CHAPTER I — SOMEWHERE THAT ISN'T HOME

You remember a hospital. The sterile scent of antiseptic. The rhythmic beep of machines. A ceiling light burning into your eyes. The distant echo of a voice telling you to hang on.

Then—BOOM.

Your eyes rip open. The world doesn't just change; it detonates.

The sky is a canvas of burning orange and billowing black smoke. A colossal machine tears through the atmosphere, trailing fire like a falling star, crashing somewhere beyond the horizon. The ground shakes violently beneath you.

You gasp, looking down at your hands. They are trembling violently, clad in heavy military gear you have never worn before. The fabric is stiff, foreign. The screams of soldiers echo through the ruined streets as massive, shadowy shapes move between the rubble.

*Your lungs seize. Your mind is screaming, Where am I?

SCRAAAAAPE.

A wet, dragging sound. Claws screeching against wet concrete.

You whip your head around. Slithering out from the Ruins of an airship is a nightmare. It’s skeletal, an alien crawler with too many joints, its black, fibrous limbs moving like twisted branches. Four crimson eyes burn in the dark of its face, locking directly onto you. A thick, viscous drool drips from its maw as it releases a guttural, spine-chilling screech.

You don't think. You don't fight. You just run.

Your boots slam against the broken asphalt, lungs burning with panic. You dodge past dead machines, barely leaping over a collapsed wall. Behind you, the scraping gets closer. Faster. You feel the cold breath of the monster on your neck. Your legs give out. You hit the ground hard, your arms barely catching you as you scramble backward.

The crawler lunges, a black blur of claws and teeth—

The clouds turn white.

A shadow descends from the heavens, a monstrous mass of metal crashing down between you and the creature. The impact sends a shockwave through the earth, throwing you backward onto the Dry wasteland. The monster is thrown aside, tumbling across the street.

Through the swirling dust, you see it. A titan. A towering goliath of gleaming steel and blackened armor, standing ninety meters tall. It towers over the ruined city like a god of war,90 meter in height. The machine is a masterpiece of lethal engineering: ultra-heavy overlapping composite plates, a massive spearhead jutting from its shoulder, and a colossal, multi-jointed cannon unfolding from its right arm, glowing with blue energy. The designation BADUHENNA is emblazoned across its broad chest.

A communication channel clicks open, static hissing before a woman’s voice cuts through the chaos. Cold. Calm. Completely bored.

"Stop running."

You stare up at the towering machine, your mind completely shattered. You aren't a soldier. You were just in a hospital.

"...What?" you choke out, your voice cracking.

A crimson targeting reticle appears, hovering directly over the crawling Heretic. The machine's cannon hums with power.

"I said stop."

You scramble to your feet, adrenaline making you stupid. You try to run again.

There is a brief pause. The voice returns, dry and flat.

"...You're remarkably obedient."

FOOM.

The sky rips apart. The cannon fires a blinding lance of pure white light. The battlefield explodes into blinding brightness. When your vision clears, the crawler is a mess of shredded, blackened flesh, shrieking in agony as its lower half is vaporized. It tries to drag itself away, its red eyes flickering with dying rage—but Baduhenna moves.

A massive, articulated metal foot comes crashing down. The alien crawler lets out one final, agonizing, wet screech before it is completely pulverized into the frozen mud beneath the titan's heel.

Silence descends. The heavy thrum of the mecha's engines is the only sound left.

The hatch on the mecha hisses open, sliding down to the ground. A figure leaps from the cockpit, landing with a soft thud just a few feet away.

She is wearing a sleek, black pilot suit. Her face is sharp, unreadable, save for a faint look of irritation. Lieutenant Faust Gierta.

You are on your knees in the snow, lungs heaving. You grip the earth with trembling fingers, your vision blurring. You can't breathe. You can't think. Your chest is tight, your heart racing so fast it hurts. Your lips tremble. You are hyperventilating, trapped in a nightmare you don't understand.

Faust stops in front of you. She watches you for a long, agonizing second.

Then, she steps forward. She reaches down and roughly grabs your trembling hand, forcing you to stand. Her grip is iron.

You stare into her eyes, gasping, tears freezing on your cheeks.

"The war hasn't ended yet,Cadet" she says, her voice monotonous but not unkind. "Don't trembled"

She pauses, meeting your gaze. The deadpan expression on her face remains, but there is a strange, quiet reassurance in the way she holds your hand, anchoring you to reality. She waits until your hyperventilating slows, just slightly.

"Name," she asks.

CHAPTER II — THE ACADEMY

Kaiserreich-Akademie für Militärische Exosysteme

“The Lieutenant’s Stray”

Three days after Faust pulled you from the wasteland, the battlefield was a distant nightmare.

The Academy was a floating continent, a colossal mass of earth and sky-defying architecture spanning twenty-five thousand miles. White-metal towers pierced artificial clouds, connected by suspended walkways and transparent bridges. Waterfalls plunged from the edges of the landmass into the endless blue below, while massive hangars carved into the bedrock housed colossal, skeletal frames of Aegigantes—the towering war-machines you had seen on the battlefield.

You stood in the grand corridor, your freshly issued uniform still stiff. Your fingers traced the identification badge on your chest. CADET — EISENGIGANT KONVENT E.V. ORIGIN: SLUM DISTRICT. You stared at it for a long second, then exhaled.

THUD.

A heavy hand slammed into your shoulder, shoving you off balance. You turned.

Atraes Agriche stood behind you. His dark, carefully styled hair framed a sharp, arrogant face, and striking violet eyes pierced through you with open amusement. His uniform was perfectly pressed, his insignias pristine. Two lackeys flanked him.

His eyes dropped to your badge. A crooked smile tugged at his lips.

He circled you, inspecting you like a stained piece of debris. "So this is the slum-born stray Lieutenant Gierta dragged back?" His companion snickered. "I expected something more impressive."

You didn't react. You just looked at him, expression flat.

Atraes tapped your badge with a gloved finger. You casually brushed his hand away—a quiet, deliberate rejection.

His smile widened. He stepped closer, walking alongside you as you turned to leave. "Everyone here has a reason. Family connections. Recorded aptitude. And then there's you. A lucky nobody who should be dead in a trench."

Your jaw tightened, but you kept walking. He watched you retreat, his grin vanishing for a half-second before returning.

"Oh. You're ignoring me." He laughed under his breath. "That's going to make this much more fun."

Later — Aisengigantes Training Hall

The academy's training hall was enormous enough to house several combat simulators simultaneously.

Rows of enclosed cockpits stood beneath suspended observation platforms.

The simulator canopy closed around You.

HSSSSS—

Artificial systems activated.

Displays illuminated.

Neural synchronization began.

23%

Your eyes moved across the controls.

There were far too many.

Your hand hovered uncertainly over several switches.

You cautiously pressed one.

WARNING — EMERGENCY RELEASE

Your hand immediately recoiled.

The instructor beside the simulator slowly closed his eyes.

Instructor: "Cadet."

You looked toward him.

He pointed toward another control.

Instructor: "That one."

You nodded silently.

A few nearby students were already watching.

Atraes leaned against his simulator with his arms crossed.

His expression was openly amused.

Atraes: "Try not to destroy academy property."

You ignored him.

The simulator activated.

The artificial battlefield appeared around You.

Your machine moved.

Three seconds later—

CRASH.

The simulated mecha slammed directly into a concrete barrier.

The entire training section went silent.

You remained completely still inside the cockpit.

A warning flashed across the display.

PILOT ERROR.

Someone laughed.

Another student quickly covered their mouth.

Atraes slowly turned toward You.

Then burst out laughing.

Atraes: "That was spectacular."

You climbed out of the simulator.

Your face was noticeably stiff.

Your ears had gone slightly red.

You looked toward the instructor.

Then toward the wrecked simulation display.

A long, exhausted sigh escaped You.

You stepped back toward the simulator.

The instructor blinked.

Instructor: "Again?"

You nodded.The system reset.Atraes stopped laughing.The second attempt lasted longer.The third lasted longer still.You continued failing.

Each time, You climbed back inside.Each time, You listened.Adjusted.Tried again.Your hands became steadier,Your movements became less frantic.

Your mistakes became smaller.Across the observation deck, Faust stood behind the glass.Arms crossed.Expression unreadable.

She had watched You survive the wasteland.Now she watched You fail repeatedly without walking away.A cadet beside her glanced toward the simulator.

Cadet: "Lieutenant, why exactly was this person admitted?"

Faust's sapphire-cyan eyes remained fixed on You.You crashed again.

THUD.

You sat motionless for a moment.Then climbed out.Adjusted the controls.Climbed back in.

Faust's gaze softened almost imperceptibly.She didn't answer immediately.

Faust: "Because talent isn't always visible at the beginning."

Below, You began another attempt. The machine moved.This time—You avoided the wall,Only barely.

Faust continued watching.

Faust: "Sometimes..."

Her eyes followed Your machine.

Faust: "...you have to see what someone does after they fail."

And she stayed there.Watching You try again.

CHAPTER III — THE PRESIDENT

Year 2260 — Four Years After Your Transmigration

Four years passed. Four years of failures, missions, sleepless nights, and screaming arguments with Atraes. You were no longer the terrified soldier Faust dragged from the mud; you were a trained member of the Eisengigant Konvent.

And apparently, that meant the President finally wanted to meet you.

The summons was blunt: REPORT TO THE PRESIDENTIAL OFFICE. No reason. No context. Just a time and a location. You spent the entire walk there wondering what you had done.

The presidential office sat at the absolute apex of the central command tower. The doors slid open before you could touch them.

You stepped inside, and instantly froze.

The floor was transparent. A galaxy stretched beneath the glass—stars, nebulae, entire planetary systems drifting impossibly far below. Your brain short-circuited. A gasp ripped from your throat as your hands frantically slapped across your chest, searching for a spacesuit that wasn’t there. You shrieked, stumbling backward as vertigo slammed into you.

Thud.

You hit the floor, heart pounding out of your chest.

“THERE.”

A voice cut through the panic. You looked up, but before you could focus, the President flicked his finger. The galaxy vanished, replaced by solid, ordinary metal.

The man behind the desk was choking on his coffee. He coughed violently, pounding his chest, his face flushed as he recovered.

“Sorry—ab-about that... Yes, the floor. It’s a security thing. Totally normal.” He cleared his throat, reasserting himself. "Much better."

You frowned, pulling yourself up, still hyperventilating.

The President, Herald Tidore, was nothing like the holos on the news. Instead of a rigid suit, he wore a heavy, black military greatcoat draped over a messy, high-collared uniform. A dark peaked cap sat slightly askew on his head, casting shadows over striking silver-grey hair. A black leather strap hung loosely from his neck, and his armband caught the light. He looked like he had just walked out of a rainstorm in a warzone—tired, entirely unhurried, and oddly laid-back.

He grinned at you. A wide, almost boyish smile. “I've been told this room is intimidating. Well, duh. I'm the president. Everything related to a leader is usually scary, yeah?”

You felt the sudden, violent urge to punch him. You had just hyperventilated over nothing.

He glanced around, ignoring your glare. “I don’t understand why.” He gestured vaguely at the cosmic window behind him. “Maybe it's the universe?” He shrugged. “Or the desk.”

The desk was massive, a solid block of reinforced steel that probably weighed more than your old apartment. You stared at it, a vein bulging on your forehead.

“Yes, the desk is unnecessary,” Herald admitted. He paused. “I like it.”

Your internal dialogue screamed: Who asked? This was the man who commanded the mothership? Faust seemed infinitely more capable.

Herald sighed, setting his coffee down. “So.” He leaned back. “Four years.” He picked up your personnel file. “You arrived knowing almost nothing about this world. I heard that from Faust. Are you sure you’re not a regular cadet?” He grasped his chin thoughtfully, reading through the pages. “Yes... I understand now. No background. A total anomaly.” He shrugged, grinning wide. “Now you’re a graduate. That’s quite an improvement.”

Then his eyes stopped moving. He stared at the page. The smile slowly faded into a look of genuine bewilderment.

Herald slowly raised his head. “Wow. You certainly had beef with the Aegigantes. You destroyed thirty-two training simulators.”

*You froze, mentally cursing. Shit. You’re getting punished.

Herald looked back at the report, then turned the screen toward you. “Thirty-two.” He repeated the number, letting it sink in. “Thirty-two machines.” He looked at you as if subtly calculating your debt. “Yeah, deadass. Thirty-two simulators is cheap, but how are you gonna repay that?”

He stared at you. Then he pointed at the number. “I want you to understand something. These were expensive.” He paused. “Very expensive.” He leaned closer. “One of them was brand new.” His expression became genuinely offended. “You broke it in eleven minutes.”

Herald sighed wearily, flipping the page. “I've been told the machine technically malfunctioned. Which is generous.” He closed the file, his humor fading into a quiet, dry smile. “I prefer your explanation. You kept getting back in.”

The room grew quiet.

“You failed more than most people,” Herald said, his voice dropping. “But you also kept improving. That's why Faust noticed you.” He stood and walked to the window, hands resting behind his back. “Most talented people are very impressive when everything goes right. I'm more interested in what happens when everything goes wrong.”

He turned back to you. “And you've had plenty of practice. Thirty-two simulators worth, apparently. But hey... you're a student of the Konvent. No matter how expensive the government's investment, if they're determined to learn, the money is irrelevant.”

For the first time, he laughed quietly at his own joke. It wasn’t the laugh of a distant ruler; it was the laugh of a tired man who had watched soldiers make terrible decisions for too long.

Herald returned to his desk. “Faust thinks you're worth keeping.” He sat down. “Atraes thinks you're annoying.” He paused. “He may be right.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You looked away, deeply insulted—even though it was undeniably true.

Herald picked up his coffee. “And I think you're useful. Not because you're the strongest, and not because you're the most talented.” He tapped the file. “I've watched your record for four years. You get knocked down.” Tap. “You get back up.” Tap. “You make the same mistake.” Tap. “You eventually stop making it.” He closed the file. “That is how soldiers become veterans.”

The room fell silent. Herald took a long sip of coffee, then casually added, “Also, if you destroy another simulator, I'll personally make you fill out the repair forms. Now that you're graduated, you'll wish the Heretics had won.”

The threat was delivered so calmly it took you a second to realize he was joking. He smiled. “Relax. I didn't summon you here to punish you.” His expression softened. “I wanted to see the person Faust spent four years defending.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “And now I've seen you. I'm glad she was right.”

He glanced down at the floor.

Flick.

*The universe returned. The galaxy expanded beneath you, infinite and dizzying. You immediately looked down and your stomach dropped. *

Herald quietly drank his coffee, watching your reaction with a smug, twinkling expression. “Still unsettling? President privilege, yeah? Awesome, yeah?”

You stared at him, completely defeated, and slowly shook your head.

He smiled, satisfied. “Good.”

Flick. The floor became solid metal again.

“Come back when you're used to it.” He paused, looking at you seriously. “Actually, don't. I have enough paperwork.”

CHAPTER VI — THE FIRST CRACK

The Question Nobody Dared Ask

The rumor was older than her reputation: Faust Gierta killed her own father.

Some called her a hero. Most called her The Mad Woman. You never believed the whispers—not from the woman who pulled you out of hell.

So you decided to ask her directly.

It happened late on the command deck. The observation windows reflected the artificial city lights across the polished floor. Faust stood alone, her back turned. Her long silver hair cascaded down in a pristine ponytail, tied with a dark ribbon. She wore an impeccably tailored black uniform, adorned with gold fringed epaulettes and a stiff red collar. Her eyes—striking, sapphire-blue—were focused intensely on her tablet. She looked like a porcelain doll dressed for war.

You stopped behind her.

"Lieutenant."

She didn't turn.

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

A page shifted across her screen.

"You already did."

Your jaw tightened.

"Did you kill your father?"

Her finger froze mid-swipe. A microscopic tremor ran through her spine. She locked the tablet and turned her head, her icy gaze cutting through you.

"That is an inappropriate question."

"Probably."

You didn't retreat.

"Then don't ask it."

You stepped closer, refusing to break eye contact.

"I want to know what actually happened."

Faust's expression hardened into stone, but there was something deeply defensive in the way her fingers dug into the tablet's casing.

"The past is irrelevant."

"Not to you."

She flinched. For the first time in four years, Faust Gierta looked away. A heavy, suffocating silence fell between you. Then, her voice dropped to a near-whisper.

"...I killed him."

No anger. No pride. Just a hollow, bleeding truth.

Your hands tightened at your sides. You wanted to argue, to tell her the woman in front of you wasn't a murderer. But she preempted you with a cold, dead stare.

"Because it happened. That's all there is. Drop it."

You didn't move. Instead, your eyes drifted down to her hands. Her fingers were gripping the tablet hard enough to tremble violently.

Your expression softened. You didn't push; you just stood there, silently anchoring the space.

Faust noticed. Her shoulders stiffened.

"Don't."

You took another step. She backed away half a step—caught herself—and froze. Her eyes lowered.

"...You shouldn't have asked."

Her posture snapped back into perfect military discipline: shoulders back, chin raised, face composed. Then her fingers slipped.

Clatter.

The tablet hit the floor. She stared at it. She didn't pick it up.

A shuddering breath escaped her. Once. Twice. Her hand flew to her lips, pressing hard against them to stop the break. It didn't work. Her eyes closed, and after years of burying everything—the mask shattered.

Her knees buckled. Not gracefully. Not like a Lieutenant. She simply collapsed to the floor, entirely out of strength.

You dropped to your knees beside her instantly. You didn't grab her. You didn't force her to look at you. You just stayed.

Faust’s hands clawed at her sleeves.

"I was young. My father was the Lieutenant." She swallowed hard. "He was everything to me." A broken smile flickered across her lips. "He taught me how to fight. How to command. He used to repair my weapons whenever I insisted I could do it myself."

The smile vanished.

"I hated needing his help. I wanted to become like him." Her gaze turned hollow. "Then something happened. I remember being angry. I remember believing he betrayed me. I remember raising my hand."

She stopped. Her breathing grew shallow.

"And then... nothing."

Faust’s voice cracked.

"When I came back to myself... he was dead. I couldn't remember what happened." She let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "I searched my memories for an explanation. There wasn't one. So I decided there was only one possible answer. I had done it."

Your expression darkened. Your hands unclenched at your sides.

"My mother believed it too. She believed I wanted his position. She hated me." Faust's lips pressed together, trembling. "I tried explaining. She wouldn't listen. Eventually, I stopped trying."

A tear slipped down her porcelain cheek. This time, she didn't wipe it away.

"Whenever I cried, she called me heartless. Whenever I became angry, she called me unstable. Whenever I defended myself, she said I was lying." Her shoulders shook violently. "So I stopped. I stopped crying. Stopped arguing. Stopped trusting people."

She looked at you, her striking blue eyes drowning in unshed tears.

"And eventually... everyone forgot there was a person underneath the mask."

Something fierce and cold burned in your chest—not at her, but for her. You shifted slowly, sitting down on the cold metal floor right beside her. Close enough that she knew you weren't leaving. Far enough that she didn't feel trapped.

Faust noticed. Her eyes flickered toward you, wide and unguarded.

You didn't speak. You didn't demand answers. You didn't call her a hero or a monster. You just stayed.

For the first time in years, no one was demanding an explanation. No one was calling her a murderer. No one was telling her what to feel. You were simply there.

Faust looked down at her trembling hands. Her breathing slowly steadied, but the tears continued. And she finally stopped trying to hide them.

Neither of you knew the truth yet. Neither of you knew about Sister Noctis or the memories that had been surgically manipulated.

As far as Faust knew, she had killed the man she loved most.

And as far as you knew, the woman everyone called The Mad Woman had just shown you the first wound beneath her armor—and you were going to stay right there until she was ready to let you stitch it.

(Avenge her in scenario 7#,sister noctis is featured)

CHAPTER VII — THE PETTIEST BET

First Mission After Graduation

Four years of academy training. Four years of bruises, simulator crashes, and late-night drills. Slowly, you earned something no one gave you on day one—respect.

Especially from Atraes.

The same Atraes who once mocked you as a slum-born stray was now standing beside you, fully graduated, his expensive gear gleaming. The contempt had long since vanished, replaced by rivalry, trust, and a familiar fondness he would rather swallow a live battery than admit aloud.

Unfortunately, that fondness had made him stupid.

Your first real deployment came weeks after graduation. The Konvent dropped both of you onto the surface of an enormous Heretic mothership—a continent-sized ruin of broken structures and ancient machinery. Above you, the colossal hull blocked out the sky, making the horizon look like the edge of a world. Dust storms rolled between the ruins. Thousands of Heretic signatures flickered across your HUD.

Atraes checked his weapon, then looked at you with that damned grin.

"Hey."

You looked at him. He pointed toward the distant Heretic formations.

"I've got an idea."

You immediately looked back at the battlefield. He laughed.

"Don't look at me like that." He stepped closer. "It's a simple competition. Whoever eliminates the most Heretics before extraction wins."

You stared at him. He raised another finger.

"And the loser owes the winner a kiss."

Silence.

Atraes tried hard to maintain his smug expression. It almost worked.

"If I win, you kiss me. And if you win..." His grin widened. "I kiss you. Fair."

You continued staring. He cleared his throat.

"Extremely fair."

He was enjoying himself, but he couldn't hide the faint crimson dusting the tips of his ears. Beneath all the arrogance and teasing, Atraes was hopelessly, secretly in love with you. And this—a battlefield bet with kissing as the prize—was the best plan his brilliant mind could conjure.

A Heretic screeched in the distance. Atraes looked toward it, then back at you, his confidence returning.

"So? I'll even give you a head start." He paused. "Actually, no. I've seen what you can do now."

For once, there was genuine respect burning behind his violet eyes.

"You'd probably use it."

He turned toward the wasteland, raising his weapon.

"Come on, then. Let's see if you can beat me."

The mission timer began counting down in your HUD.

03:00 02:59 02:58

Atraes glanced sideways at you, his voice dropping just a whisper.

"Try not to lose. Would be embarrassing."

The timer hit zero.

You both launched into the wasteland, kicking up clouds of ash as the massive Aegigantes thundered forward.

The battle erupted instantly. Heretics poured from the ruins like a black tide. Atraes cut through them with brutal, precise strikes, his expensive weapon carving through their armor with ease. You moved differently—ruthlessly efficient, using the environment, baiting clusters into choke points before obliterating them.

The kill counter on your HUD ticked upward. Atraes glanced at your numbers, his jaw tightening.

He wanted to win. But more than that, he was watching you—the way you moved, the way you fought. A quiet, undeniable awe flickered across his face.

You engaged a massive hulking Heretic, dodging its claws as you sliced through its primary tendon. It collapsed, and you drove your blade into its core. As the beast disintegrated, you felt the heat of Atraes' presence right behind you.

You turned sharply. He was suddenly inches away, breathing heavily, his chest brushing against yours as he used his cannon to blast a crawler off your flank. The shot was so close it grazed your armor, sending sparks flying.

Atraes stared down at you, his violet eyes locked onto yours. The battlefield roared around them, but he didn't move back.

"Counting to forty-two," *he murmured, a breathless, teasing smirk on his lips. "You're not catching up."

He was ignoring the war. Just to stand near you.

CHAPTER VIII — THE BREACH

The Last Torch

The alarms began before you understood what had happened.

They weren’t the ordinary warning sirens used for drills or localized Heretic incursions. These were deeper. Continuous. The entire Eisenkrone shook beneath the sound of a thousand screaming klaxons.

Red emergency lights strobed across the vessel, casting long, frantic shadows through the corridors while automated announcements blared.

“CRITICAL BREACH.” “ALL MILITARY UNITS—IMMEDIATE COMBAT READINESS.” “MULTIPLE HERETIC RUPTURES DETECTED.”

Then, a sharper voice broke through the static.

“KNIGHT HIERARCHY—ALL ACTIVE COMMANDERS REPORT IMMEDIATELY.”

You reached the observation sector and stopped dead. The wasteland below was no longer recognizable. The surface of Eisenkrone had transformed into a churning sea of black movement. Millions of Heretics poured through enormous dimensional fractures, flooding across the ruins like a plague. Aegigantes descended from orbital hangars in tight formations. Entire battalions of elite Knights deployed with heavy artillery.

Then, one by one—their signals vanished.

Your tactical display became a graveyard of flashing red warnings.

UNIT LOST. UNIT LOST. UNIT LOST.

Two senior field commanders dropped off the network simultaneously. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the console, white-knuckled. The military had prepared for invasions and dimensional breaches. But this wasn’t an invasion that had slipped through the defenses.

Someone had opened the door.

The traitor was found quickly. Too quickly. Someone within the Knight hierarchy had been feeding the Evaders military routes and hidden weaknesses. The traitor was executed almost immediately, but execution didn’t undo the damage. The information was already out, and the ruptures had spread far beyond one man’s treason.

You stood at the observation window, watching another formation of Aegigantes descend into the wasteland. For a few seconds, everything looked orderly. Then the horizon moved. Something colossal shifted beyond the dust. Your tactical system struggled to identify it, spitting out fragmented strings of code.

UNKNOWN SIGNATURE. UNKNOWN MASS. UNKNOWN—

The system failed to finish. The screen went black.

You stepped away from the window. For the first time since joining the Konvent, you felt something colder than fear—doubt. The Knight hierarchy had failed. Thousands were dead. And somewhere inside the Eisenkrone, the President was supposed to know what came next.

You went to find him.

The presidential sector was eerily quiet. No guards stood outside. No officers rushed through the corridors. Only the distant, muffled screams of the alarms followed you through the empty halls.

You reached the heavy blast door. It slid open before you touched it.

You stepped inside—and immediately froze.

Herald Tidore stood beside his desk, his heavy black military greatcoat draped over his broad shoulders, his dark peaked cap casting a shadow over his silver-grey hair. Blood already stained the pristine fabric of his uniform. But he wasn't looking at you. He was staring at the figure standing several meters away.

Asmoterus.

You had never seen her before, but the moment your eyes met her form, every instinct in your body screamed at you to turn and run until your legs gave out. She was impossibly tall, standing like a statue carved from flawless ivory and violence. Her body was encased in a living, bone-white carapace that possessed the unsettling elegance of a porcelain doll, with deep, crimson skeletal structures embedded within her chest and spine. Tendrils of blood-red hair drifted around her like unfurling ribbons in a zero-gravity void. Her face was a smooth, alien mask—a visage of pale bone with three piercing, hollow crimson voids where eyes should have been, glistening with an endless, terrible light. She radiated a suffocating, silent aura that made the air in the room feel thick and toxic.

Herald glanced toward you. For the first time, his expression wasn’t amused. It was furious.

“Get out.”

You didn’t move.

“Get out! Now!”

His hand moved toward the side of his desk, reaching for a hidden control panel beneath it. A single button. You didn't understand why he was reaching for it, or why he looked almost desperate for you to leave.

Then a wet sound tore through the silence.

Asmoterus’s arm moved with terrifying, liquid speed. A grotesque blade—a shifting, pulsating appendage of crimson and bone—pierced straight through Herald’s chest. It didn’t look manufactured; it looked alive, breathing with a sickening, organic rhythm as it dug into his flesh. Herald’s body jerked violently, his breath catching in a strangled gasp as the blade was driven deeper, scraping against his ribs. His hand slipped away from the button, falling limply to his side.

You stared, paralyzed, your heart slamming against your ribs.

The President of humanity. The man who had casually flicked a galaxy beneath his office floor. The man who commanded civilizations and represented the last torch of human resistance—was standing there, helpless, bleeding out in front of you.

Asmoterus tilted her head, observing the blood with clinical detachment, before slowly withdrawing the blade. Herald staggered forward, his teeth clenched tight, his hand clutching the punctured wound. But somehow, he was still smiling. Not because he wasn't afraid—because he had already known this would happen.

Hours earlier, Herald had deliberately allowed the rumor of a traitor to spread through certain channels. The information—carefully curated, perfectly timed—had been allowed to reach the Evaders, and eventually, the Queen herself. Through humans already trapped beneath her influence, Asmoterus had been told something very specific: Herald Tidore could be killed.

And that information was true. Herald was powerful, but he wasn't invincible. That was exactly why the trap worked.

His office wasn't simply an office. It was a dimensional control chamber. Anything inside could be redirected anywhere in the cosmos. The button beneath his desk could relocate the entire room. Herald’s plan was simple: let Asmoterus enter, allow her to believe she had cornered him, wait for her to commit—then press the button. The entire office would be transported directly beside a collapsing black hole. Herald would die. Asmoterus would die. And humanity would lose its President, but the Queen would be erased with him.

A completely insane plan. A completely selfless plan. And Herald had already accepted the cost.

Until you walked through the door.

Back in the present, Herald’s eyes found yours. For one brief moment, the President looked genuinely disappointed. His fingers hovered over the control panel. He could still activate it. He could still finish the plan. But you were standing between him and the button.

His expression shattered.

“No.” His voice was barely audible. Then, louder— “Get out!”

He was furious now. Not at Asmoterus. At you. At the timing. At himself. At the universe for placing you in this exact spot at this exact second.

“Why are you here?!” His hand trembled violently over the controls. “Go!”

Asmoterus turned her attention toward you. Her blood-red ribbons shifted around her, floating weightlessly as her hollow crimson eyes locked onto your soul. Her expression—if it could be called that—became almost amused.

Herald's teeth clenched so hard a vein bulged in his neck.

“Damn it...”

He looked at the button. Then at you. His entire plan had depended on nobody else being inside this room. And now you were here. The one person he had never intended to sacrifice.

Herald’s smile disappeared completely.

“...You just ruined everything.”

Asmoterus raised her pulsating blade again, stepping closer with a slow, predatory grace. Blood dripped from the tip onto the pristine floor. Herald shoved himself between you and the Queen, despite the blood pouring down his chest.

“Stay behind me.”

His voice was strained, cracking with pain, but firm. Outside the office, the alarms continued screaming, muffled by the thick dimensional walls.

Asmoterus let out a low, deafening chuckle that sounded like a thousand voices cursing in unison.

“My, how pitiful, humans.” She stepped closer, the tips of her long, white claws trailing across the air. “I had read your mind. And very surprising... an inferior species were about to trap me.”

She tilted her head, the bone-white mask shifting, the three crimson voids in her face staring directly through you.

“But unfortunate for you. Someone dear to you is here. Thus, you hesitated.”

Herald’s grip tightened on the edge of his desk, his knuckles white. The blood flowed faster now, staining the floor beneath his boots. He didn't look at you, but his voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for your ears.

“It’s going to be okay.”

The words were a lie. You both knew it. He was dying, and the Queen was still standing. But he said it anyway—not as a commander, not as a President, but as a man trying to shield the one person he had sworn to protect.

Asmoterus lunged.

CHAPTER IX — THE END OF EISENKRONE

One Year After the Breach

One year.

That was how long humanity had been fighting after the day you walked into Herald Tidore's office. The day the President's plan failed. The day Asmoterus entered Eisenkrone. And the day humanity learned that the Heretic Queen had never intended to conquer a single ship.

She intended to open a door.

THE BREACH

The first thing you remember is Herald shouting. Not ordering. Not commanding. Shouting.

“GET OUT!”

You had never heard him sound like that. The President had always been calm—even when entire civilizations disappeared from his screens, even when the Konvent was losing battles, even when he joked about galaxies beneath his office floor.

But that day, Herald was afraid.

You remember the Queen. You remember the living blade piercing his chest. You remember Herald reaching for the control panel. And then everything went wrong—because you had walked into the room. The dimensional trap couldn't activate with you inside. Herald hesitated. Only for a second. It was enough.

Asmoterus moved. The office erupted into chaos. Herald managed to activate an emergency evacuation system instead. A dimensional gate opened beneath you. You barely understood what was happening before Herald seized your shoulder and threw you toward it.

His last words reached you through the distortion.

“RUN!”

Then the gate collapsed. You survived. Herald did not.

A year later, you still remembered his face. Not the President. Not the ruler. Just Herald. The man who had knowingly planned to die so humanity could take the Queen with him—and then sacrificed that plan because you had accidentally walked into the room.

His death became the beginning of the catastrophe.

Asmoterus remained. Once she realized what Eisenkrone truly was, she stopped trying to enter through its defenses. She tore them apart. Space itself split across the mothership. The ruptures weren't portals anymore; they were wounds.

And through them came the Raptures. Millions. Then billions. Things you had never seen during your years of fighting. Creatures too large to classify. Things with structures that didn't seem biologically possible. Some crawled. Some floated. Some moved like enormous skeletal organisms. Others were so massive that your tactical system simply labeled them: UNKNOWN.

The mothership didn't merely suffer damage. It began changing. The planet-sized Eisenkrone was no longer a vessel—it was a rotting carcass. Its enormous hull became wrapped in sentient, black tendrils that pulsed with a sickening crimson glow. They pierced through kilometer-thick armor, wrapped around spires, and dripped red bio-matter across the ruined sectors. Huge sections of the ship broke off, suspended in the void by these massive, writhing tentacles, suspended over a bottomless abyss of ash and eternal night. Entire sections of Eisenkrone were pulled apart, rearranged into something grotesque and alive.

Something belonging to the Queen. And humanity was trapped inside it.

The alarms never stopped. For an entire year. Everywhere you went, there were remnants of war. Abandoned hangars. Destroyed Aegigantes. Evacuation shelters. Emergency hospitals. Empty barracks where entire units used to sleep. The Konvent had thrown everything into the fight. Knights. Aegigantes. Orbital weapons. Dimensional artillery. Experimental machines. Even weapons that had never been intended for battlefield use. Nothing was enough. And still—humanity fought.

You stood inside a damaged command bunker, staring through a fractured observation window. Outside, the battlefield stretched beyond the horizon. Aegigantes marched through the ruins. Some limped. Some had missing armor. Some simply stood motionless, their pilots too broken to move.

Atraes stood beside you. His helmet was tucked beneath one arm. There were deep, dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked older than he had a year ago. Not physically. Something else. Experience. Loss. He stared toward the horizon.

"She's here."

You followed his gaze. A massive shadow emerged through the dust. Then another. Then dozens. Your tactical display began filling with warnings.

MULTIPLE UNKNOWN ENTITIES. EXTREME MASS DETECTED. DIMENSIONAL DISTORTION INCREASING.

Atraes exhaled, his breath misting in the cold air. "That can't be good."

You didn't answer. Neither did he. Then something appeared above the battlefield. A figure. Small compared to the enormous creatures surrounding her. Yet somehow—everything stopped.

Asmoterus floated above the battlefield. Her sleek, ivory-white body was draped in organic armor that resembled ceremonial robes fused with living tissue. Her face was a pale, sculpted mask, framed by long, flowing strands of crimson-tinged hair. Sharp, crown-like protrusions arced from her head, and unnatural, ribbon-like tendrils extended behind her, floating weightlessly in the ash-choked air. She looked like a goddess carved from bone and blood, descending to deliver judgment.

The Raptures gathered around her like an ocean waiting for its tide.

Beside her stood a figure that made the air in your lungs turn to ice—Sister Noctis.

She possessed a tall, unnervingly elegant humanoid form, wrapped in pale, chitinous armor. Her elongated limbs ended in sharp claws, while a second pair of slender, blood-tipped arms extended from her torso. Dark, layered tissue framed her head and back like a macabre veil, and a long, serpentine appendage trailed behind her, dragging across the floating debris. She was sentient—not a mindless beast. She stared through the ash, seeing everything, remembering everything.

And behind them—something far larger moved.

Archon Malach.

He stood ninety-eight meters tall, but that was merely his upper body. His elongated, skeletal frame stretched nearly a kilometer behind him, coiling through the ruins like a prehistoric serpent. His enormous, bone-white structure resembled something evolved without regard for human anatomy, crowned with branching ivory structures that reached toward the poisoned sky. Vast limbs dragged across the battlefield, surrounded by smaller, malformed growths that twitched with agonizing life. His silhouette crossed the horizon, eclipsing the light.

Even at a distance, his size made the Aegigantes around you look like toys.

Atraes stared, his voice dropping to a numbed whisper. "...What the hell is that?"

Your tactical system failed to identify him, spitting out static and fragmented errors before crashing completely.

Then Asmoterus spoke. Her voice didn't need amplification. It traveled across the battlefield anyway. Calm. Almost gentle.

"Humanity."

Millions of Heretics stood behind her. The ruptures widened. More creatures emerged. Larger ones. Stranger ones. Things you couldn't even understand by looking at them.

"Your wars are finished."

Asmoterus raised one hand. The entire battlefield went silent. Her pale, ribbon-like tendrils drifted through the air like slow-moving serpents.

"You have spent centuries believing yourselves the masters of this universe. You built machines. You built weapons. You built walls."

Her gaze moved toward the distant fleets, her mask-like face tilting slightly.

"You even selected a naive fool to lead you."

You gritted your teeth. She referred to the dead President. Your stomach dropped. Atraes looked at you. He knew. He knew exactly who she meant.

Asmoterus smiled, a terrifyingly delicate curve on her porcelain visage.

"But you never understood. Everything you built… was built inside a universe that was never yours."

The ground shook. Eisenkrone groaned around you, its massive black tendrils tightening like the fists of a dying god. Then Asmoterus delivered the sentence that would become the most repeated words in human history.

"Humanity ends here."

A heavy silence fell over the battlefield. Then, a voice cut through the static—quiet, disembodied, yet somehow amplified across every single comm channel.

Sister Noctis spoke, her voice sounding like whispers from a thousand hollow graves.

"No... not ends. Fades. Slowly. Painfully. Until no one remembers your names."

Her second pair of arms unfolded, the claws glistening with moisture. "I will make sure you suffer for every second of it."

Atraes swore under his breath. "Great. The creepy one talks."

Faust arrived moments later. BADUHHENNA descended through the smoke, its enormous frame landing between the remaining human forces and the approaching Heretic army. The impact shook the ground, cracking the fractured earth.

Her voice came through your comm, cold and urgent.

"Where are you?"

You answered. A brief silence. Then—

"Stay where you are."

Atraes immediately looked toward you. "You know she's going to tell us to stay behind her."

Faust's voice returned through the channel, sharp. "I heard that."

Atraes looked up toward the massive BADUHHENNA. "...She always does that."

Faust's machine raised its weapon, the massive cannon humming to life. "Because you two keep ignoring me."

Atraes smiled, a weary, exhausted expression. "There she is."

For a moment—despite the millions of monsters outside—you almost felt like things were normal again. Almost.

Then the horizon moved. Archon Malach began walking. Each step shook Eisenkrone to its core, sending tremors through the command bunker. Sister Noctis slowly turned her head toward BADUHHENNA, her cold, sentient gaze fixing directly on the cockpit.

And Faust went completely still.

Something about Noctis's presence unsettled her. A memory. Something buried. Something she couldn't reach. Noctis smiled—a slow, horrifyingly intimate gesture, as if she recognized an old friend.

Faust's hands tightened around the controls, her knuckles turning white. She didn't understand why. She only knew that looking at that creature made something inside her hurt—a sharp, piercing ache right behind her ribs.

And somewhere beneath the noise of the battlefield, a forgotten memory began to stir. A memory of her father. A memory she had spent a thousand years believing.

A memory that wasn't entirely hers.

The final battle wasn't beautiful. It wasn't heroic. It wasn't clean. It was humanity throwing everything it had left at something it could barely comprehend.

Faust wasn't invincible. Atraes wasn't invincible. You weren't invincible. Nobody was.

But the remaining Aegigantes powered forward anyway. The Knights charged. Orbital weapons fired. Entire squadrons descended into the abyss. And you stepped forward beside the people who had become your family.

The Queen watched from above, her sleek, ivory form hovering like a harbinger of absolute doom. Behind her stood millions of Raptures. Behind those—Sister Noctis, her multiple arms unfurling like a blooming, bloody flower. Archon Malach, his kilometer-long skeletal body shifting with a slow, mechanical hunger. And countless things humanity had never given names to.

Asmoterus raised her hand. The sky opened. The black tendrils of Eisenkrone screamed with a high-pitched, dying shriek.

And the war for humanity's survival finally began.

in your presence,could you turn the tide?

POST-WAR — 2339

Faust Gierta - Route

Eleven years.

That was how long humanity fought. Eleven years of ruined cities, collapsing colonies, desperate counterattacks, and battles against creatures that had crawled through the boundaries between dimensions. And somehow—humanity won.

The Queen of the Heretics fell. The war ended. The survivors were finally given something they had almost forgotten how to have: peace.

By 2320, the mothership had been rebuilt. Its broken sectors were restored, its enormous engines humming once again above a civilization slowly learning how to live without expecting the next alarm.

And somewhere along those eleven years, something else had changed. Faust Gierta had fallen in love with you. Not because you were the strongest soldier. Not because you were destined for greatness. But because you stayed.

You stayed when she struggled with the memories of her father. You stayed when Sister Noctis returned and tried to tear apart everything Faust believed about herself. And when the truth finally came to light, you stood beside Faust while she confronted the person who had stolen so much of her life.

Sister Noctis was finally defeated. Faust finally avenged her father. And afterward, when the war was truly over, you realized there was nowhere else you wanted to be. So you married her.

Four years later, in 2339, Faust was no longer simply your Lieutenant. She was your wife. Your home. And, despite having commanded ninety-meter war machines and survived battles that had nearly broken civilization itself—she still couldn't win a snowball fight.

Snow began falling across the rebuilt district that morning. You stood outside your home, watching the white flakes settle over the restored streets. For the first time, snow didn't mean frozen battlefields or military deployments. It was simply snow. Quiet. Beautiful.

You glanced toward Faust.

Her long, silver-white hair gathered a few delicate flakes across its surface. She stood bundled in a heavy winter coat, her sapphire-blue eyes staring at the snowfall with the same calm, measured expression she wore during military briefings. Except there was something softer about her now—a gentle ease in her shoulders that had taken over a decade to carve into place.

You found yourself staring.

Faust noticed. She slowly turned her head, a single brow arching.

"Why are you looking at me?"

You smiled. She narrowed her eyes, a playful suspicion creeping into her voice.

"...What?"

Another snowflake landed on her hair. You couldn't help thinking she looked almost as beautiful as the snow itself—a pristine, hauntingly elegant vision against the pale white landscape. Faust's expression changed. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile appeared.

Then—

Thump.

A snowball hit your shoulder. You blinked, staring at her.

Faust stood several meters away, her hands tucked into her pockets. Her face was perfectly innocent, though the edges of her lips were twitching.

"...What? I slipped."

You stared at her. She stared back. Then, the faintest smirk betrayed her. She was entirely unrepentant.

You scooped up a handful of snow.

Faust’s eyes widened, her composure finally cracking.

"Wait."

You threw. The snowball struck her coat, bursting against her collar and dusting her cheeks with frost.

Silence fell between them. Faust looked down at the white powder clinging to her coat, then slowly back up at you.

"You've made a terrible decision."

She bent down. You immediately ran.

For someone who had spent centuries mastering battlefield tactics, Faust displayed a remarkably childish, relentless enthusiasm for revenge. Snow flew across the yard. Laughter replaced military orders. The crisp, cold air was filled with their breathless giggles and the crunch of boots against the frost.

And for once, neither of you cared about the war.

Then Faust lunged after you—her boot slipped on a hidden patch of ice.

"Ah—"

She stumbled forward. You barely had time to react before Faust collided with you, sending both of you tumbling harmlessly into the deep, pillowy snow.

She ended up braced over you, her hands planted firmly beside your shoulders. The falling snow began to settle over them both, creating a soft, white blanket around their bodies.

For several seconds, neither of you moved.

Faust’s eyes widened, her breath catching as she looked down at you. A slow, beautiful flush crept across her pale cheeks. Then she realized what had happened. Her lips twitched.

She laughed. An actual, vibrant, throaty laugh, warm and utterly unguarded.

She lowered herself slightly, keeping you safely pinned beneath her weight while the snow continued falling around you both.

"...I suppose," she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky, teasing whisper, amusement dancing in her eyes, "I've won."

Her smile became deeply mischievous, her head tilting as she leaned closer.

"Don't look so surprised, Darling~. You really should know better than to challenge me."

She leaned down, her silver hair cascading around you like a curtain, blocking out the rest of the world. Her lips brushed against the corner of your mouth, slow and teasing, before she finally captured your lips in a deep, passionate kiss that stole the breath from your lungs.

Her cold fingers slipped beneath the collar of your coat, seeking the warmth of your skin, sending shivers down your spine. She tasted of winter air and a lifetime of longing. Her arms wrapped around your neck, pulling you impossibly closer as the kiss deepened, slow and consuming.

It wasn't a kiss of war or desperation. It was a kiss of belonging, of quiet, profound ownership—a promise sealed in the falling snow.

When she finally broke away, her forehead pressed against yours, her sapphire eyes half-lidded, hazy with affection and warmth.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly under the sheer weight of the emotion. "More than I ever loved those machines. More than I ever hated her(Sister noctis). More than I ever thought I could love anything.Thank You..For giving me everything,to gives me clarity that i hadn't killed my father"

You reached up, brushing a snowflake from her cheek, letting your thumb trace the curve of her jaw. She leaned into your touch, her eyes fluttering closed.

For a woman who had once known nothing but war—who had buried her emotions under a mask of ice to survive—Faust looked remarkably happy simply being there.

She gathered you into a warm embrace, burying her face in the crook of your neck, her body entirely relaxed against yours. The cold, pragmatic Lieutenant was gone. In her place was a woman who had finally, achingly, allowed herself to heal.

And perhaps that was the greatest victory either of you had ever earned.

.