The void of space above 'A Baoa Qu' didn't smell like death, but it felt like it. It was the end of U.C. 0079, and the air inside my cockpit was thick with the scent of recycled oxygen and my own sweat. Around me, the pride of Zeon was shattering. We had the MS-14 Gelgoog, finally a suit that could trade beam fire with the Federation, and I had seen Colonel Char Aznable's MSN-02 Zeong—a Pshycommu-type monstrosity—tearing through the dark. But even with the brilliance of Commander Dozle Zabi and his Big Zam at Solomon, the "White Devil"—the RX-78-2 Gundam—had carved a path of ruin through our lines.
I had faced that devil myself in the final hours. My Kämpfer, a machine built for the hunt, was now a hollowed-out shell. I had been bested, not by superior tactics, but by the sheer, terrifying momentum of that white suit. My machine didn't explode; it remained stable, a cruel joke of engineering that left me alive in a coffin that had lost its arms and legs. I sat in the silent dark, watching the signals go dark. Gihren Zabi was dead. Kycillia Zabi was dead. The leadership of Zeon had been decapitated.
The peace declaration was a physical blow. The Federation and the remnants of Zeon signed a ceasefire, but to me, it was a death warrant for our pride. The 'Delaz Fleet', the 'Invisible Knights', the 'Marchosias Corps'—we weren't just soldiers; we were the believers. I, Ederich von Nacht, the man they called 'the fool of Zeon,' refused to swallow the lie that it was over.
Inside the Zanzibar-class carrier, the atmosphere was poisonous. My platoon was a collection of the walking wounded and the spiritually broken. Men were missing limbs; others stared into the bulkhead with eyes that saw only the fires of the battlefield.
"THIS IS A HUMILIATION!!" I roared, ripping my helmet off and hurling it against the deck plates. "BLAST THOSE FEDERATION DOGS!! ESPECIALLY THAT WHITE DEVIL!! I CANNOT ACCEPT THIS!!"
"We have lost, Major Ederich."
Cygna Maureen, my subordinate, stepped into my line of sight. Her voice was the only thing that didn't sound like it was screaming. "The war is over. The Zabi family is finished. There is nothing we can do but retreat".
"NO!!" I screamed, punching the wall until my knuckles split. "That Gundam... Amuro Ray... he humiliated me! I will not let it end like this!"
"We need a better plan, Major," she said firmly, her hand resting near my arm. "If we move without a strategy, we will only repeat the mistakes of the past".
She was right. I was a Newtype, yet I had been humbled twice—once by Lydia Mercer at the California Base, and now by Amuro Ray. I needed power. I thought of the 'Rider' series mobile suits, machines like Nimbus Schterzen's Efreet with its 'EXAM-System'. I needed that kind of edge if I was to ever strike back.
As my rage cooled into a frozen resolve, I gave the order to head for Axis.
Axis loomed in the distance—a massive, star-shaped asteroid carved by years of mining and desperation. It was a jagged rock with triangular spires jutting from its body, a tomb for the dreams of the Principality. While some chose to hide on Earth or join the Delaz Fleet's shadow war, I led my broken troops to the asteroid base. My Kämpfer was a wreck, and my men were ghosts. My platoon was, for all intents and purposes, halted.
In the hangar, I saw them: the Marchosias Corps. Among them was a little girl, moving alongside 2nd Lieutenant Vincent Gleissner. It sickened me to see a child in this den of lions, but then Cygna brought me news that set my blood on fire.
"Major, the Marchosias just arrived. They captured a Federation 'Rider' series—the blue one".
I rushed to the hangar. There it was: the Pale Rider. It was torn apart, a victim of a brutal engagement, but its core remained. It belonged to Vincent now, but I wanted its soul.
"Call the research experts," I told the lead mechanic. "I want this system—HADES—copied. I want it mass-produced for the next generation of Zeon suits".
"Major, copying this... it's dangerous for an unprofessional pilot," the mechanic stammered.
"I don't care," I snapped. "For the glory of Zeon, we take the risk. If it cannot be mass-produced, I will take the burden of the system myself".
I retreated to Moussa, the walnut-shaped satellite tethered to Axis by a web of cables and struts. It was a crowded, hollowed-out rock meant to alleviate the shortages and disease spreading through the main base.
In my cramped apartment, I collapsed onto the sofa. The air was stale, smelling of industrial grease and recycled breath. My mind raced—I needed spies in the Federation, or perhaps a mole in Anaheim Electronics.
Then, my eyes fell on a photo frame. It was us at Luna 6: me, my wife, and my daughter, Darian. Darian, who still dreamed of being a Zeon pilot like her father. With a heavy heart, I activated the communication device.
"Hey Dad!" Darian's face lit up the screen, her excitement a sharp contrast to my exhaustion.
"Hey Darian... how is everything?".
"Good! When are you coming home?".
I looked at her, then at my wife who appeared behind her. I had been away for two years. My wife knew the war was "over." She pleaded with me to return to Luna 6, to leave the ghost of Zeon behind.
Even as a Major, the pull of my family was a different kind of gravity. I told Cygna to handle the platoon. I would return to Luna 6—not to quit, but to clear my head, to find a new tactic, and to wait for the moment we could finally bring the Federation to its knees.
My war wasn't over. It was just changing shape.
To be continue.