbelief.

Jan raised his hands defensively. “I know it sounds bad, but unloading everything would take hours, maybe even an entire day. Not to mention, we don’t have the fancy unloading machinery like in the next town to speed that up.”

“And you’d rather have these men break their backs over it?” A1 asked, unimpressed.

Jan smirked. “Well, if you think they shouldn't, why don’t you do it, Sir Knight?”

Marek chuckled nervously. “Uh, he’s joking. Jan, please tell him you’re joking.”

Jan grinned. “This knight wants to act on their behalf—so I’m giving him the opportunity.”

A1 let out a sharp laugh and cracked his knuckles beneath his gauntlets. “Gladly.”

Jan and Marek stared at him, their eyes wide.

“Wait, what?” they blurted in unison.

A1 stepped toward the back of the wagon. The exhausted men who had failed to lift it moments ago instinctively backed away, watching with a mix of anticipation and unease as the towering knight took their place.

He squared his stance, feigned spitting into his palms for effect, then crouched. His fingers dug into the filth-caked underside of the carriage, and with a sharp grunt, he lifted.

The wagon groaned in protest. A deep, splintering creak rang out as the entire rear end shook violently. A1 gritted his teeth, his muscles straining against the sheer weight of the loaded cargo fighting against him. His heels ground into the dirt—almost sinking into it—as he forced the wagon upward, inch by inch. The wooden frame screamed in resistance, threatening to collapse under the shifting pressure.

But he kept pushing.

With a final, determined effort, A1 hoisted the wagon back into position. Its intact wheel left the ground as well, dust and splinters scattering beneath him.

Silence.

Jan, Marek, and everyone present could do nothing but stare, their mouths hanging open in utter disbelief.

Then—

“Carpenter!” A1’s voice cut through the stunned air like a whip. His helmeted head snapped toward the man in the sawdust-covered apron. “Carpenter!”

The man blinked, shaking himself out of his trance.

“The wheel! Now! ”

The carpenter snapped into action, grabbing his tools and rushing forward. He knelt beside the wagon and began loosening the linchpin, grunting as he worked. Two men hurried to his side, helping pull the shattered wheel free.

The wagon wobbled in A1’s grasp, and he could feel his grip faltering. His arms burned, muscles screaming for relief—but he didn’t let go. He had fought Automatons in brutal melee combat, thrown hulking machines twice his size to the ground. He could hold this damn wagon a little longer.

“Marek!” the carpenter barked. “Axle grease! Now!”

Marek sprinted off as two other men rolled in a brand-new wagon wheel.

A1’s sweat soaked into the padding of his helmet, dripped down the inside of his cracked visor, stung his eyes—but he held firm.

Marek returned, panting, tub in hand. The carpenter wasted no time. He scooped out a handful of grease and slapped it onto the axle with a wet splat, some of it splattering onto A1’s armor. He dropped to his knees and smeared it along the shaft, working quickly and thoroughly. His hands moved with purpose, spreading the grease in smooth, firm motions, not caring that some dripped onto his face.

“Wheel!” he shouted.

The men pushed the new wheel into place, struggling at first before forcing it onto the axle with a heavy clunk. The carpenter immediately secured the linchpin, tightening it until it locked into place.

A1 let out a slow breath, then—finally—released his hold. The wagon settled onto its wheels with a satisfying thud.

He straightened, rolling his aching shoulders, and exhaled deeply.

The wagon stood firm.

Although the replacement wheel stood out—its fresh wood stark against the aged frame—it would hold. Jan and his wife could continue their journey.

A1 glanced at the silent crowd. Their awe was practically tangible.

He smirked beneath his helmet.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the men invigorated by the display of strength. Laughter and hollers filled the air as they clapped A1 on the back, their earlier exhaustion forgotten.

“That was incredible!” Marek exclaimed, eyes wide with amazement. “How did you do that?!”

A1 shrugged, playing it off as if it were nothing. “Uh… you lift with your legs. And with all your might.”

Jan approached his newly repaired wagon, running a hand over the frame in disbelief. “I have to admit, I didn’t think you’d actually pull it off,” he said, shaking his head. “But you saved us a lot of time.” He reached into his pocket and tossed A1 a pouch of coins. “Here—take this. And help yourself to one of the supply crates in the back. Just food and provisions, but they should help you on the road.”

“There’s also the matter of my payment,” the carpenter chimed in, wiping grease from his hands. “But we’ll talk about that in a bit.” He turned to A1, giving him an approving nod. “You did good, sir knight.”

“Oh, please, citizen,” A1 said, waving it off. “I was only doing my duty.” His gaze shifted to Jan, who was already helping his wife onto the wagon. “So, what’s next for you?”

“For us? We’re heading to Wilków, soon as I settle things with the carpenter.” Jan shot A1 a grateful smile. “Thanks again, sir knight. If you give us a name, we’ll make sure folks around there hear about what you did.”

A1 hesitated. “Uh… no need for that. And my name is… well, classified.” He paused. “Not that it’s actually my name, I just—can’t give it.”

Jan chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Take care out there, sir knight.”

Jan and the carpenter departed, and soon, the crowd of villagers dispersed, leaving only Marek and A1 standing in the quiet street.

Marek stepped closer, grinning. “You really don’t like giving your name, do you?” He studied A1 with curiosity, intrigued by the knight’s secrecy.

“That’s my concern alone,” A1 replied, holding up the pouch Jan had given him. He loosened the drawstring and peeked inside—just a handful of silver coins and a dozen copper ones. Even without understanding Kazimierz’s currency, he had a strong suspicion Jan had shortchanged him.

But then again, the old man had also offered him a supply crate to make up for it.

Before Jan’s caravan could roll out, A1 walked over and grabbed a crate from the top of the stack—the only one that wasn’t tied down. It barely weighed anything in his hands, though his muscles still burned from lifting the wagon earlier.

“Ohhh, what’s inside?” Marek asked, leaning in eagerly.

With one hand, A1 flipped open the lid. Inside, the supply box held a meager assortment—packets of hardtack, canned fruit, five cobs of corn, a few loaves of bread, canned water, and a single woolen blanket.

Marek’s expression soured slightly at the sight. Even A1 found the selection underwhelming. Compared to Super Earth rations, this was abysmal—closer to the lower-end field kits the Supply Corps issued on bad days. Still, as his eyes lingered on the food, his stomach made a loud, insistent protest, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since landing on this planet.

“Yeah, this is about what we deal with daily,” Marek muttered. “Even though we work the farms, the crops aren’t really ours. Only after we fill our quotas do we get to keep the leftovers. Usually, our lord sends convoys with rations for us—at least, the ones we actually get to eat.”

“This is as good as I could get for now,” A1 said, closing the lid. “Didn’t exactly have much when I got here.”

“Well, since Jan paid you, you could check out the Trade Post for some decent rations. Maybe even barter the supplies for something better.”

A1 glanced at the nearby trading post, considering it. “Wouldn’t the shopkeeper also be responsible for supplying the village with food?”

Marek scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, but we still have to pay for it. I’m not exactly an expert on trade, so don’t ask me about the details.”

“Very well. In any case, I’d like to see what’s available.” A1’s gaze shifted toward the shopkeeper.

“Alright then, follow me."

They approached the trade post’s kiosk, a small booth reinforced with rusty metal grates that separated the clerk from the customers. Through the narrow slits, A1 could see shelves stacked high with various goods—though with no clear sense of organization. Despite the apparent chaos, the place was well-stocked.

Yet, as they drew closer, something was off. The kiosk was empty.

Marek frowned, hunching over as he scanned the area. “Where’s Sebastian? He never leaves his post unattended.”

“Who?” A1 asked.

“The guy who runs this place—alone, might I add. He’s real protective of his stock, always watching like a hawk.”

“He might be restocking the shelves,” A1 mused.

“Maybe.” Marek didn’t sound convinced. With a shrug, he leaned against the kiosk’s wall. “Guess we wait.”

A1 set the supply box down at his feet and crossed his arms.

After a while, a tall man with long, dark brown wavy hair returned to the kiosk. As soon as he spotted A1, his eyes flickered with interest, lingering on the knight’s imposing height—especially the way he had to slouch to keep the wings of his helmet from scraping the ceiling. A small, knowing smile cracked through his otherwise stoic expression.

“Well, not many Liberi Knights are around these days, but I’m glad to see some of my people have made it.”

Liberi Knights? A1 thought. The hell is a Liberi? He was a deliverer of liberty, sure, but this was the first time he’d heard of "Liberi."

“Hey, Sebastian!” Marek suddenly appeared around the corner of the kiosk.

Sebastian flinched, barely restraining himself from taking a swing at the younger man out of reflex. He scowled, clearly unimpressed. “Jeez, Marek! Stop sneaking up on me! I’ve told you a hundred times.” With a sigh, he crossed his arms. “What do you want this time?”

“I’m helping promote your business,” Marek said with an exaggerated grin, nodding toward A1. “This knight wants to see your wares.”

Sebastian gave A1 a once-over before nodding. “I see. I’ve got a selection inside—food, weapons, gear, everyday supplies. I also carry newspapers, if you’re interested in what’s happening in the cities. Especially with the Knight’s Competition coming up. That event is all anyone talks about.”

“Knight’s Competition?” A1 echoed, his curiosity piqued.

Sebastian raised a brow. “Uh, yeah? It’s a huge annual event—one of the most important in Kazimierz. People from all over Terra come to watch.”

“Ah, of course,” A1 said, feigning familiarity. “I was just wondering who the great contender is this year.” His tinted visor masked his gaze as he glanced at Marek. “And whether I still have time to join.”

Sebastian leaned on the counter, intrigued. “It won’t start until next month, but right now, it’s all about the preparations. If you want details, buy a copy of the Kazimierz New Times .”

“That won’t be necessary,” Marek cut in, waving a hand. “The knight just wants to see the food you—”

A1 silenced him by holding up his coin pouch. While he was tempted to spend on better rations, information was just as—if not more—valuable if he wanted to survive in this world. “Name your price for a newspaper.”

“One silver or five copper.”

Marek shot him a confused look. “Sir Knight?”

Without hesitation, A1 pulled out a silver coin and flipped it into the kiosk. Sebastian caught it effortlessly, smirking before disappearing below the counter.

I know I’m probably getting ripped off, but information is worth its weight in gold. A1 convinced himself.

Sebastian returned moments later with a folded newspaper and slid it across the counter. “Here you go. Latest issue. I mean, it’s three days old, but it’s better than knowing nothing.”

Hearing that, A1 immediately felt a twinge of regret over his financial decision.

A1 took the newspaper and flipped to the main article.

“THE COMPETITION IS NEARING—AND SO ARE THE CHALLENGERS WHO SEEK TO DETHRONE THE CHAMPION.”

The article covered last year’s competitors, detailing their past performances and speculating on their chances in the upcoming event. A1 skimmed through it, finding nothing particularly relevant to him.

Turning the page, another headline caught his eye:

“EXILED CHAMPION: WHAT WILL THE NEARL FAMILY DO NEXT?”

The article detailed the fall of a distinguished but disgraced warrior named Margaret Nearl . A1 barely glanced at it before flipping past—probably just another celebrity gossip piece, like the ones that flooded Super Earth’s media.

He continued scanning until he reached the final page—where, coincidentally, he found a follow-up to the previous article:

“MARIA NEARL: TO DETHRONE HER OWN SISTER?”

Just as he was about to read further, movement in the distance drew attention. From the eastern road, a group of battered and exhausted men staggered toward the village. Their tattered armor barely clung to their bodies, held together by frayed straps and sheer willpower. Weapons dragged limply at their sides, and behind them, they hauled heavy sacks filled with unknown contents.

Sebastian and Marek tensed, watching the approaching group with wary eyes.

A1, on the other hand, merely shrugged and continued reading, unfazed by the ominous air the men carried with them.

...

Chapter Text

Bigger Fish (0-5)

A1 was so absorbed in reading the newspaper that the arrival of a ragged group from the eastern road barely drew a flicker of attention from him. Their armor hung from their bodies in tatters, barely more than chainmail clinging by straps and thread. Their weapons dragged behind them, dulled and dirtied, and each man hauled a heavy, blood-stained sack—some slung over shoulders, others carried between two men, the burdens as grim as their expressions.

Marek's eyes narrowed as he spotted them. He stiffened, and something dark passed over his face. He didn’t say a word, but his tension was unmistakable.

The man leading the group, broad-shouldered and far cleaner than his worn-out comrades, marched ahead without hesitation. He shoved the door of the trade post open like it belonged to him, the bell above it rattling violently in protest.

Sebastian, still behind his kiosk, flinched at the noise. His face twisted with irritation. “Hey! You can’t just force it open like that! You’ll break the damn door!”

The leader, who bore the same horse-like features common among the villagers, seemed to take no offense. He strolled in as if nothing had happened, his smile annoyingly broad.

“Sebastian, my man! How’s business?” he called out, arms wide in mock cheer.

Sebastian groaned audibly but didn’t turn them away. Business was business. “Nothing new, Kacper,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “What do you have for me this time?”

As the group trudged inside with their burdens, Marek’s gaze remained locked on their leader—this "Kacper." His jaw clenched tight, muscles tensing visibly beneath his shirt.

A1 finally noticed. He lowered the newspaper and glanced over at the young man beside him. “What are you staring at?” he asked, voice low.

Marek didn’t look away. “That burly bastard over there…” he said. “My father and Alicja were with them. Before they left.”

A1’s visor tilted in Kacper’s direction. “You think they’re the ones who abandoned them?”

“Possibly,” Marek muttered, his hands slowly curling into fists. His knuckles turned white.

A1’s voice turned grave. “Don’t act yet, citizen. I’ll deal with them.”

But Marek shook his head. “No. This isn’t your fight, good sir knight.”

“I have a special way of dealing with deserters,” A1 said, quietly and with menace.

Marek’s horse-like ears twitched erratically, betraying his agitation. “Just… don’t. I have to see this for myself.”

Inside, Sebastian stepped out from behind his current counter to meet Kacper face-to-face. The merchant's arms folded, and his lips pressed into a tight line as the group leader swaggered toward him with an all-too-proud smirk.

“What do you have for me now?” Sebastian asked again, more curious than wary.

“Oh, a crap ton,” Kacper said, grinning wide. “You have no idea. Today’s hunting trip went better than expected.”

Sebastian arched a brow. “I thought it was an extermination job.”

Kacper waved dismissively. “Sure, sure. But we did a little hunting on the way back. Check this out.”

He snapped his fingers, and two of his men—faces pale, arms trembling with fatigue—heaved one of the soaked sacks onto Sebastian’s counter with a wet, sickening thud. The dark fluids leaking from it smeared across the polished wood.

Sebastian winced. “Hey! I just cleaned that counter!”

“Oh, relax,” Kacper replied, rolling his eyes. “You won’t care once you see what’s inside. We’ve got more than just this one, but…” He shot a glance at his men, then back at the merchant, smirking. “This haul won’t come cheap.”

As Sebastian leaned forward to inspect the grim contents of the sack, Marek remained outside, his stare fixed and unrelenting. A1, though quiet, watched everything from behind his visor.

Marek’s knuckles had turned bone white, his grip digging hard into the wooden doorframe. Rage twisted in his chest, simmering just beneath the surface.

“Those bastards…” he muttered under his breath, eyes locked on the men inside the shop. His voice trembled—not from fear, but fury. “I know that’s not their haul. They didn’t earn any of that themselves.”

He turned toward A1. Something in his body language had shifted—his interest was piqued, his attention drawn fully to the situation unraveling.

“They’re from Wilków,” Marek continued, keeping his voice low but bitter. “And they’re not even the best exterminators there. They only tagged along because my father and Alicja had the skills. They followed them out like leeches.”

A1’s visor tilted slightly, then he muttered, more to himself than anyone, “So they’re reaping the rewards of those who did all the work… Why does that sound familiar?”

“Yeah,” Marek spat, jaw clenched. “Except these cowards—these leeches—left them behind. Couldn’t even take care of a bunch of slugs. Unthinkable.”

Inside the store, Sebastian had begun inspecting the sacks of bounty they’d dropped off. He weighed each one carefully, calculating the worth, mentally adjusting what he owed. But partway through, something made him pause. His brow furrowed.

“Wasn’t there more of you when I gave you that bounty notice?” he asked, glancing toward the group.

Kacper waved a hand dismissively. “Some compromises had to be made. There were more of those things than we expected. But hey—we dealt with them, didn’t we? And we brought you the trophies. That’s all that matters. Now, how about our pay?”

“Hold on,” Sebastian said, raising a hand as if to stop the transaction physically. His eyes narrowed.

Kacper’s men shifted uncomfortably, impatience written all over their battered faces. Kacper himself bristled.

“If there were casualties on the mission,” Sebastian continued flatly, “I can’t pay the full rate. The families of the deceased are owed compensation for their loss.”

Kacper’s tone darkened immediately. “Are you serious right now, Sebastian? Do you even understand how hard we worked to get this shit to you?”

Sebastian didn’t flinch. “And I’m sure the people who died worked just as hard to get you this—” he waved his fingers in the air, mimicking Kacper’s phrasing, “—shit.”

Kacper sneered. “What does it matter? People die out there all the time. It’s part of the job.”

Sebastian’s voice sharpened. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know the auxiliaries you hired were locals. You don’t think I recognize the faces of my own town’s people? This is the third time you’ve come back with someone dead from here, and it’s always the same story—your negligence.”

Then, under his breath, he spat a curse. “Kurwa mać.”

Kacper slammed a fist on the counter, loud enough that it echoed across the store. “Listen here, old man. You either give us what we’re due—or we take it ourselves. And who the hell cares about a bunch of locals anyway? They’re expected to die for us, right?”

Sebastian stared at him, cold and unforgiving. “They had names, you know.”

Kacper scoffed. “Oh yeah? You know them?”

At that moment, Marek stepped forward, finally unable to contain himself. His rage had reached its boiling point, but he kept his voice level.

“Their names,” he said, “were Pioter and Alicja Myśliwiec.”

A heavy silence fell.

A1 placed his eyes on Marek. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. But he stood straighter. Ready.

He couldn’t risk blowing his cover—not now, not over this. But if things turned violent, he would act. That much was certain.

All eyes turned to Marek, the quiet boy who had just declared a war with words. 

Kacper’s horse-like ears twitched as his eyes locked with Marek’s. A flicker of recognition passed across his face, followed by a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, hello, Marek,” he said casually, as if addressing an old friend.

Marek’s jaw tightened. His voice was cold steel. “Don’t give me that courteous beast-shit, Kacper.” He jabbed a finger toward him, the gesture sharp, accusing. “You’re a sick bastard, you know that?”

Kacper’s smile faltered, and the tension in the room surged.

“You don’t even care, do you?” Marek went on, voice cracking under the strain. “The people you left behind to die—they had families here. One of them was my father. The other was my sister.”

The air shifted. Even Sebastian, standing behind his counter, turned his eyes sharply to Kacper, disappointment etched into the lines of his face. Around Kacper, his men shuffled uneasily. Some lowered their eyes. Others pretended to examine the shelves. Whether it was guilt or fear that made them squirm, it didn’t matter. Kacper didn’t flinch.

He sighed, then shrugged as though the whole matter were an inconvenience.

“Yes, yes, it was a tragedy,” he said mockingly, waving a hand in the air. “Oh, boo hoo. Your old man, still thinking he could hunt with those creaky-ass knees… and your sister—well,” he added with a twisted grin, “I do feel bad about her. What a waste of a hot piece of ass.”

That was the last straw.

Marek lunged forward, the fury in his eyes matched only by the snarl escaping his lips. “You motherfu—”

“HEY!” Sebastian barked, cutting through the moment like a gunshot.

Before Marek could leap over, Sebastian was already there, leaning forward, one arm thrust out like a barricade. “You two want to settle this? Do it outside my damn store!”

Kacper just laughed, throwing a smug glance Marek’s way.

“Look, man,” he said, “it wasn’t personal. It’s just business.”

Marek’s voice rose into a high-pitched shout, his hands trembling. “They were my family. Of course it’s personal!”

Kacper scoffed, turning back toward the counter. “Hey, if it makes you feel better, they volunteered to stay behind. Said they’d hold off the slugs so the rest of us could get out. We would've helped, but there were eight of us, and twenty of those things. We didn’t stand a chance.”

“Liar!” Marek snapped. “You left them behind and ran. And there were ten of those slugs, you could've taken them!”

Kacper narrowed his eyes. “And how would you know that, huh? You weren’t there.”

“No,” came a voice like thunder. “But I was.”

All eyes turned toward the source of the voice.

A1 stepped forward, his imposing silhouette framed by the light pouring in from the door. He had to crouch to fit his frame under the low beam of the trade post’s entrance, but even then, his broad figure blotted out the sunlight, casting the shop in his shadow. His polished armor gleamed in the filtered light, his cape trailing behind him like the shroud of an executioner.

Kacper and his men recoiled, their bravado crumbling in an instant. Faces paled. The air was heavy with dread.

And A1—unmoving, unblinking—simply stared them down.

A1’s visor reflected the weak sunlight, his expression unreadable, but the way his gloved hands clenched and creaked left no doubt about the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

“In my guild,” he said, his voice low and edged with judgment, “we don’t tolerate deserters of any kind. And that includes you. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”

That was all it took. The bravado Kacper’s companions had worn like armor immediately cracked. One by one, they backed away, their earlier confidence melting into silent dread. But Kacper? He didn’t flinch. He laughed.

A mocking smirk twisted his lips as he gave a little snort. “Ooooh, so what? You think dragging some random knight in gleaming armor is gonna scare me? Do you even know who my father is?”

Marek scoffed, crossing his arms. “Oh? Let me guess. He finally came back from his business trip—after spending the week sucking corporate dick for petty sponsorships?”

That one landed. Kacper’s face twisted into rage as if Marek had struck him across the mouth. With a guttural growl, he shoved Marek hard—too hard. Marek stumbled backward and hit something solid. Something that didn’t move.

A1.

Marek blinked up from where he’d bounced off the Helldiver’s studded chest plate, but before he could say anything, Kacper charged with a raised fist. Marek gasped and dove to the side. The punch landed squarely on A1’s chest.

It sounded like someone had just punched a slab of iron. Kacper immediately winced, shaking out his hand with a pained grunt.

A1 didn’t budge.

That was assault. And under Super Earth doctrine, that meant he was now fully authorized to respond.

Without a word, A1’s hand shot out and clamped around Kacper’s neck. He lifted him effortlessly, as though Kacper weighed nothing at all. Kacper’s eyes went wide, feet kicking against air, hands scrabbling and punching against A1’s armor to no effect.

A1 stepped outside the store with calm, deliberate steps, holding the squirming man at arm’s length like trash he was about to dispose of.

“Now,” he said smoothly, his voice as cold as a razor’s edge, “allow me to demonstrate what Su—what my guild does to cowardly traitors like you.”

With a swift, brutal motion, he slammed Kacper’s head into the edge of the trade post’s canopy, splintering the wood as his skull punched clean through. Then, without pause, A1 spun and choke-slammed him straight down onto the wooden porch. The boards groaned, cracked, and split under the force, sending a shudder through the structure. Still holding nothing back, A1 hurled Kacper’s limp body into the street.

He landed hard, tumbling like a sack of super potatoes before coming to a stop several feet away in an awkward heap—his arms sprawled at unnatural angles at his back, one leg twisted behind him, groaning in pain.

Marek, still sitting against the wall of the trade post, gaped in stunned silence. For a moment, all he could do was blink as dust settled and the air hung heavy with the aftermath.

A1 turned, now eyeing Kacper’s companions. Their eyes widened in horror, and the moment his gaze met theirs, they panicked.

In unison, they bolted for the exit, tails literally tucked between their legs.

One of them tripped, dragging two others down with him, but they scrambled up, stumbling over themselves as they shoved past one another in a frantic stampede to get as far away as possible. Not a single one of them looked back. None dared return for Kacper.

Cowards to the end.

As A1 stepped into the street, the heavy thud of his boots matching his deliberate pace, he advanced toward the crumpled heap that was Kacper. But before he could get much further, Marek jumped into his path, waving both arms frantically to catch his attention.

“Wait! Good sir knight!” Marek called out. “I know this guy’s an ass—but you can’t kill him!”

A1 slowed to a halt, visor tilting downward slightly in confusion. “I wasn’t planning to. But... why not?”

Marek hesitated, his gaze darting to the groaning figure on the ground before flicking away with visible discomfort. “Well, uh… I kinda forgot this little detail, but… he’s the son of the Lord of Wilkow.” He blurted it out in one breath and then looked away, ashamed he'd withheld something that important.

A1 froze. He felt his blood run cold. The heartbeat monitor in the corner of his HUD spiked. Slowly, he turned his head to glance down at Kacper, who lay twisted and bleeding in the dirt, limbs bent at unnatural angles. Splinters were still embedded in his scalp. A1 hadn’t expected these people to be so... fragile. And now, looking at the damage he’d done, he had to admit—he may have gone too far.

And they weren’t alone anymore.

Sebastian stood nearby, face a mixture of shock and outrage. The trader couple bound for Wilkow had stopped mid-step. Curious villagers, drawn by the sound of violence, had gathered to witness the aftermath. Now all of them stood silently, staring at A1 towering over the broken body of the son of a powerful neighboring lord.

Sebastian cursed so violently that A1’s translator glitched out on the first half. “Ja pierdolę! My store! What the fuck, sir knight?!”

That caught both A1 and Marek off guard—Sebastian was more upset about his shop than anything else?

Before either could respond, a smattering of clapping broke out from the crowd. It started small, a few slow claps, but quickly spread. The villagers were applauding. Some even laughed, and others shouted with delight.

“Finally, that spoiled shit got what he deserved!”

“He got my cousin killed! Serves him right!”

“Ten skurwiel zasłużył na coś gorszego!”

The last one didn’t even register in A1’s translator, but from the tone, he could guess it wasn’t exactly a prayer for Kacper’s recovery.

Sebastian, still grumbling, marched up to A1 with his chest puffed and his finger jabbing at the damage around them.

“I’m all for watching this Kurwa mać get what’s coming to him,” he snapped, “but who the hell’s gonna pay for this?” He gestured at the shattered floorboards and the gaping hole in the porch roof.

Marek scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Uh… hey, you haven’t paid them for the bounties yet, right? Why not, uh, use that as collateral?”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “And where am I supposed to find a buyer for those bounties?”

Just then, old man Jan, the veteran trader, hobbled into the circle of onlookers, casting a lazy glance at Kacper’s writhing body. A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips.

“Well, can’t say I’m happy to see him in pain…” Jan said. “But I am.” He gave a casual shrug. “Anyway, if you’re looking for a buyer, I’d be happy to take a look at the quality.”

Sebastian’s mood visibly shifted—still annoyed, but clearly relieved to have a solution within reach. Meanwhile, Marek glanced back into the shop and noticed something else.

“Hey,” he called out, pointing inside. “Kacper’s boys dropped all their weapons. Short swords, maces—just lying around. Might be worth bartering too?”

A1 gave a sheepish shrug. “Uh... you can add that to my debt.” He surveyed the extent of the damage: splintered wood, a broken canopy, shattered boards—but nothing beyond basic repair. “Actually, these damages look easily fixable. I used to do woodwork back on my family’s farm. Maybe I could work off my debt?”

Sebastian let out a long, exaggerated groan. “Fine. First thing in the morning, you’re putting in work where work’s needed.” He then jabbed a thumb toward Kacper. “And someone get this lump off the street—he’s bad for business.”

Marek turned toward Jan. “Mister Jan, you’re heading to Wilkow, right? Could you take him with you?”

Jan gave him a look like he’d just asked to transport manure. “Are you insane, Marek? We’re traders, not garbage collectors. Do you have any idea what kind of message that sends? Hauling in the injured son of the Lord of Wilkow?”

A1 stepped in, calm but firm. “I’m sure the Lord of Wilkow would appreciate not seeing his son bleeding out in a ditch.”

Jan let out a defeated sigh, the kind only old men with aching knees and too many regrets can muster. “Fine. But I’m not carrying him—he rides in the back. Now let’s get this trade moving before the carpenter delays us again.”

The celebration didn’t last long. As Jan’s caravan rolled out once more—Kacper unceremoniously wedged in the supply cache—A1 and Marek made their way back through the village, heading straight for home.

The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the road. The twin moons—those same pale sentinels A1 had glimpsed from the Super Destroyer—hung heavy in the darkening sky, watching silently.

A1 noticed the shift in atmosphere. Where once he had been met with suspicion, now he was hailed as something between a savior and a folk hero. Some villagers clapped him on the shoulder or offered thanks under their breath. Others, however, cast uneasy glances, murmuring about what Wilkow might do in response. Retaliation. Repercussions.

A1 pushed the thought aside. If the lord of Wilkow wanted to retaliate, he was welcome to try.

Marek walked beside him in silence, his head low, eyes fixed on the dirt. The fire from earlier had gone out of him. A1 didn’t press—he recognized grief when he saw it, even if it wore the mask of exhaustion. He gave the boy space.

They reached the family home. The doorway still proved too small for A1’s towering frame. Marek reached for the handle—but stopped, his hand trembling inches from the wood. Before the silence could deepen, A1 stepped forward and knocked. Even at quarter-strength, his fist rattled the door on its hinges.

Marek jumped slightly, blinking at A1 with surprise.

The door creaked open.

Anna appeared on the other side, wearing a flour-dusted apron and a scarf tied around her graying hair. Her eyes lit up at the sight of them.

“Ah, you're finally back! Just in time for dinner. And you, sir knight,” she added warmly, “since you saved our kin—please, join us.”

A1 inclined his head with humility. “You are kind to offer, ma'am, but…” He gestured to the frame, his massive form looming over it. “I fear entering might mean destroying your ceiling. Or your chairs.”

Anna blinked, then laughed heartily. “Ah! Of course, how silly of me. Still… would you stay for dinner? We’ll think of something.”

As if on cue, A1’s stomach grumbled audibly. Embarrassed, he stiffened.

He hadn’t eaten since the crash. Not on the Super Destroyer. Not during the battle. Not even when marching across strange lands filled with bioengineered horrors. Now the exhaustion and hunger were catching up.

“I would be honored, ma’am,” he said, placing a hand over his chest. “I’m willing to eat outside—please, don’t trouble yourselves.”

“Nonsense! We can’t have our savior eat out here like a stray.” She looked over to her son, smile fading when she noticed how distant he seemed. “Marek? Is everything alright?”

“Huh? Oh… yeah. Just a long day. I’m tired,” Marek muttered.

Anna frowned, eyes narrowing slightly. “Is that so?” She turned to A1, smiling again, but with a mother’s keen curiosity hidden just beneath. “What do you think of my son, sir knight? Was he… good?”

“He was,” A1 replied earnestly. “He’s been a reliable guide. Brave. Perhaps a little hot-headed, but his heart is strong.”

Marek turned to him, stunned. “Sir knight?”

A1 kept going. “Earlier today, he defended your family’s honor when the deserter, Kacper, tried to steal the credit for your husband and daughter’s work.”

Marek flinched. “Sir Knight—!”

“He confronted Kacper for it. When things turned violent, I intervened. Kacper attacked first, so I retaliated.” A1 nodded, as if this were standard protocol. “I smashed his head through the roof of Sebastian’s trade post, then his porch. Then I threw him into the street. He was collected and taken to Wilkow shortly after.”

Marek slapped his face with both hands. “You’re telling her everything?!”

“I’m telling the truth,” A1 said, confused. “Knights don’t lie.”

“I meant… I don’t know… subtlety?!”

A1 raised a brow behind his visor. “Is truth not supposed to be direct?”

Before Marek could respond, Anna’s expression went from confused, to alarmed, to faint. Her knees buckled. She collapsed to the floor in a heap of flour and fabric.

From inside the house, a voice cried out—Alicja.

“MOM!”

Marek groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe you…”

“I didn’t mean harm,” A1 said, puzzled. “I thought she would be proud.”

“You nearly killed the son of a lord, then bragged about it to my mother!” Marek snapped. “You’re lucky she just fainted!”

A1 paused, considering that. “Should I fetch water?”

“Fetch tact, you walking sledgehammer!”

Not long after, Marek was dragged inside the house, casting one final glare at A1 before disappearing through the doorway. What followed was a cacophony of shouting and yelling—an unmistakably calm and reasonable family discussion. A1 stayed outside, alone… or mostly.

Cadet Squishy was still with him, poking its slimy head out from under his pauldron. It let out a confused little squawk, its eyestalks flicking around in tiny circles, trying to read the mood.

A1 reached up and gently plucked the tiny creature from his shoulder, cradling it in his gloved palm as he sat down against the wall of the house. He tried to ignore the muffled arguing from within.

“I almost forgot you were still here,” he murmured. “Today’s been… without question, the weirdest mission of my life. And that’s saying something.”

Squishy tilted one eyestalk, as if curious.

“I mean, talking to you? You’re not a Terminid… but you’re not anything our zoologists ever catalogued either. And this planet—this entire place—it wasn’t even on our charts. Not even a whisper.”

Squishy blinked slowly, silent.

“Meridia…” A1’s voice grew quieter. “We lost comms there. I thought it was interference. But maybe something worse got through. Something that twisted the transmissions, maybe even twisted the whole damn planet.” He paused. “Whatever that thing was… it led us here.”

He corrected himself, voice hardening. “Led me here. Alone.”

A1 stared at the night sky. The stars glittered above, eerily still. The sight filled him with something between awe and grief. A quiet ache.

“We’ve jumped across entire galaxies. One battlefield to the next. But looking at the stars from down here… it’s different. Feels smaller somehow. Like the galaxy doesn’t even know you exist anymore.”

He sighed, eyes still on the sky.

“Maybe the breach sealed itself. This planet—maybe it has some kind of interplanetary shield. It destroyed our crew, our ship… well, or was already destroyed to begin with. Maybe I'm the only one who survived.”

He turned back to Squishy.

“Do you think there’s anyone else out there? Anyone left from my squad?” He was asking the question aloud, but the answer wasn’t meant for the little gastropod.

He shook his head. “The Super Destroyer might still be orbiting. Or maybe it’s wreckage by now. Either way, I can’t call for an extract. Can’t get resupply. Can’t even order an orbital bombardment. Stratagem beacons are fried.”

He leaned his head back and let it hit the wooden wall behind him. The impact left a noticeable dent.

“By Lady Liberty’s name,” he muttered, “I’m fucked.”

“Um… good sir knight?”

A familiar voice broke through his spiral. A1 turned, startled, to see Alicja standing at the front door, arms crossed and expression somewhere between amused and concerned.

He quickly tucked Cadet Squishy back into a compartment in his armor and waved awkwardly.

“Good evening, miss… citizen.”

Alicja chuckled. “I do have a name, you know. But then again, so do you. You still haven’t told me yours.”

A1 hesitated. “Right… uh. Can I help you?”

She shook her head, stepping closer. “I think you’ve done enough helping. Not in a bad way, though.” She paused. “We heard what happened.”

A1 winced faintly. “I hope it didn’t upset your family too much.”

Alicja sat down beside him on the step, folding her arms over her knees.

“Well,” she said, “today’s been a lot. We got ditched, nearly died, Marek picked a fight, and you… well, you escalated it.”

She gave him a teasing look. “Though, in fairness, they did deserve it. Kacper and his thugs got more than a few of our neighbors killed. One of them was a friend of mine. But the collateral damage to Sebastian's store could be on our heads.”

A1 nodded. “I’ll take full responsibility for the damage. The store, the porch—everything.”

She offered a faint smile. “Very noble of you. But speaking of responsibility…”

She pulled out a small pouch and dropped it in his hand. It was heavier than expected—it’s jingling with coins inside.

“That’s everything I earned this month. It was a busy one. Should be enough to get by—at least until Sebastian stops yelling.”

A1 blinked. “You’re giving me your whole month’s pay?”

“You earned it,” she said simply. “Just… don’t use it all on debt.”

He chuckled and handed the pouch back. “Thanks, but I’ll be working it off. No reason you should be paying for my mess.”

Alicja shrugged and leaned back, watching the quiet street. The village was winding down. Windows lit with warm lantern light. Parents calling kids inside. The world exhaling after a long, violent breath.

Alicja glanced at him again. “So… shouldn’t you be heading back to your guild hall or wherever it is knights stay these days?”

A1 shifted slightly. “Guild hall… yeah, uh, funny you mention that, because… we don’t have one.”

She blinked. “You’re homeless?”

“What? No! I’m not homeless,” A1 said quickly. “I’m… nomadic. We all are. We go where we’re needed, do what must be done, and move on.”

“So,” Alicja grinned, “technically, you’re homeless.”

She burst out laughing. Not a polite chuckle, but a full belly laugh, holding her side.

“I mean—seriously—you did just show up when we needed someone. When we were cornered, when you helped fix Jan’s cart, and when you folded Kacper like laundry… yeah, we needed you. But why stay after all that?”

A1 sighed. “Like anyone else, I’m tired. I need a place to rest. You expect me to sleep in the grass like livestock?”

Alicja was still giggling. “No! No, not at all, good sir knight. Well, since you saved my brother and gave Kacper a needed chiropractic treatment… I guess that earns you another favor. You can stay at our place tonight.”

A1 looked up, surprised. “Seriously?”

Before Alicja could reply, she yelped in surprise as a hand gently touched her shoulder. She spun around—and let out a breath of relief.

“Dad! You scared the hell out of me!”

Pioter, freshly bandaged and looking more solid than he had in days, stepped into view with a crooked grin.

“Sorry, sweetheart. But I heard something about inviting our hero to dinner. And possibly through our roof.”

A1 saluted Pioter with the signature Super Earth salute, and luckily they didn’t question it too much. “Sir. You’re looking much improved.”

Pioter chuckled. “Much as I’d love to bring you into our humble home, I think our ceiling might end up like Sebastian’s.”

Alicja frowned. “Hm. Good point… So, what can we offer our savior? He’s homeless, after all.”

“Nomadic,” A1 corrected, sternly.

Pioter scratched his chin, eyes gleaming. “Well, you’re not fitting in anyone’s house anytime soon… But the barn, now that’s got some room.”

Alicja’s eyes widened. “What?! No! That’s—ugh, that’s filthy! That’s not knightly!”

A1 lifted a hand calmly. “I’ve slept in worse places than a barn. You’d be surprised what passes for a barracks on some outposts.”

Both Alicja and Pioter paused.

“Well, uh… that was supposed to be a joke,” Pioter said. “But if you’re fine with it, I know a few people who can set it up proper. Get you a clean cot, maybe some blankets. It’ll be humble, but dry.”

“Sounds perfect,” A1 said with a respectful nod. “I’ll head there now.” He stood up, causing Alicja to flinch as if she forgot how tall he was, and gave a short chest salute as he turned to walk with Pioter, who chuckled and clapped him on the cape as they went.

Alicja remained on the doorstep, arms crossed, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

“…That’s one weird knight.”

Then, remembering something, she called out, “Wait! What about dinner, good sir knight?!”

A1 paused and looked back. “Just send me a plate of whatever you’ve got!”

Pioter smirked over his shoulder. “Careful what you wish for. My wife’s cooking is strong enough to put dents in teeth.”

A1 didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve had worse.”

Alicja shook her head as they vanished down the path. “Yeah… definitely weird.”

The next day.

A1 had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the makeshift pillow of straw and cloth. He hadn't even removed his helmet or armor—not unusual for him, given how many times he’d slept in warzones with artillery ringing in his ears. Compared to that, this barn was paradise.

Despite some resistance from skeptical locals, they had also crafted a small straw nest for Cadet Squishy. It took a bit of convincing (and a lot of blinking eye stalks), but the odd creature finally had a place of its own. For the first time since the death of its brood mother, the tiny gastropod slept soundly.

Sunlight streamed through gaps in the barn’s old roof, one sharp beam landing right across A1’s visor. He groaned lowly—just loud enough to startle a nearby chicken. It wasn’t the beam of death from an orbital cannon, but it was inconvenient. Still, it was morning, and he had work to do.

A1 sat up… and immediately hit his head on the low ceiling.

Thunk.

He froze, took a slow breath, then shifted his weight carefully. His helmet wings snagged on one of the wooden beams, and he muttered a curse under his breath. With a practiced hand, he untangled himself and rose fully, adjusting his armor with a series of subtle clicks and whirrs.

His gaze swept the barn. Straw, wood beams, sleeping animals below, and the ever-present smell of manure wafting up from the floor. If not for his helmet’s filtration system, he was sure the stench would've sent him reeling.

Then he noticed something on the floor beside his cot.

His cape—detached, folded, and draped over him like a blanket.

And beside it, two wooden bowls under a fogged glass food cover. One large, one small. Steam still curled within.

There was a note, written in neat but slightly crooked script:

“When we got you your dinner, you were already asleep. We didn’t want to wake you, so we made a double portion for breakfast. —Alicja ❤️”

A1 stared at the heart symbol for a second longer than necessary.

“…How very kind,” he murmured, leaving the implications of that little symbol aside.

He removed the glass cover, and a warm, rich aroma filled the barn. He didn’t know what it was—some kind of root-based stew, thick and earthy—but it smelled incredible. His stomach growled audibly in appreciation.

As his visor hissed open, he dug in, ravenous. He didn’t remember the last time he ate. Not on the Super Destroyer. Not during the crash. Not even during his ops. It was just mission after mission, emergency after emergency.

Now there was food, and he wasn’t about to waste it.

Cadet Squishy popped out from the straw nest and waddled toward his bowl, blinking sleepily. The creature sniffed the food, then slurped up the first bite—and immediately doubled down, going through a quarter of the portion in seconds.

A1 blinked, then chuckled. “You were hungrier than I thought.”

The tiny slug let out a satisfied squeak, its stalks happily twitching.

As A1 returned to his meal, a rare feeling settled over him—something close to peace. The war might not be over. His mission definitely wasn’t. But for now, in a quiet barn on a backwater planet no one had even mapped… He had a moment to breathe.

Cadet Squishy had already finished his meal before A1 was even halfway through his own. The little slug looked noticeably larger than the day before—not dramatically so, but enough that A1 caught it.

He frowned slightly. “Growing already…” he muttered to himself.

It made sense now why Pioter and Alicja had been so adamant about wiping out these creatures. They grew fast, multiplied faster. A1 gave the little gastropod a sideways glance. Hopefully Cadet Squishy wouldn't start seeing him as food once he outgrew his late brood mother.

After they both finished eating, A1 reattached his cape, carefully placed Cadet Squishy back onto his pauldron, and dropped down from the second floor of the barn in a solid landing. The impact startled the livestock—snorts, squawks, and hoofbeats filled the air as the animals jerked awake in alarm.

“Sorry!” A1 called out, wincing as he stepped over the straw-laden floor.

He made his way to the smaller caretaker’s door and swung it open, only to find Alicja and Marek already heading toward the barn. Marek looked more relaxed than the day before—rested, at least. Alicja, on the other hand, practically radiated energy; her posture was light, and her face bright as soon as she spotted him.

“Morning, good sir knight,” Marek called. “Slept well?”

“Ironically,” A1 replied, “that was the best sleep I’ve had in months.”

Marek sniffed, then immediately recoiled. “I don’t know how you managed to sleep with that smell. It’s stuck to you.”

Alicja rolled her eyes and shot her brother a look. “Oh please. Like you smell any better?”

“What—!” Marek started, but she cut him off.

“Anyway,” she said quickly, turning back to A1, “we were just stopping by to pick up the bowls we left you. And maybe to wake you, since, you know… curfew. Didn’t want you getting into trouble.”

“She just wanted to see you,” Marek added with a smirk.

Alicja’s hand snapped to the back of his head with practiced precision, her cheeks already flushing.

“Why do you have to make it awkward!?” she hissed.

A1 paused, watching the exchange silently, then said, “Right. Well. Here are your bowls.”

He handed them over. Marek took the small one reluctantly, holding it like it might bite.

“I’m awake now,” A1 continued. “Was there anything else you wanted?”

Alicja tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, clearly flustered. “No. Nothing really. Just checking in.”

“Uh-huh,” he replied with a nod. “In any case, I need to check in with Sebastian. There’s carpentry work I’ve agreed to.”

“Of course,” Alicja said, nodding quickly. “That makes sense. But… if you do decide to move on, please let us know. We’d like to give you a proper send-off.”

Marek gave a theatrical cough. “Kiss-ass.”

Alicja shot him another glare while A1 stepped into the morning sun. The early light gleamed off his metal plates, casting long shadows behind him.

“You’ve both been kind,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “But I’ve had enough send-offs for one lifetime. And too many departures without goodbyes. I promise, I’ll say it properly when the time comes.”

His eyes settled on Marek. “And do try not to get mixed up with spoiled aristocrats again.”

Marek gave a crooked grin. “No promises.”

“Take care, good sir knight!” Alicja called after him. “We’ll be here if you need us!”

A1 gave them a final nod and turned away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the dirt path as Cadet Squishy bobbed gently on his shoulder.

A1 crossed the dirt road into the commercial quarter of the village—not that it was much of a district. Just three modest buildings made up the entire stretch, and the trade post stood right at its heart. It bore visible scars from the previous day’s chaos: a gaping hole in the canopy, a crater on the porch that looked like a meteorite had punched it in.

Sebastian was already there, broom in hand, sweeping splinters and dust off his battered porch with the kind of tired patience only a merchant could perfect. He didn’t say a word when he saw A1 approach—just jerked his head in acknowledgment and immediately began listing what needed to be done.

A1’s first task was to head to the carpenter’s shop that was next to his trade post. He needed to fetch planks—cut precisely to length and width—and tools to make the repairs. Before A1 could even ask, Sebastian made it clear: A1 was paying for the damage he caused. "You break it, you buy it," was the merchant's philosophy.

To A1’s surprise, however, the carpenter didn’t ask for a coin. Maybe it was because A1 had already earned the town’s goodwill. After all, he’d fought off a group of slugs, rescued a father and daughter, helped mend old man Jan’s cart, and beat up some entitled aristobrat—all in a single day. The carpenter even loaned out tools and handed over the right planks and nails without complaint. It made A1 think: maybe Sebastian believed he was teaching him humility, but all he was really doing was reminding A1 how much of a difference he'd already made in this forgotten little village.

Later, A1 found himself on the porch, knee-deep in shattered boards and cracked planks, prying them loose with a crowbar and replacing them with new ones. The fresh wood stood out starkly against the sun-bleached timber around it, but it was sturdy and functional. That would have to do.

Sebastian lingered nearby, broom still in hand, now using it to sweep away wood shavings. His eyes tracked A1’s every movement—not exactly mistrustful, but meticulous, as if making sure the job met his standards.

“I didn’t know knights also partook in woodwork,” Sebastian remarked, his tone almost conversational but with a hint of amusement.

A1 didn't pause in his work. “Just me,” he replied, hammering a nail through a plank with practiced force. “Some perks come with growing up on a farm. You learn what to do with your hands early.”

Sebastian grunted, brushing sawdust from his sleeves. “Well, keep those hands focused on my deck. It’s a good thing you're freakishly tall—don’t even need a ladder to patch the roof.”

A1 allowed himself a smirk as he straightened up, towering even more as he checked the alignment of the next board.

“Convenient,” he muttered, and kept hammering.

As A1 hammered the final nail into the canopy of Sebastian’s shop, trouble was already rumbling in from the road. A wagon rolled toward the village—larger and more heavily fortified than any merchant’s. It was drawn by a hulking, armored burdenbeast, its hide covered in metal plating and thick straps. White banners flapped on either side of the wagon, each emblazoned with a black horse chess piece stitched into the fabric.

It wasn’t old man Jan coming back with another invoice, that much was certain. This wasn’t just a supply wagon—it was military, or at least official. Something designed to intimidate.

Out in the fields, the serfs dropped their tools mid-swing and stood frozen, their eyes following the strange convoy. The usual hum of the village quieted, replaced by a taut silence. Everyone sensed it: something wasn’t right.

A1, however, didn’t notice the change. He was too focused on securing the last board, inspecting the fit, tapping in the final nail. It wasn’t until Sebastian leaned out from the shopfront, squinting toward the road, that the tension reached him.

“What’s this?” Sebastian muttered. “Another tax collecting season? I just paid last week!”

A1 paused and turned, finally spotting the wagon as it rolled to a slow, deliberate stop near the village center. Its armored beast let out a gruff exhale, steam hissing from vents in its harness.

“What’s that?” A1 asked, frowning beneath his helmet.

Sebastian grunted. “That’s a Wilkow Order tax wagon. The knights use them for collections. They come by once a month, give or take. But if they were already here last week…” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “Then it’s either a surprise levy… or what you did with that lord's boy stirred up something fierce.”

A1 tensed. “You think this is about the noble’s boy?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a lord got petty,” Sebastian said with a shrug. Then he turned, casually picking up his broom and heading back inside the shop. Moments later, A1 heard the click of bolts being thrown, the thud of wooden bars sliding into place. When he glanced over again, Sebastian was already behind the kiosk window.

“Been nice knowing you and all,” the merchant called out. “But if you’re gonna throw down with those metal-plated bastards, do me a favor and keep it away from my storefront.”

With that, he slammed the wooden panel over the kiosk window and disappeared.

A1 stood there in the settling quiet, the last hammer stroke still ringing faintly in his ears. A slow, crawling dread began to coil in his gut. This was it. As if he hadn’t had enough on this backwater planet—feral beasts, snobbish nobles, and now a visit from whatever passed as law enforcement.

He looked at his hammer, it's too small for his hands to use it like a weapon, much less for hammering nails. 

“Hey!” he called toward the door. “Couldn’t you at least toss me something to defend myself with?”

Sebastian’s voice rang out from behind the locked door. “And risk being labeled an accomplice? No thanks! You’ve got hands, don’t you? Make ‘em count!”

A1 looked down at his gloved palms—scarred, calloused, strong. Hands that had saved lives in close quarters more times than he could count. Command never liked that part. They always said if it came to melee, something had gone tactically wrong. Close-quarters fighting meant bad optics, sloppy reports, and questions from the brass.

But optics didn’t matter here. Here, he must throw down. He threw away his useless hammer, and cracked his knuckles, but before he could move in, Cadet Squishy popped out from behind his pauldron, looking rather concerned, as best as he could anyway. Not wanting to get him involved, he takes Cadet Squishy, and places him on the newly repaired canopy, far from any danger, and a good view of whatever's gonna go down. 

In hindsight, leaving his firearms back in the barn loft was probably a mistake. But at the time, A1 hadn’t expected to need them. Now, with the moment at hand, it was too late to double back.

The wagon belonging to the Knights Order of Wilkow rumbled to a halt in the center of the village, kicking up dust as it settled into place. Its doors swung open with a dull creak, and one by one, armored figures dropped to the ground, boots thudding hard into the dirt. Ten in total. Each one clad head to toe in gleaming metal plates, the kind that made them look less like men and more like walking statues of war.

Four of them carried tall, diamond-shaped shields polished to a mirrored sheen. Three more held long, vicious-looking polearms. The remaining three bore heavy, brutal weapons—maces and war hammers designed to break both bone and armor. Whoever sent them had made their message clear: this was not a courtesy call.

Their armor bore a faint resemblance to the old Helldiver suits A1 remembered—similar joint plates, even similar chest rigs—but with medieval flourishes and a heavier, ceremonial bulk. Most curious were their helmets: it had holes on the sides, freeing their horse ears, and it's smooth-faced with barely a slit for vision, if any at all. A1 wondered how they even saw, much less fought. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they just struck at shadows and hoped for the best.

At the front of the formation stood their commander, easily distinguished by a plume of red feathers rising from the top of his helmet. His surcoat was adorned in striking crimson and white, colors that glared under the early morning sun. The others wore only white.

Flanking him stood a familiar figure—someone around Kacper’s age, now armored and decorated with a white feathered plume of his own helmet. Clearly a recruit or squire. And clearly, someone who had gone running to authority.

“There! That’s him! That’s the guy!” the young knight barked, drawing his short sword and stabbing it in A1’s direction.

One of the polearm bearers lifted his visor to sneak a look, blinking at the sight before him. “That guy is huge. I’ve never seen anyone that big.”

“Except for your mom,” his companion muttered, snickering.

The others chuckled, but the commander’s voice cracked through their amusement like a whip. “Shut up! We’re here on official business. No more moronic jokes.”

There was no question now. This was about him.

A1 exhaled slowly and stepped forward. No point in waiting for them to make the first move. His cape caught in the wind behind him, fluttering in a slow ripple as he walked. The sun hung behind his back, casting a long, commanding shadow across the cobbled street—massive, dark, and unmistakable.

He met them halfway, unarmed, unflinching.

Let them see who they came for.

The commander raised a gloved fist, and at once, the other knights halted. With a practiced twirl of his hand, he issued a silent command. The armored men began moving with methodical precision, spreading out until they encircled A1 completely.

Of course. Encircled already. Great.

The commander stepped forward and flipped up his visor. Behind the steel was a weathered face, pitted with old scars, and framed by a thick, dark beard streaked with gray. His eyes were cold, clinical.

“Are you the one who assaulted Lord Kacper Wilkovski?” he asked, his voice graveled and firm.

A1 tilted his head slightly, unimpressed. “Do you have a warrant?”

“The fuck is a warrant? I'm asking you again, did you assault the Lord's son, Kacper Wilkovski?”

A1 shook his head. “What do you want me to say? ‘No, I didn’t’?”

The commander didn’t take the bait. “I’d take your word for it, if you hadn’t left a witness. Listen closely. I don’t know what order you serve—if any—or what realm you claim allegiance to. But to lay hands on a noble’s son? That doesn’t earn you time in a dungeon.” He gestured around with a subtle nod. “See the men I brought? See the weapons they carry? We’re here to make sure you never do that again. Permanently.”

A1 sighed and held his arms out to the sides, palms open. “He punched me first. I think I’m entitled to punch back.”

The commander scoffed. “If you were a true knight, you would’ve diffused the situation.”

A1 raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what I’m doing now?”

The commander’s patience snapped. “Enough of your impudence. Ordinarily, I’d have you killed right here and now—but that wouldn’t reflect well on us. Fortunately for you, I’m giving you a choice. You come with us quietly…” His voice lowered, steely. “Or we settle it here and now.”

From behind him, Kacper’s armored friend blurted out, clearly fuming. “Are you serious? We’ve got more men! We can take him now! Besides, is he even going to fit in the wagon?!”

Some of the knights surrounding A1 began to inch forward. Shields braced, polearms leveled, warhammers cocked. Just waiting for the signal.

The commander didn’t give it. Not yet.

A1’s gaze flicked between the weapons and visors slowly encroaching on him. His mind ticked like clockwork. He’d been in situations like this before—encircled, outnumbered, outgunned. But these weren’t like the bots. These were people. They could adapt mid-fight, they could flinch, make choices, exploit an opening. And worse—they had something to prove.

Their weapons might’ve looked primitive, but he wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate them. A hammer didn’t care how thick your armor was. A polearm didn’t care how tall you stood. Enough hits in the right place, and he could bleed out in the middle of a dirt road on a backwater planet, with no distress signal and no report filed.

No one on Super Earth would even know he was gone.

He braced himself, not with panic—but with quiet calculation.

If this was going to end in blood, he’d make sure it wasn’t his.

Before the knight commander could give the order, something unexpected happened.

The people of Rolnicze, once so docile and overworked, stopped what they were doing. Tools hit the dirt. Baskets were dropped. From the fields and the alleys, the barns and the porches, the villagers moved—not away, but toward the armored circle.

A crowd formed rapidly. Tense. Loud. Angry.

Shouts rose like thunder over the fields.

Booing. Yelling. A few villagers hurled clumps of dirt, old vegetables, and stones. They pinged harmlessly off the knights’ steel, but the message was clear—they weren’t afraid. The projectiles left scuffs and stains across polished breastplates, and though they hadn’t caused real harm, they’d cracked the illusion of control.

The crowd was fed up.

“Where were you when bandits raided us last month?!”

“You’ve been leeching us dry with your taxes—and what for? To line your lord’s pockets?!”

“This man helped us more! Him! Not you cowards!”

The accusations hit harder than the rocks. You could see it in the way the knights started to shift on their feet, hands tightening around weapons. Their discipline frayed under the heat of public outrage. Glances were cast not at A1 now, but at the swelling crowd before him.

The knight commander, jaw clenched, snapped his fingers and gestured sharply. Three knights broke formation—among them Kacper’s friend, who spared one last bitter glance at his commander before drawing his sword and moving to corral the villagers. Two others followed, trying to push the crowd back without escalating the violence further.

But the unrest behind them was palpable, a fire barely contained.

The commander, still facing A1, drew his sword with a steely rasp. The blade caught the light, and the two shield-bearers flanking him followed suit. Steel hissed against scabbard. The advance began—slow, controlled, two shield knights forming a tight wall in front of the commander as they crept forward.

“This has gone on long enough,” the commander growled. “If you don’t come with us now, we’ll use force.”

A1 didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His voice rang out clear and sharp, a declaration carried on the wind. “Then use as much of it as you’ve got! I have rights! Including the right to bear arms against tyranny!”

The commander’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Very well.”

He pulls his visor down and raises his sword high above his head. The remaining knights snapped to attention, lifting weapons with trained precision.

“Knights! Apprehend this poser!”

The command dropped like a hammer.

The shield knights and the commander closed in first, shields locked, advancing step by step. Behind them came the polearm-wielders, spacing out in a semicircle. Then the breaker knights with their hammers, heavy and blunt, flanked the rear of the formation.

A1 stood at the center of it all, the sun at his back, his shadow stretching across the dirt. Around him, steel scraped and boots stomped. His breathing slowed. His muscles tightened. He wasn’t thinking anymore—he didn’t need to.

This was training. This was instinct. This was war.

He had faced clankers, squids and bugs. But here he stood, about to clash with something far more unpredictable. Humans. Furry humans.

The moment the knights closed in—too close—A1 moved.

Like a hellbomb let loose, he threw his weight forward and charged. His shoulder slammed into the tight shield wall, his momentum too much for them to absorb. The formation crumpled. Shields flew. The commander and his two front guards were launched backward like pins from a strike.

They hit the dirt hard.

Before anyone could regroup, A1 surged forward and grabbed the stunned commander by the front of his armor—fingers closing around the metal like it was cloth. With a guttural grunt, he hoisted the man overhead, red-plumed helmet and all, and hurled him into the cluster of knights still advancing.

Three dodged just in time.

The rest weren’t so lucky.

The commander crashed into them like a cannonball, sending limbs and steel scattering. They’d be back on their feet soon—but not yet.

A1 turned. Still three remained on him: a spear knight, a breaker knight, and a lone shield.

The spear knight didn’t hesitate. He lunged, weapon thrust forward with both hands. It was a textbook charge—deadly, precise—but A1 was already moving. He sidestepped the thrust with surprising agility for someone his size, letting the weapon slide past his ribs. Before the knight could recover, A1 swung his left arm out like a steel beam.

Clothesline.

The spear knight hit the ground hard, wind blasted from his lungs.

But no time to celebrate.

The breaker knight was behind him now, mace low. He struck A1's leg, smashing into the back of his thigh.

Pain flared. A1 grunted, one knee dropping to the dirt.

Another swing came—this one aimed high.

But A1 twisted, ducking just enough. The mace whistled past and slammed into the ground. Thunk. It stuck fast.

Before the breaker could react, A1 was on him. He surged forward, wrapped thick arms around the knight’s waist, and lifted. His strength exploded upward in a single motion.

And then—slam.

A suplex that shook the dust off the road, the knight's armor rattling like a dropped toolbox.

One left.

The shield knight had seen enough to learn caution. He approached with his shield tight to his chest, posture tight and steps deliberate. His eyes watched A1 like a cornered animal might watch a bear.

A1 grabbed the abandoned mace from the dirt—its weight meaningless in his hand. The shield knight flinched, tightening his stance.

But A1 didn’t swing.

He kicked.

A blur of motion—he pivoted on his left heel and snapped out a roundhouse kick. It cracked across the side of the knight’s helmet with a sharp, metallic clang. The shield bearer tumbled once midair and collapsed onto his back, arms sprawled, shield rolling away.

Silence, for a breath.

A1 turned.

Behind him, the knights he had already dropped were groaning, stirring, climbing shakily to their feet. They weren’t out yet.

And there were still more where they came from.

The knight commander climbed back to his feet—winded, bruised, but still ready to fight. Around him, the rest of his squad rose slowly, grimacing under their armor. Only one stayed down: the shield bearer A1 had knocked out cold with that brutal roundhouse.

The commander’s eyes locked onto A1, now fully aware of the threat they faced. This wasn’t some rogue mercenary—this was a war machine in flesh.

“On your feet!” he bellowed to his remaining men. “Regroup!”

Six knights closed in, warier now. They didn’t rush. No more direct charges—they had learned that lesson. Each time A1 stepped toward them, they instinctively backed away, circling like Terminids.

The commander raised a gauntleted hand and gestured. Two knights peeled off left, two to the right, attempting once again to surround their quarry—but this time they left space. No tight shield wall. Not again. A1 kept his footing light, his head on a swivel, mace held firm in his right hand, tracking every shift in their movement.

One knight stepped forward, inch by inch.

A1’s attention snapped to him, his body coiling to strike—exactly what the commander had waited for.

He gave a sharp gesture.

“Now!”

A spear knight lunged—but just as A1 turned to meet the charge, the commander shouted, “Halt!”

The knight skidded to a stop just short of engagement, smirking under his helmet.

From behind, a breaker knight darted in and smashed his hammer into the back of A1’s knee.

Crack.

A1 dropped to one leg with a grunt, and the breaker knight quickly disengaged before retribution could follow.

Before A1 could fully rise, another knight was already on him—this one shield-first.

Wham!

The blow cracked across his visor, deepening the spiderweb fracture across the screen. It didn’t drop him, but it shook him. His vision blurred. Instinct kicked in—he grabbed the knight’s shield-bearing arm, yanked it up, spun the man over his back like he weighed nothing, and sent him crashing to the ground.

Another charge came.

The same spear knight from earlier, rising like a revenant. He dipped under A1’s mace swing, driving his weapon into A1’s side with brutal force. A jolt of pain surged through A1’s torso—but it hadn’t pierced deep. Not enough.

He gritted his teeth, grabbed the shaft of the embedded spear, and snapped it in half. Without hesitation, he reversed the jagged end and slammed it into the knight’s neck, armor and all.

The knight crumpled, clutching his throat, blood spilling through his fingers.

But there was no time.

Another attacker lunged from behind, seizing A1’s cape and yanking it over his head, blinding him. Before he could recover, the first breaker knight—now unarmed—leapt up again and wrapped an arm around A1’s neck, squeezing with all his weight, trying to choke him out.

A1 staggered, vision darkening, air thinning.

No other way. He jumped.

He dropped like a boulder, slamming backward and crushing the knight beneath his bulk with a sickening crunch. The grip loosened—but it cost him. On the ground now, A1 was vulnerable.

Two knights who’d been handling crowd control broke ranks and rushed in, leaving Kacper’s friend alone to push back the angry villagers. The remaining knights swarmed him.

They dogpiled.

Two clamped onto his legs. Another pair pinned his arms. The last two pressed down on his shoulders and neck, straining with all their might. Their combined weight—metal, muscle, desperation—was too much.

A1 roared and strained against them, but his limbs refused to move. The weight of six armored men, pressing down like a mountain, rendered even him immobile.

Dust swirled around the pile of bodies as the villagers screamed in protest behind them.

Back in the village, Kacper's friend stood alone against a growing sea of furious peasants—dozens of them, shouting and jeering, driven not by madness but conviction. The strange knight, the man they'd once feared, had earned their respect. And now they were ready to fight for him.

Most villagers held back, wary of the gleaming steel and blood-soaked armor—but a few stepped forward, reckless and raw with rage.

One came too close.

Without hesitation, the knight lowered his shield—only to thrust the sharp diamond-pointed edge of his bulwark straight into the man’s throat.

Shhk!

The peasant’s eyes went wide as blood bubbled from his mouth. He collapsed, gurgling, and the crowd screamed.

Another man, incensed by the sudden killing, charged with a wooden pitchfork. Kacper’s friend ducked low, flipped the attacker clean over his shield, and drove his sword down into the man’s chest without ever turning his back on the crowd.

Two dead. Just like that.

He roared, slamming sword to shield in a deafening clang, rallying his fury into noise.

“Come on, then! Who wants it, huh? WHO FUCKING WANTS IT!?”

The villagers recoiled, stunned—none dared step forward. Even those who once clenched their fists now dropped their arms. No one moved to drag the dead.

Except two.

At the back of the crowd, Alicja and Marek watched in horror. The knight—their knight—was on his knees, beaten and pinned by six armored thugs. The so-called law had become a mob.

The knight commander stood over A1, his sword discarded. He pummeled A1 with fists, knees, and boots, his every blow cheered on by his men.

Thud.

“Again!”

Thud.

“Harder!”

Alicja’s grip on her crossbow tightened.

Marek growled. “Those bastards! We can’t let them do this. Alicja, you got your crossbow?”

She raised it. “Loaded and ready. But I’ve only got one bolt—and that freak with the shield’s in the way.”

Marek’s eyes lit up with a manic gleam. “Huh… hey. I got a plan. It’s stupid.”

Alicja rolled her eyes. “You’re all about stupid.”

Kacper’s friend kept the crowd at bay. Some peasants had already given up, slinking back to their homes in defeat. He glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see the knight commander laughing as he drove another punch into A1’s face.

A smirk crept across his face—

Thunk!

A bolt flew across the air and slammed into his chestplate, staggering him.

On the barn roof, Alicja lowered her crossbow.

Then something else flew.

The crowd parted as Marek sprinted through the opening, feet pounding the dirt. With a wild yell, he leapt—and dropkicked the knight’s shield square-on.

Kacper’s friend tumbled back, rolling hard across the ground.

The crowd erupted. Villagers surged forward, some dragging away their dead, others shoving past the confused knight to help. Momentum had shifted.

Alicja shouted from the roof: “GO!”

Marek did—but not far.

As he sprinted toward A1, Kacper’s friend, still down, swept his legs out. Marek slammed into the dirt with a grunt.

Before he could rise, the knight was already on his feet, sword gleaming, charging.

Marek rolled clear just in time, pulled a hatchet from his belt, and rose into a crouch. His armor, if one could call it, was a padded tunic—cheap, weather-worn. No match for plate. But he gritted his teeth, raised the axe, and stood his ground.

Now it was his turn. One farm boy against a knight.

And the whole village was watching.

Kacper’s friend raised his shield and barked at the crowd, voice thunderous: “STAY THE FUCK BACK!”

The villagers flinched—but Marek didn’t. He surged forward in a blur of motion—

WHAM!

His ribs slammed into the knight’s shield. The impact sent him tumbling, rolling hard on the ground, but he scrambled back up, wheezing, determined.

The two circled each other now. No words. Just footwork and narrowed eyes, their breathing heavy, weapons ready. Each flinched and feinted, daring the other to make the first move.

Then—from the crowd—thunk.

A rock struck the sadist knight’s helmet with a sharp ping.

He turned instinctively toward the crowd, enraged.

That was all Marek needed.

He charged, sprinting low. The knight began to turn back—too late. Marek slid across the dirt, low and fast, and smashed his hatchet into the exposed joint of the knight’s shin.

CRACK!

The sadist went down hard, face-first into the ground.

Marek was on him in a second, cleaving wildly—hitting the back of his thigh, his flank, his spine. The knight howled, rolling over—

—and drove his sword into Marek’s gut.

The blade sank deep. Too deep.

Marek let out a strangled gasp, blood erupting from his mouth. Still, he gritted his teeth and raised his hatchet again—thunk!—but it landed weakly against the knight’s armored shoulder.

He staggered back, clutching his stomach. Red soaked through his tunic. His knees buckled. Then he collapsed.

From the crowd: gasps.

From the barn roof: a scream.

Alicja leapt down, bolting toward her fallen brother. She hit the ground running, shoving through villagers as panic surged through her chest. Her knees hit the dirt beside him as she tore at her blouse, hands trembling. She pressed the fabric to his wound, her voice breaking—

“STAY WITH ME, you idiot—don’t you dare pass out, don’t you fucking dare!”

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she screamed for help.

“GET MY BAG! FROM THE HEALING HOUSE! NOW!”

All of it—every second of it—burned into A1’s vision.

Pinned. Bleeding. Blinded no longer.

He saw Marek fall. He saw Alicja break. He saw blood where it shouldn’t be.

Something inside him snapped.

A low growl built in his throat, rising until it erupted into a thunderous roar.

He threw himself upward—his muscles surging, his body wrenching free from the six knights atop him. They scrambled to hold him down—but too late.

A1 exploded out of the pile, his cape tearing loose, his eyes burning.

He lunged at the knight commander, grabbing his legs mid-step. With a violent twist, he spun him around like a sack of meat and hurled him—CRASH!—into the other knights.

They collapsed like iron dominoes, crashing down in a heap of armor and limbs.

A1’s breath heaved as he turned.

There. The knight who stabbed Marek.

Running. Not far enough.

A1 sprinted, overtaking him in moments. He seized the knight by the shoulders and with a full-body twist, threw him back into the fight—so hard the man bounced off the ground and rolled, armor clattering, shield flying off, pieces of plate scattering in every direction.

The crowd went dead silent.

Alicja held Marek’s head in her lap, her hands still pressed to his wound, but her eyes now on A1.

Kacper’s friend—the sadist knight—stood alone now. Battered. Bloodied. Breathing ragged.

Everyone was watching him. The villagers. His bruised and broken comrades. Even the peasants dragging away the wounded had stopped to see what he’d do next.

A1 stood in front of him, arms outstretched—like he was daring him to attack. Or maybe… asking for a hug.

Either way, it was maddening.

His sword was gone. His shield away from him. All he had left were his fists and a shred of pride.

He clenched his jaw, spat blood to the side, and charged.

CRACK!

His gauntlet slammed into A1’s chest plate with a thunderous clang. A1 didn’t budge.

Not even a flinch.

The knight blinked, stunned—but swung again. And again. A brutal flurry of strikes, fists hammering A1’s torso like a drum.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

No dents. No pain. No reaction.

A1 stared through him like a statue.

The sadist knight stepped back, gasping, his shoulders heaving. A1 calmly wiped the dust from his armor—like the punches were just wind.

With a roar, the knight lunged again—this time giving everything he had. Rage. Fear. Desperation.

He pounded A1’s chest, faster and harder, over and over until the metal of his gauntlets began to crack. Then shatter. Then bleed. Until the bones in his hands snapped, each punch causing him more pain than it inflicted.

Finally, chest heaving, blood dripping from his mangled fists, he staggered back and wheezed:

“Okay… then hit me with your… best shot… asshole…”

A1 stepped forward. Silently. Purposefully.

He placed one heavy hand on the knight’s shoulder.

Reeled his right arm back.

And delivered a devastating uppercut—the kind that doesn’t just knock a man down.

It knocked his head clean off.

The crowd screamed. Even the knights flinched as the sadist’s body crumpled to the dirt, a geyser of blood pouring from the stump. His helmeted head bounced once on the ground and rolled into the feet of a stunned villager.

Marek was avenged.

A1 turned slowly toward the remaining seven knights.

All of them saw what he’d done. All of them saw what he was.

He was still standing. Still strong. Still ready.

And they… weren’t.

They didn’t move, even as their commander—bruised, bleeding, and refusing to give in—screamed at them to charge.

“MOVE! ON ME!”

None did.

So he went alone.

With a ragged cry, the commander raised his sword high and rushed A1. The blade came down—

CLANG!

A1 caught it on his vambrace.

Without a word, he reached out, grabbed the commander by the waist, and lifted him like a child.

Then came the bear hug.

A horrible, sickening crunch echoed across the village as bones snapped, ribs caved, and the fight left the commander’s body. He went limp, twitching slightly.

A1 held him for a moment longer—then hurled him like a sack of meat into the remaining knights, knocking two of them over again.

Silence fell once more.

The monster they tried to drag away was still alive.

And now he was very, very angry.

The six remaining knights stared at each other, then at A1.

And then, before he could take another step, they all dropped their weapons.

Clang.

Clatter.

They knelt, as one, heads bowed to the dirt.

One of them—his voice shaking—called out:

“W-We surrender! Just—please—don’t kill us!”

A1 froze, his expression unreadable. Of all the outcomes he anticipated, this wasn't one of them.

He looked over the trembling, kneeling knights. Defeated. Broken. Begging.

They weren’t a threat anymore. Not now. Not today.

He loosened his shoulders. Let his arms drop. His intent to finish the job faded—at least for them.

But mercy would have to wait.

There was still one thing left unfinished.

Marek.

He was still bleeding, sword jutting out from both ends, body curled, mouth slick with red. Alicja knelt beside him, sobbing but focused, her hands pressed hard against the wound in his side. She was muttering prayers and curses all at once, forcing Marek to drink whatever healing concoctions she had left.

But his skin was pale. His breaths shallow.

The villagers stood nearby, shaken. Some helped move the dead—knights and peasants alike—into the village center. The roads ran red with blood. The air stank of sweat, iron, and ash.

A1, despite everything—his bruises, the welts across his back, the blood soaking his cape—ran to Marek’s side.

His armor clanged with each heavy step, and the villagers parted for him without a word.

He dropped to his knees beside Marek, eyes scanning the wound, then Alicja.

“What can I do?” he asked, voice gravelly but steady.

Alicja looked up at him, panicked but determined.

“Hold him. Keep him awake. I need to stitch, burn, something—just don’t let him pass out.”

A1 nodded.

He gripped Marek’s shoulder gently, voice soft.

“Hey. You’re not going anywhere. You hear me? You’re not dying today, soldier.”

Marek blinked up at him, a weak smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You won a fight… and now you’re getting all sappy on me?”

A1 let out a low, broken laugh.

“Shut up and stay alive."

Chapter Text

Right as Rain (0-6)

After the brutal defeat of the Knights of Wilków, a new crisis emerged—one far more personal.

Marek had taken a blade for A1.

A short sword was still lodged deep in his lower torso, skewering him clean through the back. He lay on his side, curled and gasping, eyes fluttering between panic and pain. Blood poured freely beneath him, pooling into the road.

Alicja knelt by his side, hands trembling as she tore at her blouse, pressing the shredded fabric against the wound in desperation.

“ Stay here! ” she said, her voice cracking. “I need a needle—thread—anything!” She bolted toward the trade post without waiting for an answer.

The remaining villagers gathered slowly, forming a loose half-circle around Marek. Their eyes were wide, faces pale. Some muttered prayers. Others just stared in horror. A few villagers—tough, calloused, still armed with pitchforks and scythes—marched the surrendered knights deeper into the village, where they’d be locked up until someone decided what to do with them.

But Marek wasn’t focused on any of that.

Despite the gaping wound, despite the blood loss, he furrowed his brow.

“This is... kind of embarrassing,” he muttered.

A1 leaned closer. “What?”

Marek managed a thin, pained smile. “Lying here... bleeding out... in front of girls. Not a great look, huh?”

He let out a weak chuckle and started coughing, blood speckling his lips.

A1 couldn’t help it. He laughed too—quietly, bitterly. Of course, Marek would joke at a time like this. Gallows humor wasn’t just Marek’s thing; it was theirs —a cornerstone of Helldiver culture. When the bullets stop, and the blood starts, better to laugh than scream.

Marek gave a little nod, as if reading his mind. “Hey... I did good, though, right?”

A1 glanced past him at the ruined corpse of the sadist knight, still headless in the dirt.

“You did.”

Marek’s head rested back. “That was badass... really... really badass… Shit. Having a sword in me? Not exactly what I planned for today.”

A1 smirked faintly. “Nor is it anyone’s plan. Just stop talking. It’s gonna start hurting worse.”

Marek gave a slow nod. “Yeah... yeah, you’re right... Fuck ...”

His voice faded into a pained whisper. His breathing grew shallower, more erratic.

A1 knelt motionless beside him, the weight in his chest heavier than any armor. The smell of blood, sweat, and dirt around Marek felt all too familiar. Too many Helldivers had looked like this—dying not in triumph, but in exhaustion, confusion, pain. Some bled out gloriously, others because some idiot gunner miscalculated orbital fire.

And some… held on. Just long enough for someone to hold their hand. To look them in the eye. To tell them it was okay.

A1 had done it too many times.

Please , he thought. Not this one. Not today.

He stayed by Marek’s side—unmoving, unblinking—until Alicja returned, eyes wild, clutching a pouch of supplies with both hands.

“I’m back!” Alicja shouted, breathless. “Hopefully, I still remember how to do this!”

She dropped to her knees beside her brother, her satchel of hastily grabbed supplies spilling open beside her. A1 raised his arm, gesturing for the villagers to give them space. They obeyed, wordless and wide-eyed.

From the trade post, Sebastian stepped out, looking furious—until he caught sight of the aftermath. Dead knights are strewn across the ground. Blood in the dirt. A growing crowd around a boy dying in his sister’s arms. His face paled, the anger drained from him, and he slowly retreated inside his shop, shutting the door without another word.

Alicja’s hands trembled as she pulled out a needle and thread from the kit—likely “borrowed” without paying, but no one cared about that now. Her fingers fumbled with the thread again and again, missing the eye of the needle every time. Her jaw clenched in frustration. She cursed aloud, ran a bloodstained hand through her hair, smearing red across her scalp.

A1 gently took the tools from her. “Let me.”

His hands were steadier, calmer. Years of battlefield triage—lessons learned the hard way—guided his movements. He threaded the needle in seconds.

But the sword… the sword was still lodged in Marek’s gut, angled and deep. It had likely nicked something vital. It was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out immediately. Yet they couldn’t stitch the wound while it was still in.

Adrenaline kept Marek lucid, but A1 knew that wouldn’t last. He’d seen this too many times. Wounds like this didn’t come with miracles. On a Super Destroyer, they might've had a chance—real medics, full surgical pods, stims. But here? A medieval village with no doctors and only one girl who knew basic first aid?

A1’s jaw tightened. They could pull the blade. Maybe get a few precious minutes before Marek’s body gave up. But it would hurt . A lot.

“Any way we can sedate him?” A1 asked.

Alicja shook her head, panicked. “It’s not celebration season—no one’s stocked up on liquor yet!”

Just then, a shout came from a peasant rummaging through a knight’s gear. He held up a small flask of clear liquid.

“Miss Alicja! The knights had vodka on them!”

A1 blinked. “What? Why the hell would they—”

“Give it here!” Alicja barked, hand stretched.

The peasant sprinted over, shoving the flask into her palm. She popped the cork, sniffed it, and nodded.

“Yeah. Definitely vodka. Marek—drink.”

Marek squinted at the flask. “Wait… am I even old enough for—?”

“Just drink it! ”

“Okay! Okay!”

She lifted his head and forced the liquor down his throat. He gagged slightly but managed to gulp the whole thing.

Marek winced. “Ugh. That tastes like feet .”

“We need more!” Alicja called out, waving the flask. “Everyone—check the rest of the knights!”

The villagers scrambled, rifling through the dead. To A1’s disbelief, nearly every knight had a flask strapped to their belt. Apparently, vodka was universal. Maybe the rumors made by the Helldivers from the northern sectors weren’t so exaggerated after all.

There was no time to dwell on that now.

Alicja pressed two more flasks into Marek’s lips and forced him to drink, ignoring his groans and sputters. By the end of the third flask, his words slurred. His face reddened. His eyes lost focus.

Yep. He was completely shit-faced .

“Now,” Alicja said grimly, rolling up her sleeves, “we take out the sword.”

A1 nodded, crouching beside her. He braced Marek’s shoulders while Alicja took position near the hilt. They exchanged one look — just one — and knew what had to happen next.

A1 noticed the way Alicja's hands trembled — worse now than before. If she tried pulling the sword out in this state, she might hesitate. That would only make it worse. Slower. More painful.

"Hey," A1 said quietly. "Maybe we should switch."

Alicja didn't argue. Relief flickered across her blood-streaked face as she nodded and moved aside, taking her brother’s shoulders in her arms to steady him. A1 stepped in, kneeling at Marek’s side. He wrapped his gloved fingers around the hilt of the sword and took a deep breath.

With one firm motion, he pulled.

The blade came out smoothly — but it was slick with blood and something else, something half-digested that clung to the steel in clumps. The moment it left Marek’s body, the wound erupted, blood spilling out in a thick, hot stream. Marek didn’t scream. He just twitched and exhaled sharply, his face going paper-white. The alcohol dulled the pain, maybe even the fear, but it wasn’t enough to keep his body from betraying him.

Alicja moved quickly, stripping away his tunic and then the ragged undershirt clinging to his torso. When she exposed the wound fully, she recoiled with a gag.

The blood around the cut had turned pitch black — thick and greasy, like oil. It clung to Marek’s skin in a way that blood shouldn’t. The smell hit a moment later — sickly, metallic, with an underlying stench of rot and whatever Marek ate. Alicja cursed under her breath, covering her mouth.

"Gods, it stinks."

The villagers, already forming a circle around them, instinctively backed away even further. Some turned their heads. A few gagged openly.

A1 barely smelled a thing — his helmet’s filtration systems were doing their job, though the crack in his visor was enough to give him an impression — but the look on Alicja’s face told him all he needed to know. She wouldn’t be able to finish this. Not like this.

“Give me the needle,” he said, reaching out.

She didn’t hesitate. Her hand shoved the small sewing kit into his palm, and she braced her brother again, one hand holding him steady, the other still over her mouth.

“How do you even know how to do this?” she asked, muffled. “You’re a knight.”

“In the field,” A1 said, already wiping the wound clean with a rag torn from Alicja’s blouse, “you learn to improvise. Especially when someone’s bleeding out in front of you.”

He poured what was left of the vodka over the wound. The sting would have been unbearable if Marek were fully awake, but the boy barely flinched. His eyes fluttered, unfocused.

The needle was small, far too small for a man in his armor or height. A1 removed one glove and took it up with practiced fingers. Years of entering delicate stratagem codes on his Hellpad, reloading weapons in the dark, and jury-rigging battlefield repairs had made his hands precise, despite their size.

He began stitching.

It was fast, efficient. Not pretty. But it would hold. When he finished closing the front of the wound, he used the discarded sword to snip the thread, re-threaded the needle, and carefully turned Marek onto his side. The back needed closing too. The blood was worse there—sluggish and dark, but still flowing. He worked quickly, closing the torn flesh with rough stitches. Marek was losing too much blood. The sutures would slow it, but not stop it.

They needed to wrap the wound — tight and fast.

A1 looked around. There was no bandage wide enough in the village. Alicja’s clothes were soaked and too small besides. He scanned the square until something caught his eye: the knights’ wagon at the village center, their proud white banners fluttering gently in the breeze.

“That banner,” A1 barked, pointing. “Cut it down and bring it here!”

The villagers jumped into motion. Three peasants scrambled to the wagon and tugged at the cloth, struggling to rip it free. A fourth came running with a scythe and sliced it off with a single clean stroke. The banner was passed hand-to-hand through the crowd, eventually making it to A1’s side.

Marek’s breathing had gone shallow, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. His skin looked waxy under the blood and grime, but he was still alive—barely.

A1 raised the sword again and used it to trim the banner into strips. He and Alicja, joined by two villagers with stronger stomachs than the rest, worked quickly to wrap Marek’s abdomen. The white cloth soaked up blood the moment it touched his skin, darkening with each layer, but it was thick enough to hold the pressure.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t sterile. It wasn’t even sanitary.

But it would do, for now.

A1 sat back, hands stained with blood and vodka, breathing heavy behind his visor. Marek was still alive.

With the worst of it seemingly over, A1 finally sat back on the cold dirt road, shifting away from the dark, sticky pool of Marek’s blood that had already begun to dry into the gravel. His armor creaked slightly as he exhaled, his breath slow and measured behind the mask. Beside him, Alicja gently lowered Marek’s head into her lap, brushing matted hair from his face as fresh tears streaked down her cheeks. She slapped his pale, slack face lightly, desperate.

“Marek… Marek… Please…”

Her voice cracked with each repetition, breaking into that hollow space between hope and despair.

A1 watched the two siblings in silence. There was a sharp, stinging sensation in his chest—something raw, too human. Guilt .

He couldn't deny it. He caused this.

If he had handled the situation with Kacper differently the day before—if he'd de-escalated like he was supposed to—none of this would’ve happened. None of it.

Unbidden, memories surfaced. Echoes of Calypso, of missions past. He saw those broken souls—former citizens of Super Earth, their voting rights stripped away by the Illuminates. Turned into shambling husks, abominations unable to speak, let alone vote. He remembered their eyes. How many had died because his squad had arrived too late?

He stared at Marek again. Pale. Bloodless. Still breathing, but barely.

If he had acted just a little faster with those knights...

He shook his head. Maybe Marek wouldn’t have been stabbed.

His hand went to a pouch on his belt, unclipping the seal and pulling out a small, slim vial—his last remaining Stim shot. The glass tube glowed faintly, pulsing black and yellow like liquid lightning.

He had used the first dose on himself when he crash-landed here, nursing internal injuries he hadn’t wanted to admit to. The second had been reserved—he wasn't sure if he'd need it, but this thing had saved his life countless times. Miraculously, it had survived the scuffle. 

Officially, he wasn’t supposed to use these on civilians. 

Back on Calypso, they were warned explicitly : human bodies not conditioned by Super Earth’s bioenhancements weren’t built to handle the chemical payload. Most wouldn't survive it.

But…

A1 glanced at Alicja, at Marek. Their ears. Their eyes. Their tails. The way she’d said she was a “caster.” That wasn’t just some strange medieval roleplay—they weren’t human. Not the way he understood it. Magic, animal features, odd physiology...

Maybe the Stim wouldn't kill them.

Or maybe it would. Maybe it won’t work at all.

He stared at the vial in his hand for a long moment, thumb hovering over the injection switch. Is he really gonna waste the only Stim on someone else, whose anatomy likely doesn't fit with Super Earth humans? But Marek doesn't deserve this.  

Alicja finally notices the vial A1 is holding through her tears. 

“What… what is that?” She asked weakly.

“Something that can fix Marek. Stand back.”

Then he stood. No more hesitation.

A1 stepped forward, grabbed Marek by the shoulder, and without a word, jabbed the needle into the side of his neck and pressed down. The contents of the vial shoot into his neck, and leaves the Stim sticking out on the side of his neck.

In a few seconds, Helldivers, after sustaining a life-threatening injury, should get back up and continue the fight. It's been a few seconds after, and Marek's eyes remained closed. Alicja and A1 waited with bated breath for any signs of life, but another few seconds passed, and there's still nothing. 

“SIR KNIGHT, WHAT ON TERRA DID YOU PUT IN HIM?!” Alicja yelled. 

“I know it looks bad,” he said, backing off with both hands raised, “but I swear, it’ll help him.”

“You’ve done enough helping, don’t you think?!” Her voice broke mid-sentence, tears hot and angry now. She stands up, gets up to A1’s face, puffing her chest out, face red from anger. “Why couldn’t you have just moved on last night like you said you would?! None of this would've happened if it weren't for you!”

The words stung—but before he could answer, Marek stirred.

At first, it was subtle. A twitch of the fingers. A slight shift of his legs. Then his hands moved to his face, wiping blindly across his skin. The villagers still standing nearby gasped and stepped back as one, some crossing themselves, others backing away in pure horror.

“Marek is dead ! My brother is dead!” Alicja screamed, her grief now spiraling into confusion. “You should’ve never come into our lives! We were happy! ”

But Marek sat up.

He blinked slowly, pupils dilated and unfocused. One hand reached up to the Stim needle still stuck in his neck. He pulled it out and stared at it like it was some alien artifact.

“What… is this?” he slurred. “Why do I...?” His words trailed off as his whole body relaxed, and an almost euphoric grin spread across his face. “Whoa… woooah …” He starts shaking his head side to side frantically, his hands twitching. “ Wbulululu! Hahaha! Woo, that feels… really nice…”

Alicja froze mid-sentence. She stared at him.

Marek’s pupils were blown wide, and his cheeks flushed unnaturally. He swayed as he sat upright, grinning like an idiot, clearly still halfway drunk and now, evidently, tripping balls.

“I don’t know what this stuff’s made of,” he said, running his tongue along his teeth. “But wooow . Oh my gods ! I can taste colors!...” He smacked his lips a few times. “Why does it taste like metal ?”

Alicja stepped forward slowly, a hand over her chest, staring like she wasn’t sure if she was hallucinating. A1 let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, shoulders finally sagging under the weight of adrenaline.

“Marek?” she whispered.

Marek squinted up at her, grinning. “Hey, sis? You, uh… what happened to your clothes?”

A1 braced himself. He expected Alicja to throw herself into her brother’s arms, sobbing in relief. Expected the moment of catharsis.

Instead, her eyes rolled back—and she collapsed in a heap beside Marek. Apparently, fainting ran in the family.

Marek turned to A1, still smiling dopily. “What’s her problem?”

A1 just shook his head, sitting back on his heels. “No idea.”

Relief didn’t even begin to describe what A1 felt as Marek sat up, groggy and carefree, as if nothing had happened. The boy blinked down at the banner wrapped hastily around his abdomen, more puzzled than concerned, tilting his head like he couldn’t remember how it got there.

The Stim should have taken care of any lingering internal trauma, just like it had for A1 and his fellow Helldivers. The cocktail of nanites and regenerative compounds coursing through Marek’s system meant there was nothing left to worry about. Physically, at least.

Mentally? That was another matter.

Marek was completely plastered—drunk, Stim-high, and utterly useless in his current state. His speech was slurred, his gait wobbly, and he grinned at every tree and fence post like they’d just told him a great joke. Alicja, meanwhile, remained unconscious, her breathing steady but shallow.

The villagers, having witnessed what could only be described as a miracle, kept their distance. Fear lingered in their eyes, as if unsure whether Marek’s revival was divine providence or an omen. No one moved to help.

So A1 did what no one else would. He scooped up Alicja, carrying her with surprising ease—enhanced strength made the task effortless. But even without that, she was light. Almost worryingly so. She had mentioned, offhandedly, that she was eating half rations as a means to keep her healing Arts subjugated. 

Marek stumbled behind him, muttering to himself and occasionally trying to hum a song he couldn’t remember the words to. His feet scuffed against the dirt, and he winced only once before laughing and declaring he couldn’t feel his spleen anymore.

The scene they passed on the way back to the village was grim. After the skirmish, the surviving knights of Wilków had been disarmed, stripped of their heavy armor, and tied up in the barn under heavy watch. The corpses—both theirs and the two peasants who’d died in the crossfire—had been gathered in the central square. Wails echoed from mourning families, raw and cutting. A1 looked away.

The dead knights, meanwhile, had already been picked over by opportunistic villagers. Armor, weapons, anything of use—it was all fair game now. Spoils of war. A1 didn’t interfere. He’d seen this pattern before. Justice, survival, and revenge blurred easily in the aftermath of battle.

He kept his pace steady, Alicja limp in his arms, Marek babbling behind him. They took the long route around the family cottage. A1 figured bringing Marek home to his parents in this state would do more harm than good. Alicja would want to tend to him herself when she woke up. She’d said as much, in her own stubborn way.

As they passed the cottage, Marek paused by a window and peered inside.

“They slept through… all that?” he asked, blinking in disbelief.

“Good thing they did,” A1 replied. “I’m not in the mood for another disciplinary hearing today.”

They reached Alicja’s healing house shortly after. The door hung slightly ajar, likely left that way in the frantic rush earlier. Inside, the space was tidy but humble—a makeshift infirmary with no windows, lit by the rays flowing inside. Shelves lined the walls, holding vials of strangely hued liquids, salves, and poultices sealed in corked jars. A shepherd’s staff, curved like a crescent moon, hung from a rack above the doorway. Two wooden beds sat tucked into opposite corners, each neatly made despite the chaos.

A1 gently lowered Alicja onto one of the beds, tucking a thin blanket over her frame. Her expression was calm now, the tension gone from her face.

Marek leaned on the wall beside the doorway, swaying slightly. He gave A1 a thumbs up.

“I’ll look after her,” he said, eyes still glassy. “Promise.”

A1 watched him for a long moment.

Part of him worried Marek had already forgotten why he was bandaged in the first place. The Stim had done its job, but the boy’s current state was a strange mix of euphoria and brain fog. Still, the sentiment seemed genuine.

A1 nodded once, quietly.

“Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“I won’t,” Marek mumbled, before promptly sitting down on the floor and beginning a whispered conversation with the staff rack.

A1 exhaled through his teeth, turned, and stepped out into the village, the air sharp with the lingering scent of blood and lavender.

He didn’t look back. Not yet.

The moment A1 stepped outside, two male peasants approached him at a brisk pace. One wore a torn and bloodied surcoat taken from a fallen knight—ill-fitting and slightly too large on his frame—but the look on their faces wasn’t hostile—quite the opposite.

“Sir Knight,” one of them said, standing at attention in a stiff, awkward posture, “we’ve taken the survivors into the barn. Their fate is yours to decide. We also gathered what the knights had on them—at least what wasn’t picked over by the others. You’re free to help yourself.”

A1 blinked, caught off guard by the formality. The man addressed him like a superior officer, not an outsider who had brought chaos to their village. He gave a short nod in reply.

“Oh. Uh… thank you, citizen. I’ll take a look at what’s left, then.”

They led him back toward the village center, the path lit now by torches and the faint gray glow of pre-dawn. The air was thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and disturbed earth. The chaos from earlier had given way to a strange stillness, like a battlefield just after the fighting stopped.

The bodies of the dead knights had been stripped of weapons and most of their armor, though the villagers, to their credit, had left the lower garments untouched. It was clear there would be no burial rites for them. The fallen were being dragged toward the edge of the village, their fates grim and unceremonious. Only the two peasants caught in the crossfire were laid out with care, mourners still gathered at their sides, their grief echoing in quiet sobs.

At the farmer’s market, the villagers had organized what they’d salvaged. Empty wicker baskets were now filled with looted gear—blades, helmets, bucklers, fragments of chainmail. The more valuable or intact pieces had likely already been claimed by the quickest hands.

A1 scanned the inventory without urgency. His gaze lingered on a few battered flasks of vodka, most already claimed by thirsty peasants, and then shifted to something that looked oddly familiar: square, olive-wrapped packets and squat metal tins.

Rations?

He knelt, pulled one of the packets open, retracted his visor, and bit into what he assumed was a cracker.

The impact reverberated through his skull.

Hard tack.

He winced as he forced himself to chew through the rock-hard biscuit. Dry, bland, nearly indigestible—but food was food. His stomach growled in agreement.

He pocketed several more, using the ammunition pouches on his armor to stash them. They were meant for magazines, but he had no idea when he’d be resupplied. And while taste had no measurable impact on combat performance, morale was another matter entirely.

Nearby, villagers gave him a wide berth. Some watched him cautiously. Others nodded in silent acknowledgment—respect, maybe, or fear. He couldn’t tell.

As for the weapons, he examined them with a trained eye. Most were crude but serviceable—iron-forged polearms, short swords, maces, and hammers. He’d been trained in close-quarters combat with primitive weaponry, though Super Earth command had always discouraged Helldivers from relying on it. Guns were cleaner, more efficient. 

But here?

There were no armories to restock him. No supply drops. No friendly outposts.

His sidearm was fully loaded, his rifle mostly intact, but every bullet he spent was one he’d never see again.

He hefted one of the polearms—a halberd nearly as tall as he was—and gave it a few test swings. Surprisingly balanced. Brutal, a bit complicated, but effective.

He might not like it, but he’d have to fight like the locals did now.

And he would. He slung the halberd across his back and turned toward the barn.

There was still the matter of the surviving knights. And judgment waited.

At the barn’s entrance, two villagers stood uneasily like sentries, makeshift pitchforks in hand. They weren’t soldiers—not even close—but they’d taken up the task of watching over the prisoners in the absence of authority. When A1 approached, their posture stiffened, but neither challenged him. With a small, respectful nod, they stepped aside, wordlessly recognizing him as the one meant to deal with what lay beyond those doors.

Without a word, A1 pushed open the heavy wooden doors. A gust of air rolled out, thick with the stench of straw, manure, and sweat. The dim barn light revealed six men seated on the packed earth, their wrists and ankles bound tightly with rope. Armor gone, dignity stripped, covered in bruises and cuts from what he did to them, they looked up at him with a mixture of fear and shame.

Most were young—barely more than boys—but a few bore the quiet scars of men who’d fought and lived to remember it. One among them, older than the rest, sat upright with the straight-backed pride of someone who had endured worse. His short, grey-blond hair was neatly kept, his jaw clean-shaven, though a scar ran jagged across one cheek. He didn’t avert his gaze as the others did. He watched A1 without flinching.

A1 began to pace slowly before them, his boots thudding softly on the straw-covered floor. He let the silence linger—let the fear of the unknown settle like dust—before he finally spoke.

“So,” he said evenly, “what exactly was the plan here? I understand you were sent because of the lord’s son, but what was the real end goal? Intimidation? Elimination?”

The prisoners remained quiet for a moment. Then, the older knight, the one with the scar, answered without hesitation. His voice was cold, practiced.

“We weren’t told how,” he said. “Just who. Told to make an example of you.”

A1 studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly.

“State your name, old timer.”

The man groaned as he shifted against his bonds. “Name’s Buell.”

“Buell…” A1 repeated, letting the oddity of the name sit in the air. “Unusual name around here.”

Buell snorted, his expression hardening into something bordering on amused contempt. “Aye, that’s ‘cause I’m no from ‘round here, ya daft git. I’m fae Victoria, ya fat dobber.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the younger knights around him.

“Don’t provoke him,” one of them whispered desperately. “Please.”

But A1 wasn’t offended. If anything, he was intrigued. Victoria . Must be another nation in this strange world. Buell’s accent and manner of speaking remind him of the people who once lived in the northern isles in Sector 4, once filled with the proudest warriors without a verbal filter, now reduced to a crater-ridden husk. Yet, the dialect was unmistakable, even universal. The man’s words carried the same raw edge, the same defiant pride.

“I see…” A1 murmured. “So the Lord of Wilkow really sent you?”

“Who the fock else d’ye think sent us?” Buell replied, voice rising like gravel. “You crippled his boy—what, ye think he’d just sit on his arse after that? Course he’s sendin’ folk. Ye made him look weak. Can’t even walk now, poor bastard. Not that I blame ye—wee shite had it comin’ if ye ask me.”

A1 paused, absorbing that bit of news. So he had paralyzed Kacper after all. In a way, it was a relief. The brutal beating hadn’t been overkill—it had been justice. Or, at least, an answer to brutality in kind.

“Are there any more of you?” he asked after a moment.

One of the younger knights finally found the courage to speak. “There were twenty of us, sir. But half left for the capital. They're beginning their training for the 23rd Kazimierz Major Season.”

So that was it again—the tournament. A recurring theme in this land, whispered about in markets and scribbled on flyers, and also in Sebastian's newspapers. It held weight here, power, maybe even purpose.

Buell grunted.

“Aye, yer lookin’ at the poor bastards who stayed,” he said. “I’ve seen too many o’ these fockin’ tournaments tae care anymore. It’s all shite. Blood, coin, and false glory, that’s what it is.”

A1 regarded him, arms crossed over his armored chest. Blood, coin, and false glory . It was a grim summation—one that rang all too familiar in his ears. It didn’t matter what world or galaxy you came from. Men died for the same empty reasons.

A1 kept his questioning measured. He wanted to learn more—about Wilkow, their enigmatic lord, this nation of Kazimierz—but he had to play it smart. Too much curiosity might raise eyebrows. As far as these men were concerned, he was just another local knight, one with a particularly terrifying resumé. He intended to keep it that way.

One by one, the captured knights gave their names.

Artur, twenty-one.
Lukasz, twenty-five.
Michal, twenty-four.
Krysztof, barely twenty.
Grzegorz, twenty-nine.
And of course, Buell—whose name and age, forty, A1 already knew.

Forty. Not particularly old by Super Earth standards—hell, some Helldivers were still leaping into orbital drops well into their sixties. But here, where knights fell by the dozen over petty squabbles or died for the amusement of sponsors, surviving that long meant something. And yet, had things gone differently, A1 would’ve split him in half like the others.

Most of what they knew about the Lord of Wilkow was secondhand at best. Their commander, now a corpse in a shallow grave, had been the only one with a direct line to the man. Whatever secrets passed between the two had died with him. Still, what the knights could offer was telling. The Lord was powerful—wealthy enough to hire and equip a small squad of knights just to guard one town. That kind of coin didn't come from piety or public service.

But the Lord’s son? His reputation was far more established. Spoiled, entitled, mean-spirited. Even among his father's hired blades, the boy was viewed with thinly veiled contempt. A1 didn’t need to ask for more; he’d already seen the kind of man Kacper was. And he had already acted. Perhaps being crippled would teach the bastard humility, if he was capable of learning anything at all.

The town of Wilkow itself, they explained, was a port sector. That term caused A1’s brow to twitch—but he nodded along, feigning familiarity. Apparently, this nomadic city was a sprawling, mobile metropolis that roamed the landscape, and Wilkow sat on its outer edge—an ideal location for trade and commerce. Kazimierz, it seemed, was obsessed with commerce. So much so that even their sacred knightly traditions—the so-called Major Season—had been consumed by it.

Buell spat to the side, bitterness in his voice. “Used tae be about honor, ken? Provin’ yerself. Now it’s just sponsors this, sponsors that . Sell yer soul for a few coins and a flashy banner. Fockin’ disgrace.”

A1’s jaw tightened.

There was something about that—about the thought of merit twisted into marketplace entertainment—that ignited a deep revulsion in him. This wasn't just about cultural differences. This was systemic rot. Knights reduced to pawns for the rich, dueling for profit rather than duty. It was everything he loathed about capitalism. If he hated anything more than corporate puppeteering, it was the way it bled into governance, into lives, into ideals. Back home, it had corrupted everything from elections to education. Now it was doing the same to honor.

He pressed them further.

The Major Season would take place in the capital—Kawalerielki. The games hadn't begun yet, which meant the four nomadic cities that made up greater Kazimierz hadn’t docked together. But they would, soon.

When he asked whether these six planned on joining the tournament, they hesitated. They wanted to, some of them admitted. But they couldn't abandon Wilkow.

“Somebody has to stay and collect the taxes,” one muttered.

That gave A1 pause. He tilted his head.

“And… anything else?” he asked.

Krysztof, the youngest of the group, glanced down. “No, sir. Nothing that comes to mind.”

A1 stared at them.

“Aren’t you supposed to…” he gestured vaguely, voice dry, “...protect the townspeople?”

That earned a sudden, wheezing laugh from Buell.

“Wasn’t in the job description, aye?”

A1 blinked. “So you’re just there to… leech off of them?”

Grzegorz, the one nearing thirty, gave a casual shrug. “When you put it like that… yeah. Somewhere along the line, we stopped being knights. Turned into the Lord’s glorified tax collectors.”

A1 didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at them—these would-be defenders of the people, reduced to nothing more than armored bureaucrats.

He muttered, almost to himself, “...Sweet land of Liberty…”

And for a moment, he missed it. The real one. Managed democracy is not perfect, not by a long shot—but at least Super Earth's system pretended to care about freedom.

Even the bugs with acid spit, socialist bots, and the sentient squids hadn’t been this corrupt.

A1 had heard enough. He stood, meaning to excuse himself and check on Marek and Alicja—but a pause held him back. These knights—broken as they were—couldn’t be left here forever. Not just because they were his prisoners, but because with their commander dead and half their number wiped out, A1 had effectively crippled the local arm of law enforcement. Whatever passed for order in this part of Kazimierz was now shattered—and worse, he was the one who'd shattered it.

He glanced back at them, noting the shift in their expressions. They knew it too. Most looked uneasy, as if only now realizing what came next. All except for Buell, who, leaning against a hay bale, looked entirely unfazed.

“I could always just head back tae Victoria,” he said casually. “Pick up some merc gigs, aye? Though I'm not so sure about these wankers here.”

Artur sighed. “You killed our commander, so… we’re effectively leaderless now. And I don’t think Buell wants the job. He’s only here for the money.”

“I am,” Buell affirmed, with zero shame.

Lukasz, the third-oldest, crossed his arms. “The rest of our order is still in Kawalerielki—training, mostly. So we can’t just ask them to send a replacement. And after this? After we got wrecked by one guy?” He gave a slow shake of his head. “Yeah, that won’t go over well.”

Michal scoffed. “Well, sounds like a leadership spot’s open. Not that I’m volunteering.”

“You can count me out on that!” Buell barked.

Artur raised his hands. “Not me. I’m not trying to get snapped in half like a twig.”

“I’m technically still a squire,” Krysztof muttered.

“Forget it,” Lukasz grumbled.

Grzegorz exhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You guys are hopeless.” Then he turned his eyes on A1. “You bested us. We’re at your mercy. Whatever happens next… that’s your call.”

A1 stood still, gaze passing over each of them in silence. He crossed his arms.

“And what exactly are my options?”

Buell didn’t hesitate. “Well, ya could kill us.” The others turned sharply toward him—shock and outrage on their faces. Only Grzegorz remained impassive. Buell shrugged. “Or… let us go. Leaderless. In disgrace.”

Silence followed. It hung heavy in the air like smoke from a dying fire.

Then Krysztof spoke, tentative but oddly hopeful. “Say! What if… you took us in? Like… we become your retinue?”

Lukasz turned to him, incredulous. “Are you serious? You want the man who nearly killed us to lead us?”

“I mean…” Artur began, hesitating. “That is a third option. I just don’t know how we’d explain it to the people of Wilkow. Or the lord. Especially when they find out the guy who crippled his son is now… in charge.”

Lukasz nodded grimly. “Yeah, but—did you see the way he fought? Ten of us went in. Four of us are dead. And the rest of us didn’t stand a chance. I don’t know what kind of knight he is, or what order he comes from, but… he knows what he’s doing.”

“Enough with yar squabblin’,” Buell growled, standing up and brushing hay off his coat. “Look, whoever ye are, I don’t give a Zalak’s arse what your plan is, but I’d rather not rot in this shite-ridden barn. So deal with us now, will ya? I dinnae fancy staying here any longer.”

A1 didn’t respond immediately. He stood there, arms folded, expression unreadable, lost in thought.

Letting them go would invite problems. Sooner or later, their comrades would return from Kawalerielki. And when they did, they’d hear all about the strange, unkillable knight who tore through half their squad. If A1 was lucky, they’d just send another group to investigate. If he wasn’t, they’d come for blood.

Killing them? No. That wasn’t the answer. Not now. He was already a cop-killer by medieval standards. Slaughtering the rest would only confirm every fear and rumor about him.

But leading them…

That idea lingered. Helldivers worked best in squads, sure—but they weren’t like the rigid chains of the Super Earth Armed Forces. There was no formal rank structure. Each Helldiver had autonomy—fight together or fight alone. As long as the mission was completed and the enemy’s guts were left steaming in the mud, no one cared how you got it done.

A1 had never led a squad. Not really. He’d cooperated with SEAF troopers during the Calypso Crisis, supported other units during the Illuminate Sieges—but command? That had never been his job.

Still, the idea of traveling with others again—after losing his entire crew when the Super Destroyer went down—sparked a small, strange warmth inside him. An ache, maybe. A reminder that even someone like him—conditioned, brutal, mission-focused—was still human.

He looked back at them.

These weren’t ideal allies. Some were jaded. Some were cowards. Some had no clue what they were doing.

But they were alive. Willing, somewhat. Maybe… maybe that was enough, but that’s too soon.

A1 decided to give it more thought. Which meant—for better or worse—the knights would have to remain in this "shite-ridden barn" for a while longer. But if they were going to stay, they weren’t staying armed, not with his gear.

He gave them one last glance—half slouched in hay, half grumbling in frustration—then turned and ascended to the barn’s loft. They didn’t like being left in limbo, but they had no leverage. No weapons. No leader. No choice.

Above, tucked beneath canvas and old tarps, A1 retrieved the rest of his gear: his Liberator rifle, the Redeemer SMG, a single thermite grenade, and what little ammo he had left. He did a quick mental inventory. Supplies were thinning. He’d need to restock or improvise soon.

When he descended, the creaking of the wood drew Buell’s eyes first—and immediately, the grizzled knight perked up, eyeing A1’s gear like a dog sniffing an unfamiliar breed.

Buell tilted his head. “What are you, huh?” he muttered. “Those guns… You one o’ those Apostolic Knights from Laterano I heard about?”

The others, still lounging or writhing from their injuries, looked up sharply at the name—clearly unfamiliar, yet reverent. Even injured, the word Laterano seemed to carry weight among them.

Another alien phrase. Laterano . Apostolic . A1 filed it away with the growing list of unfamiliar terminology that meant something to them but nothing to him. 

“What about it if I’m one of them? Maybe these guns were already mine to begin with,” he replied, sheathing his SMG, along with his rifle.

Buell leaned back, letting out a low whistle. “Who knows? Haven’t met many Sanktas in my life, so I can’t say much.”

Another one . Sanktas . He’d never heard that word either, but something about the way Buell said it—like it carried religious or mythic weight—made it clear these people thought he was something else . A1 gave a slow shake of his head, more amused than alarmed now. His made-up backstory, less than a day old, was spiraling into a mythology all its own.

Without another word, he turned and pulled the barn doors shut behind him, locking the knights inside once more. The two villagers—those same wide-eyed peasants—stood guard outside, visibly stiffening at the sight of him fully armed again. Their jaws slackened a bit, eyes drawn to his unfamiliar weapons with a mix of awe and caution.

The word Sankta must be connected to firearms, then. Perhaps a gun-toting clergy member or a holy warrior. Whatever it meant, he doesn’t care. The only religion he follows is managed democracy.

A1 left them there, still soaking in the moment, and strode across the muddy path toward the side building where Marek and Alicja had been moved. He needed to check on them. See if anything had changed.

When A1 stepped back into the healing house, the scent of boiled linen and dried herbs filled his nostrils through the cracks of his visor. The room was still, heavy with the lingering tension of the day’s chaos. Alicja had regained consciousness at last, though she sat slumped at the table with her head cradled in one hand, her entire posture radiating exhaustion and defeat.

Pioter was there too. He had arrived sometime earlier, dressed in his hunting gear—patched, bloodstained, and faded by the elements. He was quietly helping Marek into a fresh set of clothes, guiding the boy’s weakened limbs with the kind of care only a father could offer.

Marek looked better than he had before—alive, at least—but something was off. His skin had turned pale and wan, his lips drained of color. His eyes, too, had a strange sunken look, as though sleep had evaded him for days. He offered A1 a sluggish wave and a crooked smile as the Helldiver approached, but even that seemed to take effort.

The stim had done its job, at least on the surface. Still, A1 could tell the boy needed far more than a panacea. He needed time—and peace.

Pioter finished dressing Marek, then walked over to his daughter and wrapped an arm gently around her shoulders. Alicja didn’t react. She let out a long, quiet sigh and kept her face buried in her palms. The silence that followed was thick, almost brittle.

Then Pioter noticed A1’s presence. The Helldiver’s silhouette filled the doorway, blotting out the sunlight.

“Oh. Hello, sir knight,” Pioter said, his voice low but even. “What brings you back?”

“I wanted to check on Marek,” A1 replied.

The boy lifted his hand again in a half-hearted wave. “Hi.”

Pioter nodded once, his gaze drifting briefly to his son before returning to A1. “Right… My daughter said you gave him something. Something that brought him back from the dead.”

“I didn’t bring him back from the dead,” A1 said quickly. “I’m no necromancer. I just... had a vial. Very advanced medicine. Unique to my guild. It restores vitality fast.”

Pioter raised an eyebrow, skepticism and weariness mingling in his expression. “So, he’s not a zombie. Hard to tell sometimes. Neither of them has working brains.”

“Hey!” Marek protested faintly from the bed, too tired to put real bite behind it.

A1 couldn’t help but chuckle. “Give it some time. He might feel even better than before he got stabbed.”

Pioter winced sharply at that. “Don’t mention that around his mother,” he muttered. “She has a weak heart. And, unfortunately, my daughter inherited it too.” He gestured subtly toward Alicja, who hadn’t moved an inch. “It didn’t help when our lord decreed that all Arts users go on half-rations.”

A1 frowned behind his visor. “Will she be able to use her… Arts at full strength if she starts eating properly again?”

“That’s the theory,” Pioter said with a tired shrug. “But it’s been months of this. Who knows if her body even remembers what full strength feels like.”

“I see.”

A long silence stretched between them. Marek leaned further back into the bed, eyelids growing heavy. Alicja remained still, wrapped in her own thoughts—or perhaps trying not to feel anything at all.

Finally, Pioter slung his satchel over his shoulder. He leaned down to kiss his daughter on the cheek, then turned for the door. Just as he stepped over the threshold, he paused and glanced over his shoulder.

“This time,” he said, his voice calm but laced with ice, “try and protect either of them, sir knight.”

Then he walked out, leaving only the fading echo of his footsteps and a lingering coldness behind.

A1 didn’t move. He understood what had just happened — what hadn’t been said aloud. Pioter blamed him. Maybe not entirely, maybe not even fairly, but the man still saw him as the reason his son nearly died.

And looking at Marek now—the pallor, the hollowness in his eyes — A1 felt that same gnawing doubt in his own gut.

Something wasn’t right. Not with the boy. Not with any of this.

Alicja didn’t even look at A1 when he passed. Her head remained low, resting in her palm, and her eyes seemed fixed on a distant thought she couldn’t escape from. Who could blame her? The day had already exacted a brutal toll.

A1 moved past her without a word, stepping closer to Marek’s bedside. From afar, the boy had looked stable, conscious, smiling, even joking. But up close, things were different. Beneath the faint color in his cheeks, his skin was ashen, and a strange puffiness had gathered around his belly that hadn’t been there before. Something about it set off an internal alarm.

Marek shifted to sit upright, pressing his back against the wall with effort. His limbs moved like they were filled with syrup, and his head lolled slightly to one side. His eyes struggled to focus.

“Hey,” Marek said groggily, blinking against the sunlight. “Leave some light for us, man.”

A1 gave a small nod. “How are you feeling, soldier?”

“Like I got stabbed in the gut,” Marek muttered with a slurred laugh. “I felt fine right after you gave me that weird vial, but... then my legs gave out. The floor looked like it wanted to punch me in the face. I guess I’m just tired. Who wouldn’t be, right?”

A1 studied him closely. “Have you eaten anything?”

Marek paused, thinking. “I… haven’t. But it’s fine, I don’t feel hungry. At least I’m not missing my daily intake of iron.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Sorry, I got that from my sis’s books. She taught me to read with them.”

“How nice,” A1 murmured. He glanced down at his gloved hand, then tapped the interface on his left wrist gauntlet. The display flickered faintly behind a spiderweb of hairline cracks. “Let me check something real quick.”

“Sure.”

A1 reached out and pressed two fingers gently against Marek’s neck, feeling the slow, steady beat of his pulse. He turned his eyes to his Hellpad. After a brief delay, the HUD loaded a report:

Strange alien sapient lifeform detected. Running diagnostics…

Status: Alive

BPM: 100

BP: 98 mmHg

Pulse Oximetry: 90% 

Dangerously low level of oxygen. Hypoxemia imminent

Heightened blood toxicity levels detected. Seek medical attention.

“Oh, sweet liberty,” A1 muttered under his breath.

Marek blinked at him. “Um... what?”

A1 pulled his fingers away slowly, trying to calm the sudden tightness in his chest. That couldn’t be right. The Stim should have neutralized any toxins already. Unless…

“It’s nothing,” he lied, voice tight. “Just… try to get some rest. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

Marek shrugged. “Not really. Though I wouldn’t mind a bedpan nearby. Funny thing is, I don’t know how many hours it’s been… but I can’t remember the last time I peed.”

That did it. A1’s gaze snapped to the corner of his visor HUD. Through the crackling static and fractured glass, he made out the time: 13:47. Early afternoon. He had fought the knights sometime in the late morning. Meaning a few hours had passed—at least two, maybe more—and Marek still hadn’t urinated?

That wasn’t just bad. That was dangerously abnormal.

“Just stay here, soldier,” A1 said, straightening up. “I need to speak to your sister.”

Marek leaned his head back against the wall, smiling faintly. “Sure! Don’t worry, I won’t go anywhere.” He gave a weak chuckle. “Not like I can anyway.”

A1 forced a thin smile before turning away. The boy was fading. Something inside him was quietly failing, and the Stim hadn’t fixed it. It had only delayed it.

He needed answers — and soon.

A1 left Marek to rest and circled the counter, approaching Alicja from the other side. She still didn’t look up. Her head remained bowed, her face buried in her hands, her whole posture weighed down by fatigue and despair. There was no seat available, so A1 quietly lowered himself to one knee, bringing himself eye-level with her slumped form.

“Miss Citize—” he caught himself. “Miss Alicja… about your brother.”

His voice was quiet, solemn.

“I’m… really sorry that it’s come to this. Maybe you were right. Maybe I should’ve just moved on. But I didn’t want to leave any loose ends. I wanted to finish what I started here. I wanted to say goodbye to you and your family properly before I did.”

He paused, watching for any reaction. She gave none.

“Your family has been kind. Generous. Your brother—he was brave, and—”

Alicja cut him off with a bitter scoff, her voice muffled by her palms. “I wouldn’t call it brave, sir knight. He was stupid. Dangerously reckless.”

She exhaled shakily and pressed her fingers harder against her face.

“He wanted so badly to prove himself, and this is what he got. I kept telling my father—Marek wanted to prove that he was ready. He was getting stir-crazy, cooped up in this gods-forsaken village. But he’s not a veteran hunter like my father. He’s not even in tune with the Arts like I am. He’s just some dumbass kid trying to prove he was more than he is.”

“He is more than he is,” A1 said softly. “And he’ll be fine.”

Alicja finally lifted her head just enough to glare sideways at him. Her eyes were raw, her voice edged with steel. “No, he’s not. Stop lying to yourself.”

A1 didn’t respond.

“I don’t know what exactly you gave Marek,” she went on, voice quieter now, hoarse and fraying at the edges, “but I can feel it. Something’s still wrong.”

He swallowed hard. “...Is there any way we can fix it?”

“Got any more of those miracle vials?” she asked, her tone dry and brittle.

“I used my last one.”

Alicja gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Figures.”

Her hands dropped from her face, her shoulders sagging.

“I don’t know what else to do, sir knight,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “My Arts aren’t strong enough. I don’t think I can do more than force-feed him potions and hope for the best.”

A1 frowned, recalling what her father had said—about the rations, about how the lord’s decree weakened her by design. Arts users like her were kept on half portions and deliberately held back.

But his pouches were still heavy with the knights’ confiscated rations—sealed packets of crackers, tins of oatcakes. Maybe that was the answer. He reached into his gear and placed them gently on the counter.

“Have something to eat,” he said. “An army doesn’t march on an empty stomach… and you can’t help Marek on one, either.”

This time, she didn’t turn him away. Her red-rimmed eyes finally met his. She looked ragged—hair tangled, skin pale—but something in her gaze softened. Without a word, she opened a tin, broke an oatcake in half, and began eating.

She ate fast. Ravenously. One tin disappeared. Then another. Then a third. Fifteen oatcakes in all. A1 watched in quiet astonishment as she devoured them, crumbs clinging to her fingers and lips.

Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she looked up again. “Do you… have any water?”

He opened his mouth to say no , until he remembered the hydration pack tucked beneath his cape. He’d barely touched it since arriving in Rolnicze. It should still be full. He quickly pulled the hydration bladder free and handed it to her. The purification tablets would have neutralized any bacteria, and the self-heating core had sterilized it on the march.

Alicja looked at the container strangely at first, head tilted in confusion, but then took a long, slow sip. Her throat moved as she swallowed, the act almost meditative.

This is fine, A1 thought. She needs it more than I do. Better it’s used than wasted.

He said nothing, only watched her drink, quietly hoping that something in this moment — water, food, or maybe just being seen — would begin to restore her strength. Because something was still wrong with Marek. And if they were going to save him, Alicja would need every ounce of power she had.

Alicja let out a long, relieved sigh and offered a faint smile.

“Thanks… It’s been a while since I’ve had a full stomach, but… I can feel my strength returning,” she murmured, a touch of surprise in her voice. Then, as if remembering something crucial, her eyes flicked toward the doorframe. “There’s just one more thing we need. Do you see that crook up there?”

She pointed toward the shepherd’s crook hanging above the doorway — an old, timeworn staff nestled across a pair of hooks beyond her reach.

“I need a catalyst to properly conjure my Arts,” she explained. “So… would you get it for me?”

A1 nodded, rising to his full height—nearly knocking his helmet against the ceiling beams as he did so.

“Of course, Miss Citizen.”

Alicja scoffed at the formality, though she quickly turned away to hide the small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

With practiced efficiency, A1 retrieved the crook and brought it to her. Up close, it appeared more than a mere walking stick; its surface was smoothed from years of use, and faint carvings wound around its shaft like ivy — runes, maybe, or just the idle whittling of the previous healer who once owned it.

Alicja took it gently, her fingers brushing along its wooden curve. She stared at it for a long moment, then said, almost to herself, “I… I’m not sure I can do this. I’ve never held a staff before. The old healer who left— she knew how to wield this. Me? I just…”

“Miss Citizen.”

His voice, sharp and sudden, snapped her out of it.

“Look at your brother,” A1 said, his tone firm and clipped. “He needs you now more than ever. Don’t hesitate. When you hesitate, you stop . And when you stop, you miss the one chance you might have had to save someone.”

There was more behind those words than just concern—years of buried guilt, past missions gone wrong, failed protections he couldn’t rewrite. Civilians who had died under his watch. Orders that came too late. Miscalculated orbital strikes. Choices that cost lives.

And Alicja felt it.

Something shifted in her expression. The fear and self-doubt gave way to something steadier—determination. Her fingers tightened around the crook’s shaft. She stood straighter, the hesitation melting from her posture like frost in morning sun. Behind her, Marek had reclined further onto the bed, but he, too, was watching. His pale face still carried a sluggish daze, but there was a quiet pride in his faint, crooked smile.

“You’re right,” she said at last, nodding. “I understand, sir knight.”

Then, with a sheepish chuckle, she added, “But… for this next part, I might need a little privacy. Sorry. I can’t exactly do this with an audience.”

A1 tilted his head respectfully. “Of course. In that case, I’ll take my leave. There’s something I still need to take care of. But if you need anything—anything at all—come find me. I’ll help however I can.”

“It’s okay, sir knight,” she said softly. “You’ve done enough.”

He turned and stepped toward the door. Just as he opened it, the afternoon breeze swept into the house, rustling the loose papers on the counter and sending his cape fluttering behind him like a banner in the wind.

“Wait! Sir knight!”

A1 paused, glancing over his shoulder.

Alicja raised a hand, her expression uncertain but sincere.

“I… I’m really sorry for what I said earlier,” she said, her voice cracking just slightly. “None of us knew it would turn out like this, and honestly… it is Marek’s fault for getting himself into this mess.”

“Guilty as charged!” Marek chimed in from the bed, his words slow but not without humor.

Alicja shook her head but smiled faintly. “You’ve been really helpful. And… sometimes things just spiral out of control. My emotions did. I lashed out. I shouldn’t have. Will you forgive me?”

A1 chuckled under his breath and waved it off with a gloved hand.

“I understood your frustration perfectly. I already had.” He paused at the threshold. “Take care of your brother. It’ll do both of us good if he lives to see another day.”

Then, with quiet conviction, he added, “But rest assured—I’ll make this right. I promise.”

Alicja smiled again—this time, a genuine one. No bitterness. No tears. Just a quiet thanks.

And with no further words, A1 stepped outside once more, the door closing behind him with a soft click .

...

Chapter Text

Refuge in Audacity (0-6-2)

What A1 needed to take care of had nothing to do with the captured knights—or at least, not directly. His mind lingered instead on the fight itself. On how close it had been. How he might’ve ended up with broken ribs or worse if Marek’s sudden collapse hadn’t bought him that brief, desperate surge of resolve.

He replayed it over and over—the weight of armored fists, the bone-jarring impacts, the way their steel weapons had outclassed his fists. It was too close. Far too close.

If he’d still had his firearms, it would’ve been over before they even jumped off their wagon. Precision fire, calculated bursts. But he didn’t. Not anymore. And while his combat knife had been on him the whole time, he doubted it could've even scratched their plate armor. In that moment, he was a Helldiver stripped of his hell—reduced to muscle and instinct alone.

But now, he had something. A weapon. A real one.

In his hands, he held a halberd—almost as tall as he was, with a wicked edge and a seasoned heft. He turned it over in his grip, testing its weight, letting his memory tug him elsewhere. Somewhere far from here.

Calypso.

There, they’d been issued weapons like this. “Stun lances,” the brass called them—long polearms tipped with electric nodes capable of frying a man from the inside out. A mercy for some, a punishment for others. They were used just as much for crowd control as they were for execution. On Calypso, where the atmosphere was barely breathable and the enemies weren't always foreign, melee wasn't just a last resort. It was an inevitability.

A1 remembered the grip. The stance. The precise footwork. He’d trained with it, sparred with it, even taken one across sectors against regulation. But that was a long time ago. He hadn’t held one like it since.

And he worried— had he gone rusty?

He couldn’t afford to be. If firearms were off the table for the foreseeable future, he’d have to fight like the locals. Like the knights did. Tooth and nail. Blade and grit.

So he took the halberd and made his way to the southern outskirts of Rolnicze—where the forest thinned and the meadows stretched open and bare. Privacy. Space. No eyes to watch if he stumbled or fell flat on his back.

The halberd still felt foreign in his hands—awkward in some moments, almost too light in others. He could probably use it one-handed if he tried, but it lacked the balance of the tools he was used to.

As he moved, his eyes caught sight of something he’d left behind: a diamond-shaped shield, one of the knight’s discarded armaments. He hadn’t been trained with shields—unless you counted the deployable force fields strapped to his backpack. Still, it seemed simple enough. A defensive tool was a defensive tool. Maybe it’d be worth coming back for. He made a mental note to return for it later.

But for now, the spear.

Standing in the heart of the empty meadow, A1 took a steady breath. The wind stirred faintly, brushing across his visor. He planted his feet. Gripped the polearm with both hands.

Then he moved.

Thrust. Pull. Slash. Step. Reset.

Again. Again.

The halberd cut through the air in wide arcs, its weight less cumbersome with each repetition. Muscle memory returned—clumsy at first, then steadier, more fluid. Every movement unearthed old instincts buried beneath intense gunmetal routine. There was something almost meditative about it. A rhythm, a dance. A way to fight without noise.

And as he continued, something inside him began to rattle.

While he practiced with the halberd, the cracks along A1’s visor began to flicker—subtle at first. A few dead pixels here, a flicker of light distortion there. Then came the streaks—iridescent rainbow-like stripes bleeding across the HUD in thin, digital veins.

He paused mid-thrust and glanced down.

The halberd had changed.

It wasn’t a halberd anymore. It looked exactly like the stun lance he’d once been issued on Calypso—black shaft, reinforced nodes, crackling with dormant voltage. He blinked, and just as quickly, it became a halberd again.

He froze, taking a breath in through his nose. His skin prickled under his suit, cold sweat forming across his brow and soaking into the helmet’s dampening layers. He forced himself to focus.

The smell of grass.

Of wildflowers. Fresh air. Birds chirping.

Normal.

He inhaled again.

Cordite. Smoke. Rotting fish. Ozone. It hit like a wave—too real, too sharp to ignore. He staggered, head jerking slightly as he scanned his surroundings. But nothing had changed. It was still just the meadow. Just Rolnicze. Just peace.

But his gut said otherwise. Something was wrong. His body knew it before his brain could process it.

Still gripping the halberd, he tried to resume his drills—but it felt heavier now, unwieldy. His steps grew sluggish. He looked down—and the grass was gone.

Asphalt replaced it. The soft earth had become cold pavement beneath his boots. He glanced up, and the sunlit field was no more.

He was back on Calypso.

The sky was pitch black, the kind of black only space colonies could manufacture. The road stretched out in silence beneath dim, flickering street lamps. Condensation and oil slicks clung to everything. Shadows dripped from the walls like ink.

He looked down. A stun lance, no mistake this time. The tip was alive with electric fury, hissing faintly.

And it was already embedded in something.

A Voteless.

Once-human. Now… not, stripped of their humanity, and their rights to vote. 

Its skin was pallid gray, smooth like leather stretched too thin. Its arms were deformed, ending in glistening tentacles, pulsing with bioluminescent veins. Glowing blue eyes stared forward, dead and blank. Its clothing had fused into its flesh—patches of a tattered jumpsuit melted into its torso, a synthetic muzzle burned into its face.

The lance crackles inside its chest, frying it from within.

And then—its eyes changed.

That glow. It faded. What was left behind wasn’t alien or monstrous.

It was human.

Startled clarity lit up its gaze. It looks down at the lance protruding from its chest… then to its own arms. Horror dawns across its face as reality sets in. It slowly looks up at A1, trembling—but not from fear.

It raises a shaking hand.

And saluted.

A perfect, rigid Super Earth salute.

A1 yanks the lance free.

The Voteless collapses. 

He stared, breath shallow, the lance trembling in his grip. A shriek tore through the alleys—one of the others, probably drawn to the noise—but he couldn’t move. He was locked in place, boots rooted to the pavement.

Then something seizes his shoulder.

“ A1, get ahold of yourself! ”

A voice. A presence. Hands shaking him, pulling him back.

R2.

He turns, blinking, heart still thudding in his ears.

“I’m here,” A1 muttered, though the words felt distant. Weak. He wasn’t sure if he believed himself.

Behind R2, another Helldiver—M3—slammed his palm against a strange cylindrical device.

“HELLBOMB ARMED! CLEAR THE AREA!” he bellowed, already sprinting.

He kicked another Helldiver—O4—off the mounted gun. “MOVE YOUR ASS, O4, WE NEED TO GO!”

The Hellbomb beeped. Its LED blinks faster and faster, an urgent countdown spiraling toward zero.

A1 turned and ran, R2 right beside him—but his armor was too heavy. Every step felt slower than the last. The sound of the ticking bomb merged with the pounding in his skull. No time. Not enough time.

He spotted a half-collapsed building—no doors, half a wall missing. No choice.

He dived for cover.

Just as the bomb reached zero.

When he hit the ground, A1 braced for the impact of cold, cracked tiles—the kind found in Calypso’s dead streets.

Instead, he landed in grass.

Soft, dry, sun-warmed grass. It cradled his body, and long blades poked through the cracks in his visor. Their texture, the smell of earth and green life—real, immediate—was enough to snap him back to reality.

His chest rose and fell rapidly. The halberd was still clenched tight in his hands, though tufts of straw now clung to its tip.

He sat up slowly, heart pounding like a war drum in his ears. With effort, he steadied his breath and looked around.

He was back.

The meadow stretched gently around him, Rolnicze just beyond the hill, still nestled in peace. Nothing burned. Nothing screamed. No monsters. No salutes.

But in front of him, something had fallen.

A scarecrow lay sprawled face-first in the dirt, a wide puncture wound carved clean through its chest. Stray pieces of its straw innards spilled out like yellow blood.

A1 exhaled—relieved. At least it wasn’t a person.

Then, heavy footsteps.

A peasant farmer came stomping down the slope toward him, arms swinging, face red with fury.

“Hey! What’s the big idea?! I just spent all day settin’ that—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

The man’s eyes scanned A1’s face through the cracked visor.

Bloodshot. Pupils like pinholes. Shoulders tense. Hands trembling slightly, still gripping the halberd like he was braced for an ambush. His breathing was steady now, but too slow, too deliberate.

The farmer’s anger drained from his face like water from a sieve.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away—briskly—back to his fields.

A1 didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

He looked once more at the broken scarecrow, its face buried in the soil, and the wind gently nudging its limp sleeve.

That was enough training for today.

With the halberd still in hand—gripped tighter than necessary—he turned and made his way back to Rolnicze, each step lighter, but not free of weight.

When A1 returned to Rolnicze, the village was quiet—but not in peace.

The tension hung over the thatched roofs like smoke after a burn. People had gone back to work, but their movements were sluggish, uncertain. Farmers dragged hoes across soil they weren’t sure was worth planting anymore. Their eyes glanced over their shoulders more often than toward the sun.

He could feel it in the air: doubt.

The villagers no longer looked at him the same way. Those who once watched him with reverence now averted their eyes. Some glanced with wariness. Others with veiled disappointment. No words were spoken, but the silence said enough.

Maybe they finally realized what he did wasn’t heroic—just necessary. Maybe they saw the Lord's son left broken and realized this wasn’t a victory. Maybe he was the escalation.

But he was defending himself. He told himself that again. Over and over.

He passed by the wagon the knights had arrived in. The burdenbeast was still there, its hulking form chewing lazily on hay the villagers had set out. It was chained to the wagon, unable to roam, but at least it was fed. Taken care of. That, at least, remained simple.

The same couldn’t be said for the villagers.

A1 made his way to the makeshift weapon stand in the market—once a symbol of triumph, now a pile of looted arms that felt heavier than they looked.

He made a beeline for the diamond-shaped shield. Its odd design intrigued him—broad, angular, not just for defense, he suspected. Maybe it could be used to ram or hook. But when he tried to strap it on, it didn’t fit. The inner braces were too tight around his arm, and one of the straps blocked access to his Hellpad. That wouldn’t do.

Not that the Hellpad had much combat value now—but it was more than a glorified stratagem tablet. It had maps, diagnostics, logs. Tools he still relied on.

He looked up, scanning the village, and recalled: Rolnicze had a blacksmith. Maybe they could modify it for him. Make it fit. Make it his .

He thought briefly about payment.

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve searched the knights for coin. But he already knew the peasants had stripped them clean. And there was always the pouch Alicja gave him… He grimaced at the thought. After Marek’s condition, it felt wrong to use it for himself. Like stealing from a debt he hadn’t repaid yet.

He turned his eyes back to the weapons laid out on the stall. Most of the swords were useless to him—too short, awkward grip. He already had the halberd.

But then he noticed something else: a war hammer, and a flanged mace.

His knee ached just looking at them—echoes of the pain he’d felt during the brawl. He could still feel the dull crack of steel smashing against his hamstrings. Brutal. Effective. Especially against armored targets.

He picked up the flanged mace.

Its weight surprised him—dense, but not cumbersome. He tested a few grips, a few swings. It was heavy enough to hurt, light enough to control. He remembered the stun batons from Calypso—issued for riot suppression, close quarters chaos. This wasn't far off, just… more medieval. More final .

He clipped the mace to his belt, keeping the halberd and the shield in hand.

Time to visit the blacksmith.

But halfway there, something itched in the back of his mind.

A sense of absence . A faint warning bell.

He slowed his pace, glanced over his shoulder.

Something was missing.

He couldn’t name it yet. But whatever it was—it was important.

And it wasn’t going to stay forgotten for long.

Crossing the street toward the commercial buildings, A1 stepped over the dried, dark stains on the ground—blood, both from the knights and from Marek. It hadn’t rained since. The grim traces remained, stamped into the earth like a reminder he couldn’t ignore. This didn’t have to happen. He’d defended himself, yes—but something about it all still felt like failure.

As he neared the trade post, a sharp squawking met his ears. He looked up just in time to see Sebastian inside, sweeping furiously, jaw clenched, eyes glued to the floor. When he finally spotted A1, his expression was less of welcome and more of barely-concealed irritation.

“There you are,” the shopkeeper muttered, pausing in his sweeping. “Sir knight. Here to pick up your pet?”

A1 blinked. “Uhh…”

Then he looked up—and his heart dropped.

Cadet Squishy was still there. Perched atop the wooden awning like a sentry, the little slug stared him down with narrowed, beady eyes. It squeaked once, high-pitched and cutting. He had waited. For hours, maybe longer.

Sebastian gestured sharply with the end of his broom. “You left your damn slug on my roof! It hasn’t stopped squeaking since! I’m running a business here, not a slug farm.”

“Okay, I’ll take him,” A1 said quickly, raising his hands in surrender.

He stepped forward, reaching up toward the awning. “Sorry, little cadet. I got caught up in—”

A wet splat landed squarely on the left wing of his helmet. Acidic hiss filled the air. The metal fizzled, bubbled—and then snapped off entirely.

A1 stared at the smoldering, half-melted piece of his decorative armor on the ground. “Okay,” he murmured, exhaling slowly. “I deserve that.”

Sebastian shook his head, incredulous. “I wouldn’t be so casual if I were you.”

The damage was clear, but A1 couldn’t bring himself to feel anger. If anything, he was impressed. So Squishy could spit acid now. Great. Not exactly helping the “not a Terminid” case, but at least he didn’t go for a second shot. Probably just venting—reprimanding him for being forgotten.

Fair enough.

He lifted the slug gently and placed him back onto his pauldron. Squishy huffed, his eye stalks wobbling with indignation before settling into a sulky silence.

Before A1 could turn away, Sebastian leaned his broom against the post and spoke again, quieter this time.

“Is Marek going to be alright?”

A1 hesitated. “I hope so.”

Sebastian sighed, gaze drifting toward the village square. “You and me both. Kid brings me customers, y’know.”

Another pause hung between them.

“You did a fine job protecting him, didn’t you?” Sebastian said sharply, voice thick with sarcasm.

A1 winced. “You can stop rubbing it in. I get it.”

“Right…” the shopkeeper muttered, resting his arms on the broom handle. “Just saying, if Marek dies because of this...”

“He’s not going to die.”

“But if he does,” Sebastian pressed, “it’s bad for business. For me—and you. Two boys ended up in danger because of you. One of them deserved it. The other didn’t.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and walked inside, letting the door swing closed behind him with a quiet thud.

A1 stood there a moment, his reflection dim in the glass. He didn’t feel anger. Not anymore. The man was right, after all—and that was what stung most.

With a final glance back, he adjusted his grip on the halberd, steadied the shield under his arm, and moved on toward the blacksmith. There was still something he could fix. Maybe.

An hour had passed since A1 handed the stolen shield over to the blacksmith. Unlike the carpenter, the blacksmith wasn’t inclined to offer any discounts or sympathy. The work was straightforward—just a matter of removing one strap and adjusting the others to fit A1’s larger frame—but he’d insisted on upfront payment. Fortunately, it hadn’t cost much, and when A1 strapped the finished product to his arm, it fit snugly, comfortably, and—most importantly—freed up space to view his Hellpad.

Not that it mattered much anymore. Most of his Hellpad’s data was still transmitted to his visor, but with the internal HUD glitching from damage, its usefulness was now questionable at best.

Just as he finished counting out the last of the coins, a scream pierced the village—a shrill, bloodcurdling one that made A1's heart skip a beat. His helmet’s auditory sensors triangulated the source instantly: Alicja’s healing house.

Something had gone wrong.

Instinct took over. He bolted across the village, his boots pounding into the earth. Villagers turned from their chores, faces twisted in concern, some inching closer to the noise.

“Stay back!” he barked as he passed, not even looking at them. “Stay away from the house!”

He slammed through the door.

Inside, the air was thick with sweat, blood, and panic. Marek thrashed violently on the cot, his scream tearing at the walls. Alicja hovered over him, one hand gripping her staff—its tip glowing with a faint, flickering green—while her other hand tried desperately to keep him steady.

He looked worse than before. So much worse.

His skin had gone yellow. His veins bulged beneath the surface, pulsing angrily like they were about to burst. His eyes were bloodshot to the point of bleeding, and sweat poured off his body in thick rivulets, soaking the sheets. The bandages wrapped around his abdomen had turned deep red, the wound beneath leaking anew.

“Sir knight!” Alicja cried, glancing over her shoulder in desperation. “Please help!”

He didn’t hesitate. Dropping to one knee beside the bed, he reached out and held Marek down gently but firmly by the shoulders. “Marek. Easy. Let your sister work.”

The boy was trying—Lady Liberty, he was trying—but the pain had clearly overwhelmed him. His body spasmed under A1’s hands, tense and feverish.

His Hellpad chimed, pulling up diagnostics. The readings were grim.

Vital signs: Concerning
Status: Critical
BPM: 144
Blood Pressure: 88 mmHg
O2 Saturation: 86%
Blood toxicity: Spiking
Immediate medical attention required

What the hell was going on? The stim should’ve been working. It had been working. Why was it failing now?

Alicja, now with both hands free, raised her staff again. Her jaw was clenched, tears beading at the corners of her eyes, but her expression didn’t waver. The green light at the tip of the staff surged, brighter and fuller than before, and then she brought it down in a sweeping motion. A beam of soft, emerald light washed over Marek’s body. Gradually, the boy’s breathing slowed. His muscles relaxed. His screams subsided into whimpers, then silence.

His eyes closed—but A1’s Hellpad confirmed a steady pulse.

He was alive. Sleeping. Resting.

Alicja’s shoulders sagged. She took a deep, trembling breath and began to lower her staff—but her knees gave out before she could finish. This time, A1 caught her. She collapsed into his arms, her weight light against the hard plating of his chest.

“Breathe, Alicja,” he murmured. “You did it.”

She shook her head against him, her voice a cracked whisper. “No, I didn’t…”

Her hands curled against his armor as she winced, struggling to stay composed. “I just put him to sleep. That’s all I did. He was doing fine before—he was cracking jokes, like none of this was real. Then I stepped outside, just for a minute… and when I came back, he was yellow. Then the screaming started. I don’t get it.”

She buried her face in her palms, sobs finally overtaking her strength.

“I’m trying… I’m trying everything I can…”

A1 held her there, letting her cry into his chest, one arm still around her as his eyes drifted to Marek’s still form. Something was happening to the boy—something beyond infection. The stim had failed. Alicja’s Arts was losing its grip. And the diagnosis readouts didn’t match anything in his field data.

They were out of time, and out of options.

But he had to find something. He had to.

Because if Marek didn’t make it, neither of them would ever forgive themselves.

After a while, Alicja had calmed enough to resume her healing efforts. She stood by Marek’s side, her hands steadying the staff as it pulsed faintly with green light, focusing all her will to stabilize her brother’s condition. A1 stood nearby, watching quietly, his mind spinning through the few options left.

He’d already given Marek his last Stim. It hadn’t worked—or at least, not in the way he’d hoped. Maybe it had only given the boy just enough of a boost to drag himself back to the healing house before his body failed. Maybe that alone had been worth it. But that didn’t change the fact that he was now out of options.

Marek’s condition hadn’t improved. His skin still had that sickly yellow hue, and the Hellpad’s diagnostics remained dire. A1 placed two fingers on Marek’s neck, feeling the faint pulse throb beneath the skin. His visor lit up with results: the vital status wavered—jumping between Stable and Critical every few moments.

One healer could stabilize him for seconds at a time.

So what would happen if they had more?

He turned toward Alicja. “You said there were other healers here before you. Is that right?”

Alicja didn’t pause in her casting but answered quietly, “I was the apprentice of the old woman who used to tend to the village. She left earlier this year for the capital—some big Major Season tournament that happens every 3 years.”

A1 nodded. “What about the next town over? Wilkow. Are there any healers there?”

Alicja hesitated, the light from her staff flickering slightly. “I haven’t been to Wilkow in a long time,” she admitted. “And honestly? I stayed away because of that wannabe-stud noble’s son—the one you mopped the floor with. Every time I passed through, he’d eye me like I was something to hunt.”

“Well,” A1 muttered, “he won’t be doing that anymore. Turns out I might’ve crippled him.”

Alicja’s eyes widened faintly, but the exhaustion in her body dulled any real shock. “Ah. So that’s why the knights showed up. You really did it this time, sir knight.” Her voice softened after a moment. “Not that he didn’t deserve it.”

She exhaled shakily. “Still… even if he’s out of the picture, I don’t know if Wilkow has healers left. And if they do, I sure as hell can’t afford whatever it costs to have Marek treated there.”

A1 crouched beside her, his voice low and firm. “It’s still our best shot at giving him a chance. You can’t keep doing this alone. If you collapse before he does, then you’re both gone.”

That struck a nerve. Alicja snapped her eyes toward him, mouth tightening. Irritation flared in her expression—but it faded almost immediately. As much as she wanted to argue, the truth of his words sank in like stone. Her hands trembled on the staff.

“Alright…” she breathed out, voice thin. “Then how exactly do you plan to get us to Wilkow?”

A1 stood. “I’ll figure it out. Stay here.”

Alicja gave a bitter chuckle. “Sure. Not like I can go anywhere.”

He didn’t answer. He was already heading out the door, boots pounding across the dirt road as he made a beeline for the barn. If the surviving Wilkow knights hadn’t turned tail and run, maybe they could still serve as his retinue—at the very least, provide transport. And if not, then he’d find another way.

He wasn’t just thinking about a ride anymore.

He needed information. About this country's medical system. About access. About resources. Because Marek wasn’t going to survive on stubborn hope alone. Not anymore.

Without sparing the peasant watchmen a word, A1 pushed open the barn doors with enough force to startle the occupants inside. The surviving Wilkow knights scrambled to their feet, jarred awake from where they’d made themselves comfortable among hay bales and beastkin hides.

Buell was the first to recover, rising with that same off-putting mix of Victorian politeness and passive hostility.

“So, not here to gloat, are ye?” he asked, brushing straw from his shoulder with forced dignity.

“Can it, Buell,” A1 replied flatly. “I’ve got questions. All of you are going to answer them. Got that?”

The knights glanced among themselves, visibly cowed. One by one, they nodded. Buell held out for a few seconds longer, scoffing before giving in with a begrudging nod of his own.

A1 didn’t waste time. He asked if Wilkow had a hospital. The answer wasn’t encouraging—but it wasn’t hopeless either. There was no proper hospital, only a modest clinic, and much like in Rolnicze, most of its medical staff had left for the capital to participate in the Major Season. But not all. Three remained behind: a receptionist, an intern doctor, and a nurse.

Not ideal—but it was something.

A1 crossed his arms as he absorbed the details. Two additional hands, trained even slightly in medicine, could be enough to stabilize Marek. More than that, the knights informed him that, due to the shortage of personnel, even the noble lord of Wilkow had been forced to bring his son to the capital’s hospital for treatment.

That, at least, was a relief. With the noble’s attention turned elsewhere, there’d be no immediate political fallout to worry about when A1 stepped into Wilkow. No vendetta. No challenge.

He took a breath and moved on to the next matter at hand.

“You,” he said, looking across the group, “one of you offered a deal before. About making me your new commander—your retinue—since I’m the one who killed your old one.”

Tension returned to the knights' posture. No one spoke. It was clear the idea still made them uneasy. Understandable—there was no legal precedent for something like this. But as A1 saw it, there was no real alternative for them either. Their chain of command was broken. Their noble leader was gone. Their unit had collapsed into irrelevance unless they accepted something—or someone—to rebuild around.

“I’m not asking for fanfare,” A1 said. “No titles. No ceremony. But you will swear an oath. You won’t backstab me, you’ll do your damn jobs as knights, and you’ll protect the people like you were supposed to from the beginning.”

The knights shifted uneasily but said nothing in opposition.

“To seal that oath…” A1 narrowed his eyes, not without a touch of irony. “From now on, when you address me, you salute. Like this .”

He raised a clenched fist and pumped it firmly once against his chest.

The knights looked at each other again. A few began to mimic the gesture, fumbling uncertainly over which hand to use. Eventually, one by one, they mirrored him. Even Buell, ever the reluctant follower, gave a sharp nod before driving his fist to his chest.

A1 didn’t tell them where the salute came from. It wasn’t their business. But seeing it again, even in this foreign world, stirred something faintly nostalgic in him—enough that he almost forgot why he’d come here to begin with.

Almost.

His tone sobered. “First order. Go to the wagon. Wait for me there. Don’t move. Don’t cause trouble. Understood?”

They nodded, subdued.

A1 turned on his heel without another word and made his way back toward Alicja’s healing house.

When A1 stepped back into the healing house, he found Alicja barely upright, swaying on her feet with her staff for balance. Her skin had gone pale and her eyes were hollowed with exhaustion. Even with the oatcakes she’d scarfed down earlier, the relentless drain of using her Arts was wearing her thin.

“Miss Alicja,” he said, voice firm but not unkind. “Pack your things. I’m taking you and Marek to Wilkow.”

She didn’t respond right away. It took a few seconds for her mind to catch up to his words. Slowly, almost robotically, she turned to him, her eyes heavy and bloodshot.

“What are you talking about?” she asked weakly.

“I’ve secured a ride. Grab whatever you need—money, clothes, supplies. We’re going to Wilkow. They’ve got a clinic. People who can help.”

She blinked, her confusion still tangled with fatigue. “O-Okay...? But—what about our parents? My father’s still out hunting. And my mother... she’s not strong enough to be left alone. Especially not with Marek gone from the house.”

“Then we’ll bring her with us.”

Alicja’s eyes widened faintly in alarm. “No. That’s worse. If she sees Marek like this, it’ll break her. She’s already fragile. And what about my father? He’ll come home to an empty house!”

“So you’d rather leave her?”

“I—I don’t know!” Her voice cracked as her hand trembled around the staff. “There’s too much happening, sir knight. Too damn much!”

With a choked sob, she slammed her forehead against the top of her staff, the sound dull and heartbreaking.

“Nothing’s working,” she whispered.

A1 approached carefully, then laid a hand gently on her shoulder—his gauntlet encompassing it entirely. He didn’t squeeze. Just grounded her.

“I know it’s hard,” he said. “But this is when we make the hard calls—for the people we love. Wilkow still has doctors. They can help you both. And we’re out of time. I wanted to believe Marek would be fine, but I can’t lie to myself anymore. He needs real help.”

Alicja’s eyes darted back and forth—from her brother’s frail, yellowed body to A1’s helmeted face—caught in the panic of indecision. Her breath stuttered as she visibly fought to hold herself together. Then, with a resigned sigh, she nodded.

“I’ll explain things to Mother,” she murmured. “Just... get Marek to the wagon. Get him better, sir knight. Please.”

“For both our sakes,” A1 said. “He must.”

She gave a slow, shaky nod, then lowered her staff and walked to the door with mechanical movements. She didn’t look back. A1 remained inside with Marek, watching the boy’s shallow breathing as he lay sedated on the cot.

He couldn’t bear to meet those sunken eyes any longer—eyes that still lingered in his memory even when closed.

Carefully, A1 slipped his arms beneath Marek’s limp form. He was featherlight—lighter even than his sister. Marek’s limbs dangled loosely, his head lolling to the side. The only sign that he still lived was the rise and fall of his narrow chest.

A1 held him close, tightened his grip, and took a long, steady breath.

“I’m sorry, little one,” he whispered.

And with that, he carried the boy outside, toward whatever hope Wilkow had left.

Carrying Marek’s limp, sedated body in his arms, A1 stepped into the open street—and the entire village seemed to still.

The sight of the boy, so small and pale, his bandages soaked through with blood, brought Rolnicze to a hushed halt. People who had watched Marek grow from a wide-eyed toddler into a spirited young boy now stood frozen, unable to comprehend the lifeless shape draped across the Helldiver’s armored arms. They had seen him injured earlier—but not like this. Not with his limbs hanging limp and his skin the color of old wax.

An older woman gasped and covered her mouth, tears spilling as she instinctively reached to shield the eyes of a younger child beside her. More villagers gathered at their thresholds in quiet dread. Murmurs rose, then cries, and then the unmistakable sound of shouting erupted from Alicja and Marek’s house. Their mother had discovered the absence—and judging by the panic in her voice, hadn’t taken it well.

A1 didn’t stop. He didn’t even look up. His gait was steady and mechanical; his focus was locked on the path ahead.

Cadet Squishy, perched on his pauldron, had fallen uncharacteristically silent. The gastropod stared at Marek with his small eyestalks, clearly disturbed. He slowly made his way down A1’s arm toward the boy’s face, nudging Marek gently. No response. He squeaked at his ear—still nothing.

With a sigh, A1 reached up and plucked the cadet from Marek’s chest, tucking him carefully into the side pouch of his belt.

The wagon came into view, parked just outside the barn where the knights of Wilkow waited, armored and alert. They stood at attention the moment they saw their new commander approach, fists thumping against their chests in the Super Earth salute as instructed. But the moment their eyes fell upon Marek, their expressions shifted. The salute faltered. Concern spread through their ranks like a wave.

“Oh shite…” Buell muttered under his breath, his usual sarcasm drained from his voice. “What the fok happened to ’im?”

Grzegorz looked down, jaw clenched. “We happened,” he said grimly. “That’s what.”

Krysztof, the youngest of the knights, stared at Marek with wide, unsettled eyes. “They always told us being a knight meant dying young,” he said quietly. “But he’s not even a knight. And still…”

A1 cut him off. “Are any of you trained in first aid?”

Buell raised his eyebrows. “Fok you think? We send people to hospitals—we don’t run ’em.”

To everyone’s surprise, Michal raised a hand.

“I trained with the Knights Hospitaller Order,” he said. “We did some hospital work. Eventually I left—knighthood pays better.”

A1 didn’t waste time. “Can you work with this?”,

Michal stepped forward, inspecting Marek with a practiced eye. He studied the boy for a few seconds, then gave a slow nod.

“My kit’s in the wagon. Assuming the locals haven’t pilfered it, I can try. But my skills are limited. I’m not a licensed doctor—just a field medic, really. And whatever’s wrong with this boy… it’s internal. Deep. Something’s seriously off.”

Buell scoffed. “Oh, ye bloody think so, do ye?”

Michal ignored him, already moving toward the wagon, the worry evident in his eyes.

A1 remained silent as the knight rummaged for his supplies. Marek was still breathing—barely. But for now, that was all that mattered.

Eventually, Alicja emerged from the house, dragging two overstuffed sacks behind her—likely packed with whatever clothes she could find for herself and Marek. She struggled under the weight, one hand clinging to her staff as the other tried to keep the bags from toppling.

A1 immediately gestured to two of his knights. Without hesitation, they jogged over and took the burdens from her arms.

She gave them a tired, almost amused look, then turned her gaze to A1 as she approached the wagon.

"I'm not even gonna ask how you managed to get these guys on your side," she said with a faint smirk.

A1 offered the smallest shrug. “We might need a security detail heading into Wilkow. I’ve got the feeling I’m not exactly welcome there.”

Buell, never one to let a moment pass in silence, grunted. “Ain’t this a sight—showin’ up to town with their own knights haulin’ yer luggage. Real humble introduction, that.”

A1 didn’t dignify it with a response. He just motioned toward the wagon. “Come on. We’re leaving now.”

Alicja nodded, but her steps were sluggish as she reached for the wagon’s steps. Just as she grabbed the handle, the door swung open and startled her.

“Ah—sorry, miss,” said Michal, clutching a weathered medical kit. “I found it.”

He reached out as if to help her up, but she brushed past him, too exhausted for courtesy. She climbed aboard and now collapsed into one of the seats with a low sigh.

A1 followed, gently lifting Marek from his arms and passing him to Michal. The two men worked together, laying the boy carefully across the seats, propping his head and limbs to minimize jostling on the journey.

Once Marek was secured, A1 gave Michal a firm look. “Stay inside. Help the lady and keep Marek stable.”

Michal gave a nod, then flashed a quick ‘OK’ sign to the other knights as he shut the wagon door behind him.

A1 turned to the rest of the knights. His tone shifted—quiet, but heavy. “Now. While I understand you were doing your jobs, there’s still a price to pay for what happened. So here’s your punishment.”

He jerked his head toward the road.

“You’re walking.”

The knights stiffened. No one argued. No one dared. Even Buell fell silent, a scowl replacing his usual sarcasm. They formed up behind the wagon, boots crunching against dirt and gravel.

A1 took one last look at the covered wagon before stepping forward to lead the march.

He had no idea how burdenbeasts worked—and frankly, he wasn’t eager to learn. One look at the creature's massive horn was enough to keep him from grabbing the reins unless he was in the mood to be impaled.

Fortunately, Michal had taken the driver’s seat by default. As the only knight allowed to ride in the wagon, he clicked his tongue and tugged the reins just right, guiding the beast forward until it ambled onto the dirt road leading east. Slow, but obedient enough.

Before setting off in earnest, A1 ordered the remaining knights to reclaim their weapons. There was a bit of chaos in the process—since A1 had claimed a few of their arms earlier, and the villagers likely kept some as souvenirs, some of them ended up with unfamiliar gear. A warhammer in the hands of a shield knight. A sword and shield for a wiry lancer. They fumbled, shifting grips, unsure of balance or weight.

A1 didn’t care. Helldivers never had the luxury of uniformity. You picked up whatever you fancy, mashed your stratagem codes as best you could, and got the job done. Mission success didn’t care about comfort. 

The village of Rolnicze slowly gathered by the roadside, leaving their tools and half-finished chores behind once more. Daily life had been uneventful for so long, and now—too much had happened. More excitement than they'd ever hoped for. And none of it good.

The children waved cheerfully, their innocence unshaken. Some called out to the knights, offering giggles and goodbye chants with arms flailing in joy.

The knights didn’t return the same warmth. They looked away, faces strained. Ashamed. Because in truth, they had failed to protect the very people waving to them now.

The adults were more subdued. Faces tight with fatigue or resentment, their goodbyes were barely gestures—hollow waves, nods, or silent stares. No anger. Just resignation. As if they’d already seen the end of this story, and knew it wouldn’t end with a triumphant return.

And then, the wagon rolled forward. The knights marched behind. And the village slowly turned back to their lives, heads bowed, shoulders slumped.

The road to Wilkow stretched ahead—not just in distance, but in gravity. Each creak of the wagon, each footfall from the knights trailing behind, echoed the weight of failure, the fragile thread of hope, and the mounting cost already paid.

The formation was simple: the wagon trundled at the center, flanked on both sides by knights, with A1 marching ahead to lead the way, though understandably putting as much distance between himself and the beast. He didn’t know how far Wilkow was—didn’t care. Helldivers could march for hours, days even, and still have enough energy left to punch a hole through a fabricator at the end of it. That was the job. That was normal.

But his newly acquired retinue was less than conditioned. Aside from Buell and Grzegorz, the others faltered. Their armor, once symbols of duty, now boiled them alive beneath the merciless afternoon sun. Weighed down by steel and fatigue, they shuffled on, trying to keep pace with the man who didn't seem to slow down for anything.

Michal, now the acting medic, often had to abandon the reins. The burdenbeast, placid and perhaps smarter than it looked, stayed the course on its own. Inside the wagon, A1 could glimpse through the windows, catching flashes of grim work—Alicja crouched beside her brother, her staff pulsing faintly as she pushed her healing Arts to their limits. Michal carefully unwound the bloody cloth from Marek’s abdomen to replace it with clean gauze.

They both gagged.

The wound had worsened. The infection was eating deeper than they’d hoped. Michal cursed aloud—whatever antiseptic he kept in his bag was gone, likely swiped by villagers during the chaos. In its place, he poured a splash of his field vodka into the wound. Marek jolted slightly in his unconscious state, and Michal took a long, necessary swig for himself.

To A1’s surprise, Alicja held out her hand, fingers trembling. Wordless. She needed a drink, too. Michal passed it to her.

A1 looked away.

He wouldn’t mind a drink either. Too much had happened yesterday. Now today he was shepherding a dying boy, a half-collapsing healer, and a band of uncertain knights to a town that might not even help them. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want this. But having a mission—even a desperate one—kept him sane.

Kept him from remembering he was stranded on an alien planet, with no extraction in sight.

To stop the spiral, he started to hum a cadence. Low at first, under his breath. It wasn’t much—he wasn’t a great singer—but rhythm had a way of anchoring the mind. He quickened his pace, putting some distance between him and the wagon, making sure the others wouldn’t hear too clearly.

His voice, ragged at first, carried just above the wind:

“He was just a grunt from Super Earth, he really loved his land…
He signed the oath, deployed his gear, and joined the hellpod band…
They loaded him with hellbombs, and kicked him out the door…
And he ain't gonna dive no more.”

The beat kept him moving, kept his steps light despite the weight in his chest. They passed by quiet pastures where livestock grazed, oblivious to the crisis rolling past them.

“Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die…
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die…
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die…
He ain't gonna dive no more.”

To his surprise, his voice began to smooth out. There was something almost soothing in it. Cadet Squishy must have thought so too—he clambered up A1’s arm and perched atop his pauldron once more. The little gastropod squeaked along in rhythm, swaying gently to the beat.

A1 allowed himself a breath—just one moment of bittersweet calm—and kept singing, the road long, the sun hot, and the march still unfinished.

“He smacked into a Terminid while aiming for the breach…
His beacon bounced into a bog, now backup's out of reach…
The bugs were swarming fast and thick, his squad began to roar…
And he ain't gonna dive no more…”

A long stretch of forest to their right cast deep shadows across the road, blocking their view of what lay beyond. Yet A1 continued his quiet cadence, the beat of his boots matching the rhythm of each darkly humorous verse. There was peace in the repetition—something familiar and grounding.

"He tried to call a Stratagem to help his battered team…
But typed the wrong coordinates—his laser cooked the scene…
He turned his friends to barbecue and left a crater floor—
And he ain’t gonna dive no more…”

He tilted his head back, gazing at the sky through his scratched visor. The great, jagged crack above still lingered in his vision. Whether it was some fracture in the sky itself or just a glitch in his HUD, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to know right now. He let the thought drift away like vapor as he returned to the chorus, his voice low but steady.

"Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die…
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die…
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die…
He ain’t gonna dive no more…”

The final verse came like a footnote scribbled in blood:

"He crawled to hit extraction, bleeding freedom all the way…
But slipped upon an allied mine—it blew his legs to clay…
He screamed, ‘For Liberty!’ while his guts rained down in gore—
And he ain’t gonna dive no more…”

He hadn’t realized how deeply lost in it he was until time seemed to catch up with him. When he looked up again, the path had opened ahead—and there it was.

A wall. Towering, rough-hewn wooden palisades loomed before them, stretching wide across the field like the edge of a fortress. From behind the wagon, Krysztof groaned with relief.

“Finally!”

There was no doubt—they had reached Wilkow.

The dense forest came to a sudden stop, and with it, the illusion of their enclosed path. A1 turned to glance behind them and felt the world slip just slightly out from under him.

There was… nothing.

Not barren land. Not a mountain range. Nothing. Just void. A great nothingness that stretched out beyond the treeline like the end of a simulation, a boundary that reality didn’t bother to paint in.

It was wrong.

He had seen this planet from orbit once. It was round and solid. He remembered that. But here, now, it was like they stood at the edge of a rendered diorama, a theater stage where the backdrop had fallen away.

Buell stepped up beside him, arms crossed as he looked over the same bizarre sight.

“Yeah,” the gruff knight muttered, “hard to believe this is what the edge of the world looks loike sometimes. But this’s what it’s loike livin’ in a port sector.”

A1 blinked. “I… see.”

Port sector?

He had heard rumors. Mentions of “engines” beneath the soil. Whispers of things far too large for a medieval countryside. And if his math was right, if everything aligned with the topographic anomalies he noticed before… they weren’t just in some backwater landmass.

They were on a ship.

A floating city.

His mind buckled under the implications. Not just from the scale—but the absurdity of it. The temptation to scream, laugh, or just shut down entirely bubbled at the back of his skull. But there was no time for an existential meltdown. Not yet.

Not while Marek still needed saving.

He shoved the thoughts down like all the others, swallowed his questions like glass, and turned back toward the gates of Wilkow.

Mission first. Collapse later

A1 had expected guards at the gates. Maybe a checkpoint. At the very least, someone bored and half-asleep leaning on a spear.

But as they approached Wilkow’s outer wall, he was met with... nothing.

The wide wooden gates stood ajar, creaking lazily in the breeze. No sentries, no patrols, not even a sign that anyone had been stationed there recently. The palisades themselves were cracked and weather-worn, barely tall enough to deter a determined climbing child—let alone the kinds of things A1 had fought before.

A bile titan would stomp over it without noticing. A factory strider wouldn’t even register it as an obstacle. An Illuminate tripod? They’d treat the wall like a gentle slope.

He shivered. Good thing none of those are here… probably.

Still, the lack of defenses gnawed at him. He turned to Buell with a raised brow, eyes scanning the empty battlements.

“You really left these people undefended?” A1 asked, incredulous.

Buell just shrugged, his tone as casual as someone commenting on the weather. “Relax, won’t ya? You say that like everyone in Wilkow’s a bloody pansy. Towns like this, agrarian types, we don’t have the luxury of centralized watchmen. They’re too spread out. Most folks just sort things out themselves.”

A1 stopped walking.

So… no central policing. No regular security force. Just a well-regulated militia and knightly pride holding everything together?

A neighborhood watch by necessity. Vigilantism out of culture.

That shook him more than he cared to admit. If the townsfolk caught wind of what happened to Kacper—and they would—and he was the outsider, the instigator, the one who brought death and shame to their doorstep. How long before “self-reliance” turned into a mob?

He took a long breath, steeling himself, and marched up to the wagon. Michal stepped out from the carriage, his gauntlets stained with dried blood, surcoat creased and grim. He looked tired.

“You know where the hospital is in this town?” A1 asked.

Michal nodded. “Aye, sir. Know the way.”

“Good. Take them”—he jerked his head toward the wagon—“and secure a bed for the boy. I don’t care what you have to say or pay. Make sure Marek gets treatment.”

Then he looked at Grzegorz.

“You. Go with him.”

Grzegorz blinked, slow to register the order, but then nodded silently and climbed aboard, taking a seat beside Michal. Without another word, the knight snapped the reins, and the burdenbeast gave a rumbling grunt as it started plodding through the streets, hooves thudding heavily on the cobbled road.

A1 watched them go before turning back to the rest of the knights, scanning their expressions. None protested. None seemed to have the energy for it.

“Where’s a place I can lay low?” he asked.

Krysztof raised his hand like a student in class. “Wilkow Inn, sir. It’s where we usually stay. No outpost or barracks for us here—the lord pays for our rooms during our rotation.”

Lukasz chimed in, folding his arms. “If you’re worried about keeping a low profile, you picked the right time. With the Major Season coming up, most folks are heading to the Grand Knights’ Territory. The inn’ll be half-empty.”

A1 gave a small nod. That was at least one small mercy. He raised two fingers and pointed toward the town.

“Alright then. Let’s move in.”

The knights followed him in silence, boots crunching on gravel, as Wilkow opened up before them—quiet, sunlit, and unknowingly about to host its next unwelcome complication.

The town of Wilkow was nothing like the small farming village of Rolnicze.

Where Rolnicze had felt like a rural pit stop—dusty, modest, and rough around the edges—Wilkow sprawled with structured order and urban polish. It was still no sprawling metropolis, but compared to where they’d just come from, it might as well have been a capital city.

The buildings weren’t made from old stone and timber. They were concrete—weathered, but solid—and many were constructed in the style of old Super Earth architecture, almost retrofuturistic, like something out of a pre-1st Galactic War reconstruction. The roads were paved with tightly packed cobblestone rather than loose gravel. Street lamps lined the sidewalks, each housing electric bulbs instead of burning oil. Even the air smelled cleaner. Less livestock, more smoke and machine oil.

The people were different too.

Where Rolnicze’s folk wore simple linens, patched sleeves, and carried the weight of labor in every line of their faces, Wilkow’s residents looked neater—sharper. Their clothing was pressed, more uniform. Their complexions were fairer, and many had the air of practiced etiquette. But what really stood out were the ears and tails.

While everyone, except for Sebastian, had distinct animalistic features from what he'd seen, the Wilkow locals were different.

Bushy, tufted tails and alert, furred ears peeked out from heads and coats. Most of them looked vaguely lupine. When he glanced at his own retinue, the familiarity struck him—Buell, for instance, had his ears folded in like a squat-eared cat, and his tail wasn’t bushy but sleek, cylindrical. Alicja and Marek’s had been longer, more plume-like.

It was one thing to see animal traits scattered among peasants and backwater folk. But here, in an actual town with cobbled roads, concrete buildings, and lightbulbs—seeing people carry on like normal with twitching ears and tails? It cracked something in A1.

This world was absurd. A walking anachronistic contradiction of ancient and modern, fur and flesh, superstition and electricity. The urge to laugh, or scream, or just throw his halberd at something boiled under his skin.

He held it back. Barely.

And despite everything—his height, his strange armor, the halberd in one hand, flanged mace on his hip, his guns sheathed, the fact that he crippled the Lord’s son and killed a squad of their tax knights —no one stopped him.

No pitchforks. No accusations. No cries of outrage.

People glanced his way, sure. They noticed. Some slowed as he passed. A few muttered under their breath: “Not another hotshot knight.” But mostly, they kept moving. Heads down, eyes forward, boots clicking on cobblestone.

A1 blinked, confused at first. Then let it go. It worked in his favor.

He kept walking. Wilkow didn’t have to like him. They just needed to let him pass.

The knights led him through the quieter streets of Wilkow to a squat, three-story concrete building near the edge of the district. A wide sign stretched between the second and third floors, proudly painted in blocky, weatherworn letters: Zajazd Wilcze Oko.

The Wolf’s Eye Inn.

A1 squinted at the sign, then muttered, “Wilkow Inn.” That’s what the knights kept calling it. Must’ve been a translation quirk in his helmet. Still, saying it aloud made something click in his head.

“We’ll go in.”

He groaned internally and mentally slapped himself.

The building itself was plain but solid—like most of Wilkow. Its concrete exterior had the faint tint of soot near the edges, a sign of age or poor ventilation. A1 figured it was once painted, long faded now to a dull gray. It had the modest efficiency of a pre-war bunkhouse, nothing more.

Since he had assumed command over the knights—by merit of defeating, outlasting, and technically inheriting their slain leadership—another awkward formality surfaced. Someone had to explain to the innkeeper that there had been a change in management, and that the commander's room was now, by technicality, his.

He waited outside as the knights negotiated on his behalf.

Krysztof returned moments later, shrugging. “She doesn’t care,” he said. “As long as the Lord keeps paying for it.”

That worked for A1.

Inside, the curse of his size returned with a vengeance. The moment he stepped under the low ceiling, the wings on his helmet scraped the plaster with a quiet skrrrrk. He winced and had to duck down into a crouch-walk.

The receptionist, a hunched elderly woman with tired lupine ears and a coat that seemed older than the inn itself, looked up briefly from her newspaper. She gave him a double take, sighed, and returned to her reading without a word.

The lobby was humble but tidy. A single, massive fur rug dominated the floor—a thick pelt of something definitely not ethically sourced. Potted houseplants filled each corner, some of them real, some definitely fake. Off to the side, a common area offered three mismatched armchairs, a sagging couch, and a coffee table that had seen better centuries. A wide staircase led up to the second and third floors.

Nothing luxurious, but functional. And given the hellish chain of events in the past twenty-four hours, A1 would take “functional” with open arms.

“Alright,” he said, glancing around. “Let’s get settled.”

He waved for Krysztof to guide him to the commander's old room, while quietly ordering the rest of the knights to head for the Wilkow clinic and ensure that Marek and Alicja were properly taken in. No delays. No screw ups.

As A1 settled into his new quarters upstairs, the innkeeper downstairs remained hunched behind her paper, her reading glasses sliding low on her snout. Her eyes, however, narrowed as a particular article caught her attention—something about a mysterious knight who had attacked the Lord’s son, Kacper Wilkowski.

The description was unmistakable: a towering figure clad in dark, gleaming armor; a fluttering cape trailing behind him; and most distinct of all, a winged helmet. The language in the report was vague, perhaps purposefully so, but the signs were clear. The very same knight had apparently not only crippled Lord Wilkowski’s heir but also bested Wilkow’s tax men. And now… he was staying in her inn.

Her eyes flicked up toward the ceiling, as though she could see the knight crouching beneath her roof through sheer intuition. He hadn’t caused any trouble—yet—but trouble was stitched into the seams of his cape. She put her paper down with a long sigh and reached for her phone.

Meanwhile, in one of Kawalerielki’s premier hospitals, far from the peaceful quiet of Wilkow’s inn…

Lord Janusz Wilkowski stood vigil at his son’s bedside. His tailored suit strained against the tension in his frame as he gripped the railing, knuckles pale beneath thinning fur. His expression remained locked in unreadable fury as he studied the chart at the foot of the bed. Machines beeped steadily, keeping rhythm with a fractured life.

Kacper lay pale and motionless, a patchwork of gauze and tubes. The diagnosis had been brutal: a shattered spine, fractured skull, a crushed windpipe—every word etched itself into Janusz’s mind like a curse. Whoever had done this had not simply bested his son—they had ruined a legacy.

His aide stood beside him, holding the medical report with the same expression of tight-lipped disbelief.

Janusz grunted. “Is he fucked?”

The aide hesitated before answering. “Real fucked.”

Kacper had been meant to represent the family in the upcoming 23rd Major Season. To carry the Wilkowski name into the trials. Now, that dream was buried beneath morphine drips and failed expectations.

The shrill ring of a phone sliced through the silence. Janusz didn’t even blink—just extended a hand without looking. His aide took the call for him.

“Mhm… yes… I see… Wilkow?” A pause. “You’re sure?”

After a few more nods and clipped affirmations, the aide ended the call and looked back at his lord. His face said it all.

“The knights you sent… they failed to apprehend the knight in question,” he said gravely. “Worse—according to our contact, they’ve switched sides. He’s in Wilkow now… and they’re working for him.”

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. Then Janusz let out a growl deep in his chest, stepped away from the bed, and drove his fist into the wall.

The plaster cracked and dented under the blow. Dust drifted to the pristine floor.

He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, before rolling his bruised knuckles and composing himself. His voice, when it came, was low and simmering.

“There’s only one thing left to do…”

The aide already had his notepad ready. “You want me to assemble another squad?”

“No,” Janusz muttered. “I need to make a few calls.”

He turned away from the bed, eyes narrowed with lethal purpose. “Get me my checkbook.”

The aide gave a short nod. “On it, my lord.”

Because if blades and knights failed… there were always mercenaries.

…

Chapter Text

Wake-Up Call (0-6-3)

Inside the dim office of a derelict warehouse, a phone buzzed to life atop a stained desk cluttered with maps, crossbow bolts, and half-finished liquor bottles. The air smelled of oil and old concrete. A man in a black cloak trimmed in crimson—his face masked by a balaclava, white tunic beneath the armor—reached out and picked up the receiver.

“Speak,” he said curtly, voice low and rasped with disdain.

“This is Lord Janusz,” came the reply, crackling over the line. “I’m calling it in.”

The masked man leaned back in his chair, interest piqued. “Who’s the target?”

“You’re looking for a knight. I don’t know his name or exact face, but he’s tall—six foot something, I think. Wears all black, gaudy cape, wings on his helmet. He's currently in the Wolf's Eye Inn.”

There was a pause.

The masked man scoffed. “Is that a knight or a bloody mascot?”

“I don’t care what he is. Can you deal with him?”

Another pause—longer this time. “And how exactly would you like us to… handle it?”

“I want this bastard dead. Use everything you’ve got. I don’t want ashes. I want a head.”

The man smirked behind the mask. “I hear you loud and clear, my lord . But let’s talk payment.”

A tense breath. “You’ll get your payment when you bring me his head.”

A dry chuckle followed. “No, no—we’ve been over this already. You don’t call in a hit and pay afterward like it’s room service. You pay when you order. That’s the deal.”

“You’re already bleeding me dry!” Janusz barked. “I’ve dumped more coin into sponsors for my boy than I pay my own knights!”

“And now your knights are dead, or worse—defecting,” the masked man replied coolly. “Sounds like you’re due for some outsourcing anyway.”

A frustrated snarl leaked through the phone. “They have turned traitor. If you see any of them, you're free to kill them too. I’ll throw in a bonus for each of their tails.”

The man grinned. “Now we’re talking. You give us the amount you’re willing to pay, and we’ll give you a performance that matches the price. Call it a scaled delivery. Do we have a deal?”

“You goddamn bastard…” Janusz growled. “My son is paralyzed from the waist down because of that freak.”

“Oh, how tragic,” the man replied, flatly, his tone mocking. “You want revenge? Pay for it.”

There was a hard click as the line went dead.

A few seconds later, the man’s phone buzzed again. He glanced down at the alert on his cracked screen.

Funds received: 550,000 Lungmen Dollars.

He tilted his head slightly, the smirk hidden behind cloth.

“That’s more like it.”

He leaned forward, tapping the desk twice, as if summoning the others. It was time to assemble the crew.

The former office had long since ceased being a place of paperwork and filing. Stripped of its bureaucratic furniture, it had been repurposed into a fully stocked safe house. The desks were gone—replaced with squat racks, weight benches, and storage containers brimming with weapons and gear. Only the bulletin boards remained, plastered with surveillance photos, notes, and crude sketches of targets—an organized chaos of intelligence and hit lists.

Six operatives occupied the space, including their leader. Most were passing the time with light workouts, half-hearted target practice with dull darts thrown at the wall, or scrolling through their phones like bored teenagers waiting for a bus.

The moment their commander gave two firm taps on his desk, the team paused and began drifting toward him—everyone except one.

A young woman lounged on the couch near the corner, her lower half tucked beneath a blanket, iced coffee balanced on her lap, bent over her phone. Twin sets of earbuds nestled snugly into both her human and horse ears.

“Centi…” the commander called, mild irritation in his voice. She didn’t react.

“Centi,” he said again, sharper.

Still nothing.

“CENTAUREA! FRONT AND CENTER, PLEASE!”

She jolted upright with a startled whinny, flinging her quad-earbuds off in a flurry of wires. Her phone bounced onto the cushion beside her, narrowly avoiding the floor. “Yes sir!” she chirped, quickly standing tall.

The others snorted with laughter. The commander sighed and rubbed his brow.

“Alright,” he began, voice steady and commanding, “we’ve got work.”

“Finally,” one of them muttered. “I was starting to think boredom was gonna kill me before a sword ever did.”

“We’re hunting a knight. He’s staying at the local inn. Already had some plainclothes agents posted around town before he even showed up. They’re blending in—dishwashing gigs, dock hands, fruit vendors—you name it. They’ll keep tabs on him until we move.”

He paused, letting it sink in.

“The client wants him dead. Full commitment. So we use everything we’ve got.”

One operative scoffed. “There’s twenty of us. One guy. This won’t take more than ten minutes.”

“He’s not alone,” the commander continued. “We’ve got a side order on this plate: the tax knights sent by the lord? They’ve defected. He’s got them in his pocket now. If you see any of ‘em, take them out, and take their tails as proof of kill. No need to feel bad—they’re traitors.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” someone cracked. “I already hated those smug bastards.”

Laughter echoed through the room.

At the edge of the gathering, Centaurea raised a hand. “Question!”

The commander raised a brow. “Go on.”

“When exactly are we taking him out?”

“Tonight. Late. When the streets are empty and his knights aren’t on watch. Quiet entry, quick kill. Until then—gear up. Grab your hatchets. We’ll need ‘em to break through that knight’s armor. I’ll pull our outside agents in and brief them too.”

He looked over the room.

“Clear?”

“Yes, Platinum!” they answered in unison.

“Good. Dismissed.”

The squad scattered, heading into the converted armory—which used to be a bathroom, but now held enough weapons to arm a militia. Meanwhile, the Platinum—stoic, square-jawed, and perpetually unimpressed—reached for his phone to make the calls.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement—Centaurea was already trotting back toward the couch, earbuds in hand, iced coffee waiting like an old friend.

He narrowed his eyes. “Seriously?”

She froze mid-sit, cheeks flushed red. “S-sorry!” she stammered, backing away and galloping toward the armory.

The Platinum shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Kids…” before dialing their numbers.

Back at the Wilkow Inn…

The commander's room was located on the third floor—the inn's most luxurious offering. It boasted a clear view of the city, functional utilities, and, most importantly, an actual bed that looked… comfortable.

A1 hadn’t had a comfortable bed in years . Not since before the endless cycle of missions and cryostasis, where his body was thawed just long enough to bleed for the cause before being frozen again. Rest was rare, fleeting. Even now, he feared if he laid on something soft, he’d vanish into sleep and not wake up for days—maybe weeks.

And besides… would the bed even fit him?

Krysztof, the youngest of the knights who had so suddenly become his retinue, guided him down the hallway in silence. It was still surreal—this morning they’d marched out to arrest him for crippling Lord Wilkowski’s son, and now they were following his orders as if nothing had happened. Strange, yes. But stranger things had happened in the galaxy. He wasn’t about to let his guard down.

They reached the third door on the right. Krysztof reached for the handle—and it turned easily.

He chuckled. “He always forgets to lock his door. Then again, no one really comes up to the third floor anymore.”

They stepped inside.

It wasn’t as luxurious as A1 had hoped. The room was… fine. Modest. Two queen-sized beds, a fur carpet, a wooden drawer, a wardrobe, a small bathroom tucked behind a door. Not bad. But for A1—who’d walked in from a battlefield, emergency dived into an alien planet, and now had command—it felt underwhelming.

Krysztof looked around with a half-smile. “The commander always got the good stuff. The rest of us cram five guys in one room—shared bunks, one bathroom, constant elbowing.”

A1 glanced at him. “Did you like your commander?”

“Eh… not really,” Krysztof admitted with a shrug. “Sad the way he died, sure. But he wasn’t exactly a people person. Never even told us his name—we just called him ‘Commander.’ Plucked us out of a guild from Kawalerielki and dumped us here to manage tax collection. Didn’t care to get to know us.”

A1 snorted. “Tax collection’s already a bad enough assignment.”

“Right?” Krysztof laughed. “Anyway, whatever stuff he left behind is probably yours now. Not that there’s much. No cash, at least. Guy used a debit card for everything. Paid us in checks. Who does that anymore?”

“I can see why you weren’t exactly loyal,” A1 muttered.

He stepped further into the room. Thankfully, the ceiling was tall enough that he didn’t need to crouch—though just barely. He studied the beds. Soft, wide… and still too small for someone his size. At best, his legs would hang off the end, and at worst, the frame would snap under him.

His eyes drifted to the fur rug on the floor.

Sigh.

Another bedless night, then. He let out a low breath as he placed his halberd and shield on the edge of one mattress, then unfastened the clip on his mace. As he did, something stirred in his pauldron.

Cadet Squishy popped out with a cheerful wiggle, his eyestalks curiously scanning the room.

Without a word, A1 lifted the little gastropod and gently placed him on the mattress. The slug nestled comfortably into the softness like he owned it.

A1 stared at him for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Of course. The slug gets the bed.

Krysztof, who had been watching from the doorway, tilted his head, intrigued but not alarmed.

“Is that your pet, sir?”

“Not quite. He’s more of a… companion.” A1 glanced at the slug. “Makes the journey feel less lonely.”

Krysztof grinned. “Hey, some knights in the city train Gloompincers as mascots or for arena fights. Yours is kinda cute, though.”

A1 gave a slight nod, then turned toward him. “I’ll settle in here. You should catch up with the others at the clinic—make sure the boy and Alicja are okay.”

Krysztof straightened, saluted by pumping his fist to his chest. “Yes, sir.”

With that, he left, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

And for a brief moment, the room fell into stillness—just A1, the distant sounds of Wilkow, and Cadet Squishy, already halfway asleep in the center of the bed.

A1 sat down on the rug, back against the foot of the bed, staring out the window. The mattress tempted him, but he couldn’t risk it, nor fit in it. 

His body ached, his thoughts spiraled, and the absurdity of it all pressed in—this strange land of animalistic people, corrupted nobility, all of it happened when his own ship was blasted from orbit. He didn't want to think about that now, it's still too much for him to process. 

Still… he had a mission now. A cause, however absurd. And in some way, that was enough to keep him sane. For now

Meanwhile…

Without so much as a glance at the innkeeper, Krysztof pushed through the doors of the Wilkow Inn and stepped into the afternoon light, trying to remember his way around town. The streets of Wilkow were more orderly than he remembered, yet somehow more claustrophobic than the open roads of Rolnicze.

As he walked, he couldn't help but reflect on how fast everything had turned upside down.

Just this morning, he and the others were following orders—bad ones, sure, but orders nonetheless. Now they were marching under someone they had barely known for half a day. Technically, he’d joined up with the man who beat them all senseless. And yet, Krysztof didn’t feel ashamed. Not quite. Maybe just uncertain.

The bruises he got from that fight still stung. His ribs ached with every step. Maybe once he got to the clinic, he could sneak in some treatment for himself too—nothing serious, just a cold compress or a painkiller. No need to bother the doctors with pride wounds.

His thoughts drifted. About pay, of all things.

The old commander paid them in checks. Checks. Not exactly the most glamorous compensation for serving the lord’s interests. Maybe this new “commander” would do better. He looked like he had money—if that armor was anything to go by. Sure, it was dented and scorched in a few places, but that didn’t make it cheap. Krysztof couldn’t recall ever seeing a knight wear something so… alien. It wasn’t ceremonial, and it wasn’t local. It looked built —for war, not appearances.

And then there were the guns . Big ones. Heavy, boxy, and loud. But the guy didn’t glow like a Sankta was supposed to. He didn’t even act like one. No divine airs, no righteousness. He sounded like a soldier pretending to be a knight. Or maybe a knight pretending to be human.

Just… what was he?

His thoughts were violently interrupted.

A hand snatched his collar and yanked him into a narrow alley between two concrete buildings. His shoulder slammed the brick wall, and before he could draw his mace, it was knocked out of his hand. A boot met his stomach with brutal force, sending him sprawling into a puddle of condensation runoff. The cold water seeped into his surcoat and tunic, soaking through the layers.

He groaned and tried to rise—but a second figure grabbed him by the helmet, yanked it off, and slammed it into the side of his head. White flashed across his vision. His ears rang. He barely registered being hauled upright and shoved against the wall, arms pinned by two attackers.

Their faces were completely obscured—black balaclavas, tinted goggles. No names. No insignia. Just black cloaks, and minimal armor—only some padding around the knees, forearms, and shins. But he knew who they were.

Armorless Union.

“Oh, shit,” he croaked, trying to breathe, trying to think.

They were mercenaries, saboteurs, assassins—known for abandoning traditional armor in favor of speed, stealth, and brutality. Urban hunters. Ghosts in towns like this.

And now they had him cornered.

Krysztof’s heart pounded in his chest.

This wasn’t a mugging.

This was a hit.

Two more Armorless Union assassins emerged from the shadows, sealing off both ends of the alley. A fifth appeared from behind a dumpster—his black cloak marked with red lining, hands clasped behind his back as he approached. He stopped in front of Krysztof, who was slumped against the wall, blood dripping from his nose and mouth.

The man scoffed and delivered another punch straight to Krysztof’s already bruised face.

“ You damn traitor ,” he snarled.

Blood dribbled from Krysztof’s nose and split lip as he looked up, dazed and afraid.. “Look… we didn’t have a choice, alright?”

The man—their commander, known only as the Platinum—sneered. “Spare me your excuses. You want to make this right? Then start talking. Who is he? This new leader of yours. What do you know?”

“He’s at the Wolf’s Eye Inn,” Krysztof blurted quickly. “Top floor, in the old commander’s room.”

Platinum tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.

“He’s big,” Krysztof added. “Took all of us down with his bare hands. He threw us, at each other. Even when we thought we had him, he still killed four of us.”

The Platinum raised an eyebrow. “One man? Four knights? With his bare hands?”

He punched him again, hard enough to knock Krysztof’s head sideways. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not!” Krysztof wheezed, his breath ragged. “He’s armed now. Took some of our weapons—a halberd, a mace, a shield—and he’s got guns too. I don’t know how, but he’s got them.”

That caught the assassins’ attention. A few exchanged uncertain glances, murmuring. Guns weren’t common. Not in these parts.

“He’s no Sankta, is he?” Platinum asked, his voice low.

“No. Not even close,” Krysztof said quickly. “The guns were already on him or something, I don’t know how he uses them.”

“Why is he here?”

“To get help,” Krysztof answered. “He brought two villagers from Rolnicze to the clinic. A boy—he was stabbed through the gut. The girl’s his sister, I think.”

Platinum gave a short nod. “And the rest of you?”

“At the clinic, with them.”

One of the assassins to the side scoffed. “Guess that rules out hostage-taking.”

Platinum glanced back at Krysztof. “What else can you tell us?”

“That’s it. That’s all I know, I swear,” Krysztof pleaded. “Please don’t kill me.”

Platinum smiled, a slow, cold curl of the lips. “I’m actually in a good mood today. Normally, I’d let you walk away.”

Krysztof sighed in relief. “Thank y—”

“But the way you just snitched on your own guys?” Platinum continued, voice hardening. “Something tells me if I let you go, you’ll sell us out too.”

“No! No, I won’t!” Krysztof’s eyes widened in panic. “I swear, this secret dies with me!”

“Oh,” Platinum said, drawing a dagger from beneath his cloak. “It definitely will.”

He pressed the blade to Krysztof’s throat.

“Wait—!”

But the Platinum had already cut deep.

Blood sprayed from the open wound, and Krysztof immediately clutched at his neck, collapsing to the ground with a choked gargle. His surcoat was quickly soaked in crimson as he rolled, limbs twitching, eyes staring up at the dusky sky.

The assassins stepped back, careful not to stain their boots.

The body stilled.

Platinum nods at one of the assassins, who takes out his tactical hatchet, kicks the treasonous knight’s body over on his stomach, and docks his tail off from its roots.

Platinum then snapped his fingers and pointed at the dumpster. Two of his men hauled the corpse over and tossed it in to join the rest of the garbage.

Then he tapped the side of his earpiece.

“Squad, we got our guy. Third floor of the Wolf’s Eye Inn. We move tonight. Evacuate the innkeeper and any guests quietly—no witnesses. And don’t touch the clinic. Too many unknowns.”

He ended the call, then gave the dumpster a final glance.

“Snitches,” he muttered. “Never learn.”

Back in the commander’s room, A1 stood by the window, staring out as the horizon burned a brilliant orange. The sun was dipping fast now, the sky melting into twilight. He hadn’t even realized how much time had passed—it was as if the chaos and constant motion of the day had compressed the hours.

But now, alone in a quiet room with only the occasional soft squeak of his slug companion, time finally slowed. Too slow. It reminded him he was still trapped on this planet. Still a stranger.

He couldn’t afford to waste any more of it.

Turning from the window, A1 began a thorough search of the room. If he was going to survive here without giving himself away, he needed information—about the culture, the politics, the technology level, even the language. Anything that could help him blend in better, or at least not stand out as a glowing anomaly in a steel sarcophagus.

Unfortunately, the search didn’t yield much.

The wardrobe was filled with standard-issue clothing that clearly wouldn’t fit his armored frame. One drawer revealed… an assortment of undergarments. Feminine. He shut it just as quickly as he opened it, muttering beneath his breath.

“Well. That’s not concerning at all.”

If anything, it made him feel even better about killing the previous tenant of this room.

But what he didn’t find was more troubling: no journals, no written records, nothing that gave him insight into the commander’s duties or the world they all lived in. No maps, no mission briefs. Not even an old tavern receipt.

He paused at the bed, mind drifting. Alicja had shouted a name earlier— Terra. It echoed in his head.

“Terra…”

Latin for Earth.

He grimaced. That couldn’t just be a coincidence. But this world… despite the medieval aesthetics, the knights, and the bizarre fauna, did seem to have some degree of technological sophistication. It wasn’t Super Earth, but it wasn’t caveman-tier either.

There were pieces here. The name, the hybrid architecture, the strange blend of modern and medieval life. All of it left a sour, uncanny taste in his mouth.

He pushed away the spiral of overthinking before it swallowed him whole. No use in falling down a philosophical rabbit hole when the immediate problem remained: he wasn’t going to find answers by loitering in this room.

There was a common room downstairs—he remembered seeing it briefly when he arrived. There might be a newspaper, a radio, a television, or anything else to give him a glimpse into the local happenings. Even a bad headline would be better than flying blind.

As he turned to leave, he caught Cadet Squishy watching him with those curious, bulbous eyestalks. A1 reached into one of his ammo pouches and pulled out a packet of hard tack—ration biscuits so dry they could be used as impromptu throwing weapons.

He ripped the packet open and tossed it onto the mattress. “That acid spit of yours might come in handy,” he muttered. “Just don’t ruin the sheets, yeah?”

Cadet Squishy squeaked once and started chomping on the biscuits with terrifying enthusiasm.

A1 stared at him for a beat longer. “Ah, who am I kidding? You’re gonna ruin the bed anyway.”

Leaving the gastropod to his crunchy feast, A1 picked up his halberd, slung it across his back, and exited the room, footsteps heavy as he made his way downstairs.

Descending the stairs, A1 locked eyes with the elderly innkeeper seated behind the desk. Her expression—once disinterested—shifted subtly. Indifference gave way to curiosity, then scrutiny. She didn’t say a word, but he could feel the weight of her stare. The kind of look that quietly peeled back layers, as though trying to decipher what sort of man he really was beneath all that armor.

He stared back, unmoving, until she finally broke eye contact and turned her attention back to the newspaper in her lap. Satisfied—or at least dismissive.

With that subtle encounter out of the way, A1 made his way into the adjacent common room. It was simple, almost humble, with worn furniture and a low-end table nestled between the couches and chairs. On the table sat a small stack of magazines, their glossy covers bent and dog-eared from too much idle reading.

He picked one up.

Knight profiles. Brand endorsements. Family houses, noble guilds, fashion spreads. One knight was the face of a perfume company, another posed beside a soda bottle like some champion of carbonation. Clothing brands, armor stylists, and even a damn cologne line stamped with a crest.

It made his stomach churn.

He dropped the magazine with a sigh of disgust. Capitalism in all its gaudy glory. Just as rotten as the socialist zealotry of the Automatons. And worst of all—it was all too familiar. Back on Super Earth, Helldivers from unrecognized regions were barred from fighting simply because their homelands weren’t sponsored by corporate superpowers funding the military. He wondered, bitterly, if that idiocy had been repealed yet.

The stack of magazines yielded nothing useful beyond a colorful reminder of the world’s warped priorities. Worse, there was no television in the common room. Not even a radio.

“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath.

Then—an alert.

A faint ping sounded in his helmet. His HUD glitched for a moment, the cracked visor distorting the letters, but the message came through:

Suspicious Radio Signal Intercepted. Initiating Playback.

Before he could even brace himself, a voice crackled to life in his earpiece.

“I repeat. Our guy resides on the third floor of the Wolf’s Eye Inn. We shall move in at night. Proceed with caution, fellas—this guy’s got guns.”

His blood chilled.

A1 lowered himself carefully into an armchair—surprisingly sturdy enough to handle his armored weight—and pretended to be skimming a magazine. The audio kept playing.

“I got eyes on him, Platinum. He’s at the lobby now. Seems occupied by one of those magazines.”

“Hold off, Tomasz. Keep observation. Don’t get caught.”

His pulse quickened. Eyes scanning without turning his head, he glanced toward the lobby. The innkeeper was still behind the desk, seemingly unbothered. But then, through the front window, he saw a figure—a horse-eared young man in a plain T-shirt, holding a phone-disguised radio to his ear.

That was his spotter.

A1’s hand moved subtly to his Redeemer SMG, fingers resting against the safety. Damn it, he knew coming to Wilkow was a mistake. He hadn’t been here a full day and already someone had eyes on him. Probably secret police… or worse.

“He’s moving, sir. I think he’s spotted me.”

“Then get out of there! Reposition yourself! Damn it, if this guy already knows we’re onto him, this is gonna make this harder than it needs to be!”

He couldn’t let them know he was onto them, not yet. He needed a distraction—something natural, something that wouldn't set off alarms. A1 turned to the innkeeper.

“Excuse me, miss?” His tone was calm, almost casual. “Where’s your bathroom?”

The elderly woman looked up from her paper with a tired glance, gave a small grunt, then pointed without a word to the far-left door near the staircase.

He gave her a nod of thanks and casually strolled toward the bathroom. Partly because he did need to use it—but mostly, he needed to get out of sight.

And plan his next move.

Admittedly, he’d needed this bathroom break for a while. A long while, if he were being honest. He hadn’t had a proper chance to relieve himself since before arriving on this planet. Now, finally alone and in a relatively quiet space, he took the opportunity not just to clear his system, but to think.

The intercepted radio signal still rang in his head like a warning klaxon.

They were watching him. How long they'd been doing so, he couldn’t say. And now that he knew, the dynamic had changed—he wasn’t hiding anymore; he was hunted .

How did one outmaneuver an enemy who already knew every move? Normally, he'd eliminate the patrol to stop an alarm being raised, then bolt clean before reinforcements arrived. But this wasn’t like other missions. These weren’t mindless drones, mutated citizens, or rabid insects. If he opened fire here, in a quiet town like Wilkow, the entire population might come down on him like a hammer.

He’d fought behind enemy lines before. Survived when he had no business doing so. But this time… this time it felt different.

This time, he was cornered .

There was only one logical solution: play the fool. Let them believe he was none the wiser. Let them come to him—and then crush them when their guard was down.

A sudden wave of relief and comfort washed over him now that the biological necessities were out of the way. He refastened his cape and adjusted a few ceremonial fixtures on his armor, pieces that added a regal flair he didn’t care for, but they helped sell the image. He stepped out of the bathroom—only to have one of his helmet wings snag painfully on the narrow doorframe.

“Damn it,” he hissed.

He tried to pretend it didn’t happen, but as he stepped into the lobby, he caught the innkeeper glancing up. Her face betrayed nothing… except for the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Wonderful.

He considered heading back to his room, but hesitated. If the watchers were stationed nearby, they’d likely post someone in the lobby soon, pretending to be a guest or loitering with a book. That would only tighten the net. He needed to stay mobile, unpredictable.

Before he could make a decision, the floor beneath his boots began to rumble slightly. A faint squeaking followed, then a dark shadow stretched across the windows of the inn.

A1 turned toward the door. Outside, the knight’s wagon rolled up to the entrance, its wheels groaning as they locked into place. Michal sat in the driver’s seat, giving the brake lever a practiced tug. He jumped down and offered a quick salute—one they’d all been taught by now.

A1 waved him off. “At ease.”

Michal straightened, slightly sheepish. “We managed to get the boy a room, sir. Lucky timing too. Barely anyone’s being processed in the clinic right now, so the medical staff were all hands on deck. Case like his? They said they’ve never seen anything like it. One of the nurses actually fainted when they removed the bandages to clean him up.”

A1 raised a brow behind his helmet. “That bad?”

“Apparently. They wouldn’t even let Miss Alicja watch. Said family members weren’t allowed. But eventually, they gave the boy a room. He’s sleeping now.”

A1 nodded, pleased. “And Alicja?”

Michal scratched the back of his neck. “Well, she couldn’t afford treatment. So… we pitched in. All of us. Some didn’t like it, but we figured it’s what you’d have us do.”

“It is what I’d have you do,” A1 replied plainly.

“Right. Thought so. Anyway, she couldn’t stay in the clinic long, so… she’s in the back of the wagon. Waiting.”

Right on cue, a sharp voice echoed from the carriage.

“I would like to be out of here now, thank you!”

A1 and Michal made their way to the back. The barred rear door rattled slightly as they approached.

A1 paused. “Why’s the door locked?”

Michal shrugged guiltily. “Force of habit. This is usually the same wagon we used to haul dissenters.”

“Dissenters?”

“Tax refusers, mostly.”

A1 tilted his helmet slightly. “And criminals?”

“Oh, yes. Them too.”

Alicja’s voice rang again, exasperated. “ Guys?! ”

Michal winced. “In a minute!”

A1 sighed and reached for the lock. This day just kept getting better.

After unbolting the rear door, A1 stepped aside to let Alicja out. She brushed off any offer of help with a sharp glare, even as she staggered with fatigue. Her steps were unsteady, her shoulders sagging, weighed down by her sack and fatigue, and her face drawn tight with exhaustion. It was clear—today had drained her completely.

"Please tell me you have a room in here, sir knight," she asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

"I do," A1 replied quickly. "I’ll take you—"

"No," she cut in, not unkindly, but with the kind of tired resolve that made arguing pointless. "Just point me in the right direction."

He hesitated. "Third floor. Straight down the hall, third door on the right."

She gave a weak nod. "Thanks..."

Alicja didn’t wait for anything more. She hobbled inside the inn, passing the innkeeper without so much as a glance. The old woman didn’t seem to care either, eyes still buried in her newspaper, showing no interest in who came or went. Either she was the most apathetic employee A1 had seen in a long time… or she was very used to things like this.

Michal, standing beside him, sighed and rested his head against his gauntlet. “Poor girl. She’s been through a lot.”

“She didn’t deserve any of it,” A1 muttered. “Neither did Marek.”

“Is she gonna be okay?”

“Hard to say.”

Michal nodded grimly. “Everyone else is still at the clinic, standing watch for the kid. Except Krysztof. He’s not there yet. He was with you, wasn’t he?”

A1 frowned. “No. I sent him ahead. He should’ve been there by now.”

“Oh.” Michal scratched his helmet. “Weird. He’s probably just lost again. Happens more than you’d think.”

“He gets lost in a town this small?”

“Wilkow’s not complicated, but he has a way of turning himself around. I know the place better than anyone—I’ll do a few loops, maybe ask around.”

A1 was about to give his blessing when the crackle of his internal earpiece interrupted, a sharp ping alerting him to another intercepted signal.

“Platinum, be advised. I'm observing our target—he's speaking with a turncoat knight right now.”

“Hold off, Tomasz. Wait until they split. If that knight goes off alone, prep for ambush.”

“Gotcha. I also spotted a potential hostage entering the inn. Probably connected to the target.”

“Copy that. Keep a note of the girl. We’ll use her if needed.”

A1 froze. The world around him seemed to sharpen. Every crack of a cartwheel, every shuffle of distant boots, every creak of wood sounded sharper. They were going to take Alicja. And Michal too if he wasn't careful.

And if Krysztof hadn’t made it to the clinic by now…

He hadn’t gotten lost. He’d been taken .

Michal looked at him, brow creased. “Sir?”

“Change of plans,” A1 said quickly. “You need to get back to the clinic. Now.”

Michal blinked. “What about Krysztof?”

“He’ll find his way back. He’s capable enough,” A1 lied, forcing a steadiness into his voice. “Just get moving. Fast. And tell the others—if they ever plan to leave the clinic, they leave as a group. No one walks alone.”

Michal narrowed his eyes. “The way you’re talking… Is everything okay?”

“No time. Get on the wagon and go.”

“Alright, alright.” Michal stepped back, uneasy. “Stay safe then, sir.”

“Worry about yourselves,” A1 replied sharply. “Now move.”

Michal clambered onto the driver’s seat, snapping the reins. The burdenbeast jolted forward, the wagon turning sharply before rumbling away down the cobbled street. The tension in Michal’s face was clear—even from behind his helmet, he kept looking back as if expecting something to leap from the shadows.

Another transmission hissed into A1’s ear:

“Platinum, be advised. The two have separated. But the crony’s moving too fast—we won’t catch him.”

“Forget him. Focus on the target. We move at zero.”

A1 didn’t wait around. He turned on his heel and stepped back into the inn, heart pounding. They were coming.

And they had no idea what they’d just stepped into.

Before he went back inside the inn, he scoffs, amused, “He should teach his men better radio discipline, that was terrible.”

A1 pushed the door open with casual purpose, trying to keep his movements unremarkable. He needed to look natural—unaware, unworried, unthreatened. But the second his eyes met the stairwell, his stomach coiled. He knew the moment he went up, they would make their move. The enemy was watching. They were waiting. And worse yet… Alicja was up there. Alone.

He had already failed Marek. He wasn’t going to let her be next.

His pace quickened up the steps, the weight of his armor creaking with each stride, tension rising with every footfall. If any of them had already infiltrated the third floor, they might already be watching her, planning their strike.

But as he rounded the final corner, relief washed over him. There she was, standing just outside their door, arms limp at her sides, barely upright. She glanced at him, heavy-lidded eyes dull with fatigue, then turned and pushed the door open after he gave her a quick thumbs-up. He followed close behind.

The room hadn’t changed, though it now bore the undeniable signs of habitation. Alicja barely made it past the threshold before letting her sack fall by the drawer, the contents spilling in a messy heap across the floor—folded shirts, mismatched socks, a handful of medicinal vials and bundles of dried herbs. She didn’t care. She sank onto the nearest bed without even removing her boots, slumping into the mattress, letting her body bounce slightly before it stilled. Her face was a mask of exhaustion—too drained to cry, too tired to scowl.

Cadet Squishy, now bloated and satisfied from his meal, rested nearby with an air of mild guilt. The biscuit he’d melted had indeed torn through the sheets, leaving a messy hole that hissed with residual acid. A1 ignored it. He had more pressing concerns.

The little gastropod gave a squeaky whimper, sensing Alicja’s distress.

A1 closed the door quietly behind them, his instincts still screaming caution, but he chose to override them—for now. He had to check on her.

“So,” he said gently, voice low as he removed his helmet, “how is he holding up?”

Alicja didn’t move at first. When she finally spoke, her voice was flat. “Not great. As expected. At least he’s not screaming anymore. They say it’s one of the worst cases they’ve ever seen. They’re not even sure if they can fix him.”

“Hell of a thing for a doctor to say,” A1 muttered. “They didn’t want you staying?”

She turned her head, facing the ceiling. “Family gets limited time. One caretaker at a time. And you’ve got five of your knights in there guarding him. Same guys who helped get him there in the first place.”

“I made sure the one who hurt him paid for it,” A1 said quietly.

She let out a bitter scoff. “Yeah, but Marek’s still the one paying most of the price.” She rolled onto her side, not even bothering to unbutton her torn blouse or change clothes. “This whole thing... it’s just a nightmare. I keep thinking I’ll wake up, and he’ll be there. Grinning like an idiot. But no… I’m still here.”

Her eyes met his across the room, tired and red around the edges. “You ever feel like you’re in a nightmare too?”

A1 gave a slow nod, sitting down on the floor beside the foot of the bed. He leaned back slightly, the armor pressing against the wall behind him. “In more ways than I can count,” he murmured. “None of this was in the plan. This mission—if you can call it that—I wasn’t prepared. I’ve... let a lot of people down.”

Images flashed through his mind—the wreck of the Super Destroyer, a broken metal tomb drifting in orbit. The scorched escape pod he’d found on the surface, twisted and charred, full of silence and ash. Other pods had scattered across the sky that day, streaking down like shooting stars. He’d never found them. Maybe it was better that way.

Alicja didn’t offer words of comfort. She wasn’t in a place to, and he didn’t expect them. She turned her face back toward the door, exhaling a long, defeated sigh.

“I don’t want to lose my brother,” she whispered. “But I know what’s coming. I can feel it. And it’s… hard.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly. A1 didn’t speak. He sat there, the silence between them thick and heavy. He didn’t have answers. Not for her. Not for himself.

Outside, the sun dipped further beneath the horizon, and the third floor of the inn grew dim. Shadows stretched across the room.

The night was coming.

So were they.

Night had fallen over Wilkow like a curtain of ink. The streets outside were quiet now, hushed under the watchful flicker of buzzing lampposts. The stars had vanished behind a murky veil—no moon, no constellations, just darkness pressing down from above. It was the kind of night that didn’t feel natural, the kind that weighed on the back of your neck.

Inside the room, A1 sat cross-legged on the fur rug, his armored back resting against the wall. The clock in his HUD ticked over to 23:34.

From the intercepted message, he remembered clearly: “We move in at 0.”

Midnight.

Twenty-six minutes.

His hand remained fixed on the grip of his Redeemer SMG, finger resting alongside the trigger guard. He hadn’t slept, didn’t plan to—not that he needed to. For Helldivers, sleep was a luxury. Optional. Freedom didn’t sleep, so neither could they. But tonight, it wasn’t duty keeping him awake. It was vigilance. Anticipation. A coil of pressure wound tight in his gut.

He'd stashed his Liberator rifle under the bed earlier, too cumbersome for tight quarters. If things got close—and they would—he’d be relying on the Redeemer. A1 glanced at the ammo counter on his HUD.

12 rounds left. Two full mags remaining on his belt.

It would have to be enough.

How many were out there? He didn’t know. Five? Ten? More? There was no telling. No further radio intercepts since the last. Maybe the signal was too weak this high up. Or maybe they’d gone dark, moving in silently now.

He cast a glance toward the bed.

Alicja lay motionless on one of the mattresses, curled on her side, her knees drawn slightly toward her chest. Her face was turned away from him, her breathing steady, if not entirely peaceful. Sleep had finally claimed her—if only just. She didn’t look like she was dreaming. Probably wasn’t. Just letting her body shut down out of necessity. He knew that kind of sleep. Exhaustion masquerading as rest.

Cadet Squishy had burrowed himself comfortably into the opposite pillow, tentacles lazily drooped over the linen, a satisfied squeak escaping his tiny mouth. The acid-eating slug had no idea what might be coming.

A lucky bastard, A1 thought bitterly.

He adjusted his grip on the SMG, the cold alloy against his gloves feeling oddly reassuring. He slowed his breathing. His senses tuned in to the silence, trying to catch anything that didn’t belong: a footstep, a creak of wood, the shift of weight.

The anticipation gnawed at him—not fear, never fear—but the sharp alertness that came from knowing violence was imminent. It was the same feeling as sitting in a hellpod moments before diving, listening to your squad’s breath inside their helmets while the countdown echoed in your ears.

Soon.

A1 didn’t blink. He didn’t shift. He just waited.

They were coming.

And he’d be ready.

Down in the lobby, the assassins made their move.

The front doors of the inn burst open with a slam that echoed through the wood-paneled halls. The elderly innkeeper flinched in surprise just as a dozen cloaked figures stormed inside like they owned the place. Their uniforms matched—black cloaks, balaclavas, tinted goggles, and sleek shield-visors. They moved with trained precision, sweeping into the building like a tactical raid.

The one with red accents on his cloak—the Platinum—stepped forward and casually split his squad into four groups. Two remained stationed in the lobby, while the rest funneled down the three hallways branching off the central space, as if they were clearing out a drug den.

He approached the front counter, leaning on it with the arrogant ease of a man in total control. Behind him, one of the squads reemerged from the hallway, calling out, “Clear!”

“Good evening, ma’am,” he said with mock courtesy, his voice muffled behind his visor. “Sorry to be a bother, but we really need you to leave the premises.”

The innkeeper rose from her stool, shocked and bristling. “What is the meaning of this?! What are you doing to my inn?!”

Before she could demand answers, more assassins appeared—this time from the left corridor—dragging with them two Kuranta women in maid uniforms. Their faces were pale, full of fear, and their limbs were trembling as they were herded toward the exit. One of the assassins gave one of the maids a sharp slap on the rear as she stumbled out.

The innkeeper’s eyes widened. “Hey! They’re my housekeepers!”

Platinum tilted his head, unfazed. “Long story short, we’ve got a target upstairs that needs removing, and we’re trying to minimize collateral damage. So, for your safety, please vacate the inn before the real fun begins.”

“You’re going to kill one of my guests?!” she shrieked. “How dare you! That’s outrageous!”

He sighed and turned to two of his assassins, snapping his fingers. “Disobedience. Typical. Remove the old nag from the premises.”

One of them briskly walked around the counter, opened the door, and yanked the innkeeper out by her collar and arm. She screamed and struggled, but the others simply watched—some with discomfort, others with quiet amusement—as she was tossed out into the street like unwanted trash.

Platinum turned toward one of the younger assassins still lingering near the counter. “You’ll understand why we do these things, Centaurea,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. She flinched. “It’s for their own good.”

Centaurea’s ears twitched. “...I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Then you’re no good to me,” he replied coolly. “Since you’re worried, you’re on lookout duty.”

“What? But Platinum—!” she protested.

The return of the rest of the squad drowned out her complaint. The ground floor was now fully secured. The assassins regrouped in a loose semicircle around their leader.

Platinum walked to the center, raising his voice just enough to command attention without shouting.

“Alright, people, listen up. Here’s the plan.”

A1 felt a sudden jolt run through his body—a tight ripple of tension that made his stomach churn. Something was happening. He rose from the fur rug with a sharp inhale, his gaze immediately locking onto the door. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his bones.

The bed creaked behind him, drawing his attention. Alicja stirred, rubbing her eyes as she sat up and yawned.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she mumbled sleepily, her voice raspy from sleep.

She started toward the bathroom door in a sluggish daze, but halfway there, she paused. Her drowsy expression sharpened as realization crept in, and she glanced back at A1.

“You haven’t slept yet, sir knight?”

“After everything that’s happened?” A1 replied softly. “I don’t think I can.”

Alicja let out a tired, humorless laugh. “Same.”

With that, she stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. A loud click followed.

Now alone, A1’s thoughts moved fast. Whatever was coming, it was close. If it happened now, and if Alicja stepped out into it—he wouldn’t forgive himself.

He turned toward the heavy drawer along the wall, crossed the room, and hefted it with ease. With deliberate force, he dragged it in front of the bathroom door, wedging it into place. It wouldn’t stop a determined assault, but it would at least delay anyone—or keep Alicja from walking into a crossfire. She’d understand once the smoke cleared. Once the bodies lay still.

Still uneasy, A1 glanced toward the window. He couldn't shake the sensation gnawing at the edge of his senses. Perhaps if he went outside the room, he might catch another intercepted radio transmission. Worth the risk, he decided.

Then he heard it.

Not from outside—but inside. Cadet Squishy was trembling violently on the bed, his jellylike body twitching and spasming. His eyestalks darted in every direction, and high-pitched squawks erupted from his tiny mouth. It wasn’t random. He felt it too. Something wasn’t right.

A1’s instincts sharpened like a blade. He tightened his grip on the Redeemer SMG and moved toward the door. Every step was measured, controlled. He reached out, turned the handle slowly, and eased the door open.

The hallway was still.

He leaned slightly out, checking the right corridor first—empty. Then the left—also deserted. No movement. No footsteps. No sound beyond the low hum of the inn’s quiet nighttime ambience.

But silence could lie.

Everything in his gut told him it wouldn’t stay this quiet for long.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click , both hands tightening around his Redeemer SMG. The hallway stretched out in sterile quiet beneath pale, humming lightbulbs embedded in the ceiling. Too quiet. Too still.

If they wanted to stage an ambush , A1 thought, this would be the moment to kill the lights.

As if on cue, a heavy thud reverberated through the inn—somewhere distant, like a fuse box or generator being sabotaged. Then darkness swallowed the building whole. Every light died, the hall humming into a dead, silent void.

"And there it goes," he muttered under his breath.

His own tools of light still remained: the faint glow of his Hellpad, the mounted flashlight under his SMG, and the low-light vision filter in his helmet. But the latter stuttered with an annoying delay.

“ Low-light conditions detected. Initiating NVGs, ” chimed a flat robotic voice inside his helmet.

His visor flared to life with a flickering green hue, illuminating his surroundings in grainy night vision. The cracks running across his HUD stood out more now, like spiderwebs crawling through his vision. And as expected, the screen began to glitch intermittently, flickering in and out before stabilizing.

Definitely not going to make him nauseous. Nope. Not at all.

Then came a voice. Alicja's voice.

“SIR KNIGHT!” she screamed from the bathroom, her voice echoing faintly from behind the thick door. “What’s happening!? I can’t see!... SIR KNIGHT?!”

The pounding came next—rapid, panicked thuds against the inside of the door he’d barricaded with the heavy drawer.

“HEY! OPEN THIS DOOR! PLEASE!”

He closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t let her out. Not yet. Not with the enemy preparing to descend on them. This was the moment they’d been waiting for.

He took a cautious step forward, inching closer to the staircase at the end of the hall. His eyes scanned every shadowed corner, finger gently resting on the trigger. Still nothing. No motion. No sound. Just silence that pressed in like a vice.

Then— click.

A faint sound behind him.

He spun on instinct, raising the Redeemer—but the hallway was still empty. No movement. Nothing. Just more shadow.

Pressing himself against the wall, A1 edged closer to the stairwell, carefully peeking around the corner.

Then his suit buzzed.

[WARNING. SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY DETECTED. MULTIPLE UNKNOWNS SIGHTED. ORIGIN: UNDISCLOSED. FURTHER ANALYSIS REQUIRED.]

His HUD flickered again, and then it appeared: one red blip in the corner box.

Then two.

Then five.

Then more—until the entire mini-map was littered with them.

A1 counted. Twenty. Twenty warm bodies converging on his location.

His grip tightened around the SMG.

“Oh, sweet mother of General Brasch…” he muttered.

They were here.

Unseen from the hallway, one of the Armorless Union assassins had slipped in through the window adjacent to the room. He moved like a shadow—silent, efficient. Once inside, he tapped the comms device in his ear.

“This is Tomasz. I’m in the target’s room. No sign of him.”

There was a pause. Then a faint pounding noise caught his attention—coming from the nearby bathroom.

“Hold off, Platinum,” he whispered. “I think I’ve got something.”

“Don’t get cocky, Tomasz. Wait for the others to arrive.”

“I am. I’m just checking it solo. He’s not here. You can ambush him outside.”

He cut the comms and moved to the bathroom door. Flicking on the anglehead flashlight clipped to his belt, the beam swept across a heavy wooden drawer pressed against the door. Barricaded. Definitely not by accident.

“SIR KNIGHT… SIR KNIGHT!” came the frantic voice of a woman from inside.

Tomasz smirked and started shoving the drawer aside. It groaned against the floor but eventually budged. With a heavy breath, he cracked the bathroom door open.

Inside, a disheveled young woman stood blinking against the harsh light. Her golden hair was matted, her clothes torn, and her expression—hopeful at first—froze into something else.

“Sir... knight?” she asked weakly, shielding her eyes.

Tomasz pressed his earpiece again. “I’ve found the potential hostage.”

“Seize her.”

Without hesitation, he stepped into the cramped space.

The girl’s hope turned to horror the moment she realized he wasn’t who she expected. She screamed, shoving him back, clawing at his faceplate and yanking at his cloak.

“Come on, ma’am, don’t make me angry!” he growled, trying to grab her.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”

She kicked him in the chest. The impact sent him tumbling backward into the tiled floor. The door slammed, but he surged forward, shoving it open again before she could lock it.

As he lunged, Alicja grabbed his arm, twisted, and used his own momentum to hurl him straight into the toilet bowl with a loud clang . She turned to bolt.

But Tomasz wasn’t down for long.

He sprang up and grabbed her by the tail, eliciting a sharp yelp. With a grunt, he yanked her backward, wrapping an arm tightly around her neck.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he hissed, pressing his face near hers, “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’ve done bad things, yeah, but I’m no monster… even if you are really, really cute.”

Alicja thrashed in his grasp, kicking at the floor, trying to break the sleeper hold.

“Come on,” Tomasz cooed. “We’ve got time. Let’s get to know each other a little while we wait for your knightly friend—”

Then he heard it.

A high-pitched, indignant squawk.

Sliding through the open doorway was a bite-sized Originium slug—Cadet Squishy—his eyestalks flared, acid glands pulsing with agitation.

Tomasz blinked. “Seriously?” he said with a laugh.

Without a second thought, he reeled his leg back and punted the slug across the room. The poor creature sailed into the wall with a splat , leaving a faint, yellowish smear as it slid down to the floor, twitching.

“NOOOO!” Alicja screamed, her body jerking violently in Tomasz’s hold as she reached toward the fallen creature.

With a final grunt, Tomasz kicked the bathroom door shut behind them, trapping both himself and Alicja inside.

Lock engaged.

From down the hall, A1 heard a scream—Alicja’s voice, sharp and panicked, slicing through the dark like a blade.

Without thinking, he bolted for the room.

The door swung open with a crash, hinges rattling as he stormed inside. The barricading drawer had been shoved aside. The bathroom door was ajar. Someone was in there with her.

But instinct screamed at him— Check your corners.

He obeyed, sweeping his gaze right—and what he saw dropped his heart like a stone.

Cadet Squishy.

The little slug lay on the floor, twitching weakly. His shell was fractured, a long crack running through it. A viscous yellowish fluid oozed out, pooling beneath him. A1 didn’t know if it was blood or slime. He didn’t care. It was too much .

He dropped to his knees beside the injured gastropod, hands trembling.

“No... no, no, no…”

Grabbing one of the spilled vials from the floor—one of Alicja’s potions—he yanked the cork free and dumped the entire contents onto the wound. He had no clue what the potion was meant for, or if it would even help, but it was all he had.

“Hang in there, soldier…” he muttered.

But there was no time to linger.

He rose, turning toward the bathroom door—but paused, just before reaching for the handle.

Click.

His HUD lit up with fresh activity.

Blips. Motion signatures.

One green—Alicja. Alive, thank Lady Liberty.

One red—inside the bathroom.

And two more red blips, closing in from the right.

If he opened that door now, the bastard inside might use Alicja as leverage—or worse. He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to turn away.

Instead, he faced the wardrobe. One of the red signatures was inside.

The radio buzzed in his ear. “Platinum, this is Roksana. Target is right on top of me.”

“Copy that. Has he spotted you?”

“I’m not sure,” Roksana whispered. “He’s just... staring at the closet.”

With no warning, A1 lunged.

He yanked the wardrobe doors open in one swift motion.

Inside, a cloaked assassin sat coiled like a snake, crouched tight in the dark.

“...Yes,” she whispered. “Yes,” she repeated, voice glitching as if overlapping with itself.

She sprang up, a hatchet already raised. A1 leaned back— whiff —the blade barely missed his helmet. Another swing came down hard, but he ducked low.

Then he moved fast.

He surged forward, gripped her by the throat, and yanked her out of the wardrobe like a rag doll. She thrashed, kicking, clawing, but her arms were too short to reach him.

A1 tightened his grip.

Crack.

The sound was sharp and final. Her knee curled up reflexively, and then she went limp.

He let her drop to the floor.

One down. Too many to go.

Another transmission crackled through A1’s comms, the voice drenched in grief: “He killed Roksana!”

A sound behind him—a window sliding open.

He turned just in time to catch another assassin clambering through. But before the man's feet could touch the floor, A1 surged forward, catching him mid-air with one arm coiled around his gut like a steel vice.

The assassin writhed like a cornered animal. “Let go, you stupid motherfucker! I’m gonna tear you to pieces!”

A1 didn’t answer. He took two steps to the window, slammed it shut with the barrel of his SMG, then heaved the man up and hurled him through the glass. The window exploded outward in a flurry of shards, and the assassin let out a panicked cry—

“AAHHHH!”—as he plummeted to his death.

But the moment of calm didn’t last.

“Alright, move in!” came a sharp command from the hallway.

A1 spun around, SMG raised.

Three more assassins burst through the doorway, each armed with a crossbow raised and ready to fire. But A1’s HUD had already locked in; a glowing crosshair drifted across their torsos, lining up like dominoes.

Three shots.

Three headshots.

Not one of them got a bolt off. Their bodies collapsed where they stood, thudding to the floor.

Their visors might’ve been good for anonymity, but they weren’t bulletproof.

A1 stepped forward, sweeping the room for movement, when a slow, metallic creak pierced the silence. The bathroom door creaked open.

“Sir knight?...”

“Alicja!” he called out, turning quickly.

But she wasn’t alone.

An assassin had her in his grasp, one arm wrapped around her throat, a dagger glinting near her jugular.

The man scanned the room—saw the broken window, the dead bodies, the blood pooling around his comrades. His grip tightened.

“Drop your gun. Now.”

A1 remained still, SMG still pointed.

“You think I give a fuck?! I’ll do it—drop it!”

“Okay… alright…” A1 raised his free hand, slowly lowering the weapon with the other. The HUD crosshair hovered just over the assassin’s visor. He only needed a second.

But the assassin wasn’t stupid.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re trying. Drop it. Or she dies!”

Alicja gasped, her face turning red from the pressure on her throat. A1’s mind raced—one wrong move and she was dead. He scanned the room, looking for anything.

Then he saw it.

A faint, yellowish slime trail shimmered in the NVG tint, leading from the edge of the bed... into the bathroom. It glowed faintly, oozing downward. He followed the trail with his eyes—just as a single drop of viscous fluid landed on the assassin’s faceplate.

Ssssss.

The visor sizzled as the corrosive slime burned a small hole through it. The man jerked back, stunned.

Before he could react further, something plummeted from the ceiling above.

Splat.

Cadet Squishy, the cracked but not defeated Originium slug, landed square on his face.

“What the fuck is—AGHHH!”

Alicja fell to the floor as the assassin released her in a panic, clawing at his face as the slug spewed acid, eating through his visor and skin alike. He screamed and thrashed, trying to rip the creature off, but Squishy clung on tight.

A1 didn’t hesitate.

Brap-brap-brap.

One round to the groin. Two in the chest.

The assassin dropped backward with a final, gurgled gasp, slamming against the toilet with a sickening crunch.

Alicja sat slumped against the floor, coughing, cradling her head in her hands.

Cadet Squishy slid off the assassin’s face, gooey and triumphant, leaving behind a corroded mess.

A1 lowered his SMG, breathing hard, and muttered with a mix of awe and gratitude.

“Good work, Cadet.”

There was no time for gratitude or comfort—only survival. A1 rushed forward and caught Alicja in his arms. She was trembling, her fingers clawing at his chest plate as she sobbed against his armor, gripping him as though she might fall apart if she let go.

He gently pressed two fingers to the side of her neck, and though she flinched, she didn’t resist.

Status: Alive
BPM: 149
No signs of sexual assault detected.

Relief washed over A1 like a cold wave, nearly making his knees give. But the shaking in her limbs, the way her eyes refused to settle, the way she clung to him like he was her last anchor—none of that diagnostic data could fix this.

Eventually, Alicja pulled away, rubbing tears from her reddened eyes. She stood on shaky feet, her voice hoarse.

“Who are these people? What do they want?”

A1 steadied her by the shoulders. “They’re here for me. I’m sorry you got dragged into this.” He hesitated, his gaze darkening. “There are more of them downstairs. I have to take care of it.”

Alicja’s eyes widened. “Wait— more ? How many exactly?”

“Don’t ask how I know… but twenty. I’ve taken down six. That leaves fourteen.” He looked toward the hallway, where red blips on his minimap edged closer. “This isn’t over.”

She choked on another sob, wrapping her arms across her chest. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take…”

A1 wanted to stay. To protect her. But he didn’t have the luxury of comfort right now. They were still coming.

He bent down, retrieved a crossbow and a full quiver from one of the fallen assassins, and handed them to her.

“Do you know how to use these?”

Alicja stared for a beat before nodding. Her hands shook, but her grip was firm as she slung the quiver over her shoulder and cradled the crossbow with a familiarity born of repetition.

“Listen carefully,” A1 said. “Stay here. Do not leave unless you absolutely have to. Got it?”

Tears welled up again, but she blinked them away, nodding. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. These guys are nothing compared to what I usually deal with. Protect yourself—and Squishy. That’s your mission.”

She hesitated, then straightened. Her voice was still soft, but stronger. “Understood… please be careful, sir knight.”

Without thinking, A1 pounded his fist over his heart in a salute.

Alicja tilted her head, confused for a moment—then mirrored the gesture, hand shaking but held high. The small act seemed to settle something in her.

She picked up Cadet Squishy, still oozing but very much alive, and gently placed him on her shoulder. With the crossbow in hand, she moved behind one of the beds for cover, her eyes fixed on the doorway like a sentry reborn.

A1 took a breath, steeled himself, and stepped out.

Time to finish what they started.

A1 slipped back into the hallway, quietly shutting the door behind him. He grimaced. No key. Not even a latch to secure it. Typical. He could only hope Alicja would stay hidden, and that nothing would break through unless it was over his dead body first.

The hallway was still again. Still and too quiet. Every soft creak of the floorboards beneath his boots made his nerves tighten, and his hand clutched his SMG like a lifeline.

His eyes darted between the hallway and the minimap in his HUD. Fewer blips than before—but not few enough.

Then the comms crackled.

“Tomasz, are you there? What's happening?” Platinum’s voice, taut with strain. “Maciej, do you copy? …Wojciech, are you still there?”

Another voice responded, whisper-quiet but clear. “This is Wojciech. Me and my squad are holed up in the room next door. We heard some serious fighting out there. This Knight’s not like the others. My team and I are pinned. Requesting backup.”

“Roger that. Stanislaw, move up.”

“At once, Platinum.”

The room next door.

A1 turned his gaze to the door just across from him, eyes narrowing. Three red blips glowed behind it on his minimap. Three enemies, biding their time, waiting for reinforcements.

That was three too many.

He pulled out his combat knife, its dark blade gleaming faintly under the emergency lights. With his SMG held low in one hand and the knife in the other, he approached the door in silence.

Then, he knocked.

There was a pause. Then— “Is that you, Stanislaw?”

A1 stayed quiet, and knocked twice in reply.

That seemed to do the trick. The knob began to turn.

The moment it cracked open, A1 exploded forward, ramming into the door with his full weight. The impact sent it crashing into the assassin behind, flinging the man back like a ragdoll.

Inside, two more assassins spun around, caught completely off guard.

“OH SHIT!”

“KURWA!”

The door slammed shut behind A1, sealing the three of them in together.

Outside in the hall, another team of three assassins crept up the third floor stairwell, led by Stanislaw. All were armed with crossbows, their boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor.

From ahead—second door on the right—they heard it. Thudding impacts. Wood splintering. Muffled grunts and howls of pain. Something heavy crashed against the walls inside.

They were too late.

“Just what kind of knight is this guy…?” one of the assassins muttered, the fear in his voice as sharp as his bolts.

“I think it’s over for them,” another whispered, lowering her crossbow slightly. She cast a look back at the stairwell. “Should we fall back? He’s picking us off one by one.”

“Quiet,” Stanislaw snapped, raising a clenched fist. He motioned with two fingers— break right, take cover. “I’ll draw him out.”

Before they could move, a sickening crack thundered through the hall.

One of their comrades was hurled through the wall, skull-first. He hit hard, scalp slamming into splintered wood and plaster, blood immediately seeping from beneath his visor. His body slumped. Motionless.

“CO DO KURWY NĘDZY?!” someone shouted.

There wasn’t time to process it. Another body—another assassin—was flung out through the door, smashing the hinges as both he and the slab of wood slammed onto the floor. He writhed in pain, trying to crawl, gasping.

Stanislaw advanced slowly, crossbow raised, eyes wide. His two teammates followed, weapons trembling.

The wounded assassin reached toward them weakly.

A single gunshot rang out.

The bullet punched straight into his chest, silencing him forever.

Stanislaw froze.

That was when a bedside drawer flew out of the room, whistling through the air—and slammed into his face.

He dropped like a stone, convulsing as blood pooled beneath him.

Then the knight stepped into view.

Only his lower body was lit by the assassins’ hip flashlights, but the sight alone sent a chill through their bones. Blood soaked his armor, thick and wet and fresh.

He didn't give them the time to scream.

A1 charged.

The first assassin managed to turn and run—barely—but the second was crushed in an instant, thrown down the hallway by a brutal shoulder slam. Her crossbow skidded away uselessly.

The last assassin scrambled back, fumbling with his weapon. He fired—too fast, too wild—the bolt whistled past A1’s shoulder and slammed harmlessly into the ceiling. Cursing, he recocked the string, desperate to reload as A1 loomed closer.

But A1 wasn’t done with the assassin already at his feet.

Rather than waste a bullet, he looked down and drove his boot down hard.

Crack.

A sickening scream tore through the hall as his boot slammed into her pelvis. She howled, curling in on herself, clawing at his leg with one hand as blood began to pool beneath her.

Another bolt fired—this one dangerously close—forcing A1 to duck and backpedal into cover.

The woman on the floor clutched herself, sobbing and shrieking, barely conscious, dragging her ruined lower body away with one trembling hand.

But A1 didn’t spare her another glance.

There were more to kill.

The last assassin slammed his thumb against his earpiece, voice shrill with panic as he dragged his injured comrade back from the hallway chaos.

“PLATINUM, THIS IS PAWEL! WE’RE GETTING FUCKING SLAUGHTERED UP HERE! STANISLAW’S DEAD—HE JUST CRUSHED WANDA’S PELVIS!”

“Shit—Pawel, fall back! Regroup downstairs!”

But A1 wasn’t about to let him get that chance.

Before Pawel could even drag Wanda another meter, the Helldiver broke from cover, weapons holstered, and, true to his name, dove. A blur of bloodstained armor and purpose.

“MOVE! MOVE—” Pawel screamed, blindly firing a bolt at the charging figure. But the shot went wide, striking the body of a fallen comrade instead.

“Pawel…” Wanda gasped behind gritted teeth, clutching between her legs. “Just… leave me. I can’t feel my legs…”

But Pawel didn’t listen. He cranked his crossbow again, just in time to see A1 hoist a broken door like a shield. The bolts thudded uselessly against it— thump, thump, thump —as A1 barreled toward him like a freight train.

“FuckfuckfuckFUCK!” Pawel screamed, dropping his weapon in a last-second bid to run.

Too late.

A1 dropped the door—and tackled him with his full weight.

The two of them crashed through the third-floor railing like a wrecking ball. Wood exploded around them. Screams echoed down the stairwell as the two plummeted— one , two stories down—until they hit the ground floor with a deafening CRUNCH .

A thick plume of dust billowed out into the inn’s lobby, choking the air. Several assassins coughed, shielding their faces, peering through the haze.

Then the dust settled.

And he rose.

The knight. The one they were sent to kill.

He stood tall, hulking, caked in blood and dust, his armor cracked and scorched but unbowed. Beneath him, the shattered body of Pawel lay limp and contorted, his neck bent wrong, his chest crushed beneath A1’s armored weight.

His head turned slowly toward the lobby.

His eyes were hidden behind that cracked visor—but they all felt it.

The rage. The promise of death.

And for the first time in years… The remaining assassins hesitated.

Back in the room, Alicja remained crouched, crossbow leveled at the doorway. Her breaths were shallow, the bruises around her neck making it hard to swallow, each heartbeat thudding against her ribcage like a drum. Cadet Squishy nestled beside her, alert, his little body trembling as much as hers.

The muffled chaos beyond the door didn’t stop—it evolved . Grunts. Screams. The splintering of wood. The thud of flesh against metal. It was like being inside a war drum.

She should’ve stayed put. But she couldn’t.

The stench in the room—blood, feces, piss, fear—it reminded her too much of Marek. Of what dying people leave behind. It brought back too much. She had to move.

Her legs shook as she stood. Cadet Squishy squeaked in alarm, nudging her as if to say, Please don’t. But she scooped him up anyway. If I’m going, you’re coming too. We’re in this together.

The hallway outside was pitch black. She grabbed an angled flashlight off one of the corpses and flicked it on, then instantly wished she hadn’t.

The beam swept across twisted limbs and bloodstains. A man’s head jutted out from a hole in the wall—his body buried behind it, neck broken at a grotesque angle.

She clutched her chest, hyperventilating. Cadet Squishy let out another distressed squeal.

“I’m fine… I’m fine…” she lied.

She moved forward, resisting the urge to look inside the room where the sounds had come from—but her curiosity betrayed her. Another body. Throat slit wide open. Eyes frozen in horror.

She gagged but didn’t vomit. She couldn’t. Not yet.

The broken railing ahead drew her eye. Just beside it, another assassin lay in a crumpled mess, her legs coated in blood, the floor sticky beneath her.

Alicja approached, knees locking with every step. She dared to peek over the shattered edge—down into the wreckage of the staircase. There was no way down. Not safely. Not now.

“Hey…” a voice rasped.

She flinched, whirling toward the injured woman slumped beside the railing. Her body was wrecked. Pelvis shattered, hands soaked in her own blood.

Alicja raised her crossbow.

The assassin didn’t resist.

“You’re… with him, right?” she croaked.

Alicja hesitated. “Yeah…?”

The woman managed a thin smile, teeth tinged red. “Is he… always like this?”

Alicja didn’t lower her weapon. “You’d be surprised what he’s capable of.”

“Heh… right…” The assassin let her head fall back, staring blankly at the ceiling. She didn’t move again—just clutched at her broken body. Breathing shallow.

Alicja’s throat tightened. She felt her legs buckle with empathy, instinctively crossing them at the sight of the wound. She could feel her pain. Understand it.

But there would be no saving her. No point. No mercy.

She raised the crossbow.

The assassin closed her eyes.

A breath. A thwip .

Silence .

Alicja stood there, the bolt buried clean between the assassin’s brows. She didn’t feel triumphant. Just tired.

She looked at Cadet Squishy, who stared up at her, solemn.

“I didn’t want to,” she whispered.

The slug didn’t squeak. He just stayed close.

The fighting downstairs was escalating—shouts, cries, the hiss of crossbow bolts snapping through the air. Alicja gripped her weapon tighter. She wanted to help… needed to. But with the stairs shattered and blocked, there was no way down. And even if there was—what help could she really be?

Still, she couldn’t stay up here. Not in the dark. Not surrounded by the dead.

There has to be another way.

She turned and ran down the hallway, retracing her steps. If the assassins had climbed up to reach them, maybe she could do the same in reverse. Heights made her stomach turn, but staying here wasn’t an option. Marek wouldn’t have frozen. Neither should I.

Back in the room, she paused to gather herself and dared to peek out the window. Three stories up. The wind slapped her cheeks as she looked down. Below, another body. She’d seen too many for one night. Too many eyes frozen mid-scream.

No fire escapes. No ledges. They must’ve scaled the walls.

I’m no assassin. If I tried that, I’d break my neck in seconds.

She turned away and knelt beside the nearest corpse—the one who had taken her hostage. Her hands trembled as she searched his gear, repulsed by every second of contact, until her fingers brushed something coarse. Rope .

A long, durable coil of climbing rope.

She paused, staring at the body. You tried to take my life. I’ll take your gear. Her grip tightened. Fair trade.

Alicja dragged the rope over to the bed nearest the window, looping and tying it tightly around the metal footboard in the best knot she could manage. She pulled on it hard, three times. It held.

She stood at the window, eyes watering from the cold. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Cadet Squishy clung tightly to her shoulder, the little slug quivering.

“Okay… okay, we’re doing this…” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Then she swung a leg over the windowsill, grabbed the rope, and began to rappel down. Each foot of descent felt like an eternity. The wind bit through her clothes. The burn in her arms screamed louder with every inch. Her body, already spent from terror and fatigue, ran on pure adrenaline.

Then—her grip slipped.

Alicja yelped as she fell. The ground rushed up—

Thump.

She landed hard on something lumpy. She didn’t want to know what. She refused to look.

“Sorry… sorry…” she muttered to whatever or whoever had broken her fall, scrambling to her feet. Pain jolted through her backside. She winced, but she was alive.

She glanced around. The night air smelled of smoke, blood, and fear. Somewhere behind the inn, the sounds of battle still raged.

She cradled her crossbow close, whispering to Cadet Squishy, who clung to her like a scared child.

“Come on… Sir Knight needs help.”

There was only one place to go—the clinic. Reinforcements. His retinue. Someone who could really help.

But as Alicja turned the corner from the inn, she froze.

An assassin stood guard out front, bow in hand, her posture tense as she watched the chaos inside unfold through the shattered windows. She hadn’t moved to intervene—maybe under strict orders to stay put, or perhaps too afraid to join the bloodbath.

Alicja's breath caught in her throat. Damn it.

She darted across the street, slipping into the narrow alleyways for cover. But her boots slapped too loudly against the ground, echoing between the buildings.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?!”

Alicja spun, raising her crossbow. The bolt flew wide and clattered uselessly against the inn’s stone wall.

The assassin retaliated with an arrow that hissed past Alicja’s head, close enough to ruffle her hair.

Alicja ducked and stumbled deeper into the alley, frantically cranking her crossbow again. Her hands shook. Her vision blurred. But she managed to load and fire again. This time, the bolt grazed the assassin’s shoulder, drawing blood.

“Bitch!” the woman snarled, loosing arrow after arrow in rapid fury.

Alicja yelped and dove to the side. One arrow embedded itself in the wall behind her. Another clipped her thigh. Then—

Thunk.

Agonizing pain exploded in her right knee as an arrow lodged deep. 

She screamed and fell, slamming hard against the pavement. Cadet Squishy squealed in terror but remained clung to her shoulder. Her adrenaline surged, overriding the pain. Her vision narrowed, legs trembling, tears burning in her eyes.

You can't die here. Move. MOVE .

She yanked the crossbow strap off her shoulder, tossing the weapon aside to gain speed, and crawled, then scrambled back to her feet. Limping, staggering, half-running through sheer desperation.

Behind her, the assassin hesitated—she could finish Alicja off, but the sounds of chaos from the inn were growing louder. 

“Shit,” the assassin hissed.

Alicja didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Every step made her scream inside, but she kept going. Past fences, over cobblestones slick with night dew and smoke. She had one objective.

Get to the clinic. Get help.

Sir Knight was still fighting. She wouldn’t let him do it alone.

Back at the inn, the situation had reached its boiling point.

The moment A1 crashed into the lobby floor, seven more assassins encircled him—this had to be the last of them. Crossbows raised. Trained. Waiting.

“FIRE AT WILL!” shouted Platinum.

A1 dove aside as bolts whistled through the air. They struck the wood behind him in rapid succession. He hit the ground hard, scrambled up, and sprinted toward the hall to his right. Another volley came. He dove again, narrowly avoiding it, shoulder-rolling into the corridor.

“Smoke him out!” Platinum barked, rising from behind the innkeeper's desk.

Three assassins lobbed smoke grenades into the hallway. The chemical mixture was thick and acrid—specially designed to choke out targets inside closed armor. If they couldn’t kill the knight in open combat, they’d suffocate him like a rat in a burrow.

Billows of gray consumed the corridor. Visibility plummeted. No movement came from the cloud.

Platinum didn’t trust the silence. “Barricade the hallway! Lock him down!”

The remaining assassins shoved furniture—couch, chairs, table—into a loose blockade near the mouth of the corridor, forming a makeshift killzone. Five aimed downrange with crossbows, waiting for even a flicker of movement.

As the smoke began to thin, Platinum raised his hand.

“You three—check the body. Rest, cover them.”

Two assassins crept into the smoke, blades drawn, crouched low. The third flanked wide, sticking close to the wall, positioning himself behind the corner for a sneak attack.

Then—
Bang. Bang.

Two clean shots rang out. The men in the smoke dropped before they even saw their killer.

A1 emerged from the cloud like a ghost, his cracked visor gleaming with green light, smoke trailing from his SMG’s barrel. He snapped right, spotted the assassin hiding behind an armchair, and fired again.

The round punched through the cushion, the man jerked backward, a red mist trailing behind his fall.

“SHIT! FIRE, FIRE!” screamed Platinum.

But only he and the assassin beside him reacted fast enough. The third bolted for the hallway bathroom and slammed the door shut in panic.

Meanwhile, the flanker behind the corner leapt onto A1’s back, dagger aimed for the vulnerable gaps at his neck joints. He snarled, trying to wedge it through.

A1 didn’t flinch.

He reached back, grabbed the attacker by the head, ripped him off, and slammed him into the floor with a crunch. One swift stomp crushed skull and visor alike, leaving a splatter of glass and bone fragments across the tile.

He turned.

Bolts zipped past him from the last two shooters.

A1 ducked behind the innkeeper’s desk, heart pounding, brain cycling through options.

Near-empty mag. Can’t reload. Too exposed.

His eyes locked onto the fresh corpse he’d just made.

Good enough.

He grabbed the assassin’s headless body by the armpits and charged forward.

The last two assassins hesitated—just long enough to die.

A1 propped the corpse in front of him like a shield, soaked bolts thudding into it uselessly. Then, with calm precision, he raised his SMG over the shoulder of the body and fired twice—one round for each target.

Two splashes of red. Two limp corpses.

His weapon clicked empty.

Silence. Again .

Smoke curled through the hallway. The inn was littered with bodies, the walls painted with blood and carbon scoring.

And A1 stood alone, heaving, eyes glowing beneath his cracked visor—his armor dented, soot-covered, caked in crimson.

His chest rose and fell in slow, heavy breaths. The inn floor was littered with the bodies of the dead, crossbow bolts embedded in the walls, furniture shattered and scorched. He looked down at his Redeemer SMG—empty.

He considered picking up one of the fallen assassins’ crossbows, but before he could, the bathroom door creaked open. The last hiding assassin peeked out—and froze.

He scanned the room. A massacre. Blood pooled beneath boots, bodies stacked and slumped like broken puppets.

The assassin quickly tossed his crossbow to the floor and raised both hands.

“Okay. Honestly? I hated working with them. They're so weird.”

A1 didn’t say a word. He just nodded toward the exit.

Without hesitation, the assassin bolted and leapt straight out the window with a crash.

A1 blinked slowly. Not his problem anymore.

Then, the final assassin stepped through the inn’s front doors—too late to make a difference, but just in time to see the aftermath.

She froze.

Eighteen dead professionals. One man left standing.

He turned to face her, visor cracked, armor drenched in blood and dust.

Her hands trembled as she raised her bow.

“Wh—what even are you…?”

A1 answered simply.

“Good question.”

She barely had time to react.

He reached down, grabbed the headless corpse of the assassin he'd used as a shield, and hurled it at her.

She screamed, dropped her weapon, and instinctively caught the body in a panicked reflex. That moment of hesitation was all he needed.

He closed the distance in three steps, seized her by the throat, and lifted her off the floor. Her legs kicked violently in the air before slowly going limp, all resistance draining from her body like blood from an open wound.

He was ready to end it—

Crash. The front doors flew open.

Steel boots pounded into the lobby—three knights rushed in, armor half-fastened, weapons drawn. Behind them—

“Sir Knight! I brought some he—lp…” Alicja skidded to a stop, eyes wide.

Cadet Squishy squeaked sharply from her shoulder.

The whole retinue froze at the sight: the ruined inn, the mountain of bodies, the last surviving assassin dangling helplessly from A1’s grip.

Buell was the first to speak.

“HA! What a load o’ shite these lot are!” He strode over the corpses, grinning ear to ear. “Supposed to be professionals, aye? Shoulda brought armor—hell, shoulda fought naked —might’ve lasted longer, ye daft cunts!”

Grzegorz said nothing but left the building to vomit.

Michal winced. “Um… who’s that?” He pointed at the choking assassin in A1’s hand.

A1 glanced at her, then back to the others.

“...Restore the power to this place and find us a room.” He lowered her slightly. “We’re gonna ask her some questions.”

…