Darkness, the same old darkness, crawled from each part of Altair’s body and emotions. He felt his chest tighten, the searing pain of being dissolved, the numerous memories of deaths being rewound over time continuing to haunt him.

  He floated into the abyss, his consciousness fragmenting as if being violently ripped apart only for it to be pieced back together one by one.

  How many times now? How many lives had he wasted to arrive in such a state?

  Upon arriving in this world, he had died 3,423 times and was on his 3,424th loop, but now another one—and another one—had been added to the counter.

  Then, like the speed of a bullet train, his vision cleared and the same windows of memories appeared before him, lining up in rows and columns like celebrating a homecoming.

  “What number is it now?” he counted in his mind as he dropped down to his knees. “3,425 deaths; therefore, once the music plays, I will be on my 3,426th.” He sighed, his face contorting into a defeated expression.

  However, instead of taking things too much to heart, he opened his eyes wide with rejuvenated energy. He gazed toward the sky and raised his fist.

  “Hah! So that’s how it’s going to be!” he screamed at the humanoid statues with wings towering over the sky.

  His eyes dilated as an anomaly appeared which had not shown once in all his loops.

  “Angels?” he muttered as he began to count the number of statues.

  However, just as he was about to finish, the trumpets echoed through the surroundings and his vision darkened until he collapsed onto the ground.

  After he collapsed and died, numerous figures emerged and, with slow strides, moved closer to the corpse. All of them dressed in black with tears streaming down their cheeks as if they were attending a funeral.

  Altair snapped awake with sweat profusely dripping from his forehead.

  “Adjutant!” he bellowed as he scanned his surroundings, primal fear and anxiety taking over him.

  “…” The Adjutant hummed in a low frequency.

  His eyes widened, surprised, but then he realized why that was so. Then, like a gasp of breath, his fear disappeared in an instant. Perhaps that was already a soft confirmation for him. With a soft and warm feeling rising from his chest, he gave a long-overdue sigh and smiled.

  “It is all right, Adjutant,” he comforted the artificial intelligence. Despite his confusion, he chose to believe instead.

  The Adjutant whirred as if it fully understood what he implied.

  “I apologize, Lieutenant,” the Adjutant whizzed. “I should have been faster.”

  “All people and any other sentient species make mistakes, Adjutant,” he said in a soft and understanding voice. “Though I would mind not dying again.” He laughed it off as if everything that had happened so far weren’t the worst that had happened to him as of yet.

  “…” The Adjutant hummed in silence.

  Altair, who was now in an awkward spot, diverted his attention to the problems at hand.

  “Scan for biological signatures and filter only the threats to us; also this time scan seismic waves to identify threats below us,” Altair ordered, his face now contorted and toughened with a new persona.

  “Affirmative, Lieutenant!” The Adjutant whirred with billowing energy.

  Altair then reflexively maneuvered the mech back into its past position, his eyes moving back and forth and his hands moving in a symphony.

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  “This time we will not give them the initiative. Open silos one to six!” His voice echoed through the cockpit.

  The Adjutant buzzed. “Missiles are now operational!”

  “Fire!”

  Brennan, who was standing on the side after being saved by the mech, stared in awe as the ancient construct moved with sleek and precise movements.

  With his face still filled with fascination and shock, a sleek compartment on the ancient mech suddenly opened. From it a silver needle flared through the sky; its white and hot plume erupted through the sky and painted it frostbitten concrete and hellish orange as it streaked across. The silver needle roared in anger, swallowing all sound there was.

  Then within a few moments the silver needle yawned and dived toward the forest grounds. His eyes dilated and, in a span of silence, like a dark teardrop against the monotonous dawn.

  Then it came; a thunder-clapping explosion reverberated through the area. A sun came forth and rose through the clouds—cerulean flames—as it expanded into a perfect sphere.

  Shockwaves rippled outward, flattening trees into radiating furrows. It roared like that of a lion’s mane, like a gut-punch thunder that shattered barks and roots. The soil vaporized and became glass and a crater a few dozen meters wide dawned upon where the earth had been.

  The fireball climbed, sucking debris into its very heart—splinters, stones, and leaves. The secondary flame bloomed where the superheated air kissed the dry grass. As a column of smoke twisted skyward, mushroom-capped, it rained cinders that hissed into the sunny dew.

  When the light faded, only a smoking bowl of hard glass remained, ringed by scorched earth. The air stank of ionized soil and burnt wood.

  Brennan stood unmoving, his eyes dilated, hands trembling and heart palpitating; with a snap of his head he gazed back at the ancient construct—cold, metallic, and alien. His chest tightened, jaw toughened, and legs shaking.

  Then it came; it suddenly made sense as the ground continued to rumble and, when he gazed back into the forefront, there it was.

  “S-Stygians!” he screamed to the top of his lungs.

  “Eight abominations remaining, Lieutenant!” The Adjutant buzzed in haste. “Five moving above and three moving below.”

  Altair, utterly focused on commanding the Ironside, said with a deep calm voice, “Adjutant, autocannons now!”

  “Affirmative, Lieutenant!”

  The cannons snapped awake and rose from the hidden compartments of the Ironside. Its turret traversed with a low hydraulic moan, its single barrel rising into position. A single round was chambered with a metallic clack. The abomination a few dozen meters from the Ironside—its body pulsating in a bioluminescent carapace with multiple facial features all over its body—scuttled across the forefront.

  The fire control locked and the cannon barked once. Muzzle flashes lit the Ironside in stark white. The shell crossed dozens of meters in less than a heartbeat as it airbursted before striking its target. A sphere of cerulean shrapnel blossomed; hundreds of metallic pieces scythed through half of the abomination’s body.

  The impact shredded the limbs and center and exposed its crimson-black organs. The abomination shrieked in pain as it staggered, limbs folding, while the turret fired again. A second round struck the bullseye into the center, erasing its mind permanently. The body ruptured outward as forbidding liquid came gushing out, melting the ground.

  In a flash of a few seconds the autocannons barked relentlessly and, once it stopped, only pieces of flesh remained.

  Brennan fell down to his knees as he witnessed the entire ordeal, his mind still reeling from trauma. Yet deep within him he knew that he had just witnessed history that was about to change. Then with a snap of his attention the ancient construct began to move again.

  The ancient construct crouched on its eight sleek legs, each joint a matte black; then with a sound similar to that of a hydraulic piston humming with increasing power. Its black carapace—or hull—woven with stealth in mind, coated with the same color as that under the moonlight. From parts of the ancient construct red eyes flickered, glowed, and moved, sparking a deep primal fear within him.

  Then it moved.

  The first leg stabbed forward, its claw biting with a metallic screech as a second and third followed in a blur, as what could only be described as pistons extending and retracting in perfect synchrony. The body dipped low, its lower hull nearly scraping the ground; then it surged high up in the air.

  His eyes widened in surprise as to what point it was, but then when he gazed back at the ground a spine-curdling scenario unfolded. A hole formed and a Stygian came crawling out.

  The ancient construct leaped a few dozen meters into the air and arrived at the far side of the corner. When it touched down its movements accelerated, its legs cycling in a hypnotic blur—stab, pull, push, stab. It moved elegantly as its hull was maintained above the terrain without discrepancies.

  Then as if a being broken out of a trance, a familiar voice rang out from behind him.

  “Brennan.” The voice was low, just enough to be heard by him.

  He gazed behind him, hands at the axe ready to attack whoever it was. When he turned his eyes visibly brightened up.

  “Mira, Lyria!” he said with joy. “You guys were alive?!” He stashed his axe behind his back.

  He took the first step but then he remembered what was happening currently.

  “Quick! Hide, there are Stygians!” he bellowed toward his party mates. “The ancient construct is protecting us!” His voice crackled along the thunder-clapping noise overhead.