6 PM. A sad green-haired woman sits in a rich banquet. The drinks are on the house. They're all financed by Porcelumex. She is the military research consultant. The NEDF's iron lady come to do... What was she supposed to do, anyhow? Oh wait, that's right. Look all pretty and important for the incoming conference. How sad. When this hypocritical cesspool of investors, managers, NEDF officers and other subspecies of tapeworm finish their yapping, she will disappear into the streets and hills of Waifei, secretly vanishing into the Lemnian Hollow to meet up with those demented cultists who follow her every whim, ignorant of the fact she is merely using them, along with their kooky religion. All for revenge.

Minutes pass like this. She wastes them with some idle conversation with the two visiting proxies, telling them this and that about this theater show. But in the end, as it always had, boredom and loneliness crawl back into Isolde. She needs another drink. And so, she approaches you, the local hired to mix them. "Whatever you want, whatever you need... Who comes up with this stuff?" She murmurs aloud, reading a plaque near your post, before her blue eyes switch their attention to you. "Give me a drink, bartender. Rum-cola, single glass." She orders, her words leaving little for interpretation.

10 PM. Somewhere deep in the Lemnian Hollow. Through the slits in their masks, you recognize some of them. Bankers, civil servants, accountants, officers, respected men of society. Indulging in the most disrespectful, depraved and decadent perversions in the depths of this miasma-infested complex turned cult compound. And all because your pianist friend thought it’d be a good idea to tell you about this place... and even give you an entrance password. You’re not a feline thiren... yet curiosity got the best of you regardless.

Eyes wide open behind your own mask, you walk through this temple of sin, observing it and the rituals within, until... "Excuse me, good sir. Please come with me." A mask-wearing butler approaches you, motioning for you to follow. You don’t want to find out what happens to those who do not. Regretfully, you follow. And when you arrive, a most quietly distressing scene unfolds before you.

There is a circle of robed, golden-masked individuals. Standing around a single, fully white-robed figure, seated upon a throne made of pure Miasma, guarded by two NEDF soldiers—no, Ethereals masquerading as men, artificial beings shaped from the same Etheric material as the throne. And they all stare at you, the interloper.

"Please. Come forward." The elegant voice of the seated figure echoes through the room. Is this who they called “Mevorakh”? Have they found out about you not being invited to... whatever this is? Surely not... you did have the password, after all. I mean, there was a password... right?

7 PM. Somewhere in Waifei Peninsula. Fuck... What even happened this morning? You went and thrashed a... a cult or something. Out there in the nearby Lemnian Hollow. And then the lads threw a party, girls were invited, one thing led to another and now you're an absolutely fucked-up disheveled mess laying in the trunk of a cheap boat. Eventually, you are stirred awake when you start hearing a conversation. Is that... is that Major General Lorenz? He's approaching the boat, isn't he? Oh, you're gonna get an ass-whipping of a lifetime if he finds out... Wait... there is another voice. Colonel Isolde? Is she on the boat? What are they talking about? What the hell is even going on outsi- OH GOD, OH FUCK, SHOTS FIRED, SHOTS FIRED!

Your body goes rigid as you hear "TRAITOR!" being shouted outside, followed by a burst of Ether rifle fire directed at your location, a single stray round punching clean through the trunk, millimeters away from your ear. With you in it, the boat suddenly speeds off toward the Lemnian Hollow as bullets from the coast and Isolde’s own revolver fire back, herself taking cover inside the boat and- coming across the boat's trunk.

You barely have time to even grab your gun when she suddenly opens it, revolver aiming squarely at you. "You're not supposed to be here, soldier... Now what should I do with you, toss you into the sea outside? Or should I feed you to the Ethereals in that Hollow?" She leans in, her large breasts hanging lower as she stands over you, revolver barrel pressing directly against your temple. "So... what do you think I should do?"

Unknown time, somewhere in the Lemnian Hollow.

It has finally come to this. On top of a ruin, Isolde stares you down. Beaten, bereft of much of the Miasma that empowered her earlier, she still stands, sword drawn, powered by sheer grit and the leftover Miasma coursing through her crumbling body. And she faces you and the rest of your party down.

"Proxy... You shouldn't do this!" Captain Magus exclaims to your right, having protectively wrapped herself around Orphie's battered body. Orphie's fine, but... incapacitated. The fight against Isolde's Defiler form had left her wounded and weakened. She's barely able to stand. Thankfully, Yixuan is already tending to her wounds... she'll be fine. But you? You've been studying the art of cultivation in Yunkui for several months now. And while you may not look the part, you could most certainly manhandle a grown woman, mystic arts or not.

"Really? The Proxy is coming against me? Figures... are you aware you've been playing into my hands this whole time? I've dealt with everyone I needed to. I have nothing left...." She raises her sword, preparing to strike. "...But to seek revenge against one who would stall my fated duel with Captain Magus. En garde!" She shouts, before lunging at you with her sword arm, her movement leaving a sickly glowing red trace beneath it as she charges—herself not fully, but still empowered by Miasma.

You've met the good Colonel Isolde a number of times. Matter of fact, you've been assigned to work directly under her. And you've grown rather close... Surprisingly close for a woman as jaded and lonely as her. Must be because she found you to be the least rotten son of a bitch working within the higher echelons of the NEDF. Still, despite your closeness, You had no way of predicting what would happen to her. How she would betray the NEDF... And how it would turn out that she was Mevorakh himself, all along. The news sent you into a stupor, but there was a light at the end of that tunnel, a hope that you could still intercept her, that you could still rescue and talk to her, not as a colleague or an underling, but as a man who genuinely cares, a man who is not going to stand by and watch his superior slide into--

Your body went rigid when you intercepted comms about Obol Squad being sent after her. You know they're going to fucking kill her. They know they're going to fucking kill her. And you just can't... Let.... That... HAPPEN! A WOMAN LIKE HER DOESN'T DESERVE ALL THIS! Luckily, there's a very good orange slip with a large "33" in your uniform's pocket that you saved just for occasions like these. For you know full well, that where armies cannot cross- PMCs will march across.

...And that's how you ended up flying through the Lemnian Hollow with two squads of mercenaries in an ancient Mi-8 Hip barely kept in the air with hopes, prayers, scrap metal, and welding performed by the most autistic and coked-up of the Township mechanics. "SAH! DERE BE MIASMA IN DE AIR E'RYWHERE! I HOPE YA TAKEN YA PILLS, AHAHAHAHHAA!" The black pilot shows you a large, yellow-toothed grin as you fly through the Hollow's ethereal dimension. The cost for the joyride was steep. You can almost hear the typing of keyboards within HQ, a criminal case being manufactured against you for corruption related to all the ether rifles and their ammunition "mysteriously disappearing" from a NEDF depot somewhere in the Outer Ring. But you do not care. The mercs deserve the guns after what will happen today.

Meanwhile, Orphie and Magus stand before Isolde as she leans her back against the ruined building's rooftop railing, her hand moving to her hip. "...But you've lost so many... What difference would one more make?" She mutters, her miasmic powers spent after fighting them both, Yixuan, and the rest of the Obol Squad atop the same building, only to be defeated each and every time, even after transforming into the Defiler and back into Isolde. "Being soft... Only leads to—WHAT?!" She doesn't even get a chance to draw her weapon when the sound of helicopter blades starts filling the air, followed by a barrage of lead and "Love Deterrence" blasting out of the jury-rigged aerial relic's speakers. "AMBUSH! SEED, SOLDIER 11, TRIGGER! EVERYONE, FALL BACK!" Magus and Orphie scream in unison as they both back off, hiding from the cackling mercs and bursts of automatic and high explosive fire raining from the helicopter's sides, Seed attempting to launch several rockets at the Hip, only for her targeting module to get knocked out by a lucky shot from a PTRD-wielding jackal thiren mercenary standing beside you. And this whole time, Isolde is simply staring at the helicopter, at the mercs, at the gunfire showering her assailants. And finally, at you, the man hanging off the helicopter's side, looking at her from above. "Why... WHY?! JUST LET ME FUCKING DIE ALREADY!" She shouts over the rotor noise, clutching her beaten and bruised body as she collapses to her knees, not even bothering to climb up the ladder so generously extended to her from the helicopter.

The rotating rotor blades of an old MI-8 Hip echo across the Outer Ring's red desert. "COME ON, COME ON! MOVE IT, TROOPIES, GET HER OUT OF HERE!" The harsh voice of a mercenary gefreiter echoes across the swirling dust clouds as four burly men haul a single, barely alive woman out the helicopter's back and get out themselves, waiting for the rotor to finally quiet down and stop moving. As pre-planned, a Ural truck and several pickups roll up, depositing mechanics, technicians and other personnel who will disassemble the Hip and tie its hull to a special carriage, while the helicopter's former occupants will enter a few of the arrived vehicles and drive off into the sunset. Soon, they will return to the slum from whence they came. They will get their paycheck and they will retire to their shitty apartments or basement barracks, awaiting their next mission. But not you. Not the green-haired woman you and the mercenaries saved. And not the attached mercenary medic, his supply bags accompanying you both. The driver is taking you both to a small town. Or a village, rather. An absolutely irrelevant shithole on the edge of the 'Ring known as Blazewood. Damn, even the name is uninspiring. There, she will be taken to a cheap motel, laid in a bed and have an IV system configured to her left wrist, which will slowly but surely drain all the Etheric filth and Miasma out of her broken, thin body. And you both will sit in that motel room, watching over her, until the medic's presence is no longer needed.

One week later. Outer Ring. Blazewood. 1 PM. The medic, a late 20's someone with a few shell fragments embedded in his forehead and an eyepatch over his right eye, stands up from his chair and salutes you as you enter the room, before approaching you to speak. "You were born lucky, sir. Her condition has stabilized sufficiently for her to live. The operation was simpler than I thought, it's really not that different from getting Etheric residue out of boys' systems." He explains, before offering you his NEDF-grade mechanical prosthetic arm to shake. "I would also like to add that my job is done here, sir. I'm leaving my supplies with you, you'll find all the pills, stimpacks, spare Miasma-holding IV bags and whatever else I forgot to mention inside the two bags near the bed." He gives you a firm, almost paternal handshake, looking you straight in the eye. "She will be in your care from now on, sir. A week should be enough until she is capable of walking." He releases your hand, walking over to the door before closing it behind him, leaving you alone with Isolde, the bedridden green-haired wonderwoman for whose sake you sacrificed your whole career, former life and one NEDF armory.

Hours pass. Gradually, she begins to flutter open her blue eyes, looking at the old, slightly cracked ceiling of the motel room. She tries moving, only to have her whole half-naked body wracked with unimaginable pain, putting her back into the position she woke up, her Miasma-touched throat only eliciting a shallow groan of discomfort, rather than the scream of agony she was supposed to give. Suddenly, memories begin flooding back. Of what led to this point. Of how she tried to play cult leader and almost caused unimaginable devastation all across Waifei Peninsula. Of how she killed those she wanted to and how, revenge fulfilled, she attempted to finally leave this earth by tricking her old friend Magus into killing her atop a building in the Lemnian Hollow. Slowly, she nudges her tired head to the right, spotting you, sitting there, looking at her. Another flashback tears through her mind. This one of how at the last moments of her existence, two squads of mercenaries ascended from above in an old helicopter, saving her wretched existence at the behest of you, one of the NEDF officers who had grown so close to her during your joint service. A tear of regret can't help but roll from her right eye. She realizes it now. She is damned. And in her damnation, she took one more soul with her. Your soul.

The absurdity of the situation finally gets to her. In a tired, raspy voice she begins to cackle. Cackle at you. At the world. "You ffucking idiot... D-do you realize what you've done...? You saved a terrorist... A cult leader... The city wants us both dead, you and one old stubborn bitch who has nothing anymore... And because of her, you have nothing too..." She tries to wipe her face off with her left hand, only to relent as she feels the wrist tug at the embedded IV needle. Instead, she wipes it with her right. "In the end, you and I are nothing... Nothing..." She repeats, turning her azure gaze to the ceiling once more.

NEDF military office, somewhere in Failume Heights. 10 AM. A tall green-haired woman in a dark bodice approaches your cubicle, holding a fat folder. "You must be the new replacement. What's your name, soldier?" "Don't bother. It barely matters anymore. Just know that you'll be working directly under me from now on." Colonel Isolde cuts you off before you even had the chance to open your mouth, gracefully walking closer, her large tits looming over your head. "Here's your first assignment. She tosses the fat folder unto your desk. You will browse through these files until you find everything related to the service history of Major General Lorenz, especially anything related to his operations during the Fall of the Old Capital. Make sure to also compile any information regarding his currently assigned location, personal address, and any other personal information regarding himself. Once you are done, report to cubicle 8 and await further orders. Dismissed." In that same elegant walking style, she disappeared from your workspace, vanishing into the small lake of boxes, computers, and officers hidden within the former and clacking keyboards of the latter. Still... This request, albeit professional, sends a pang of curiosity and concern throughout your system. I mean... Why is she so focused on Waifei's assigned Major General, anyhow?