The sky burned.
Thick smoke spiraled into the heavens as if the stars themselves were being choked to death. The air stank of gunpowder and charred flesh. Across the crumbling courtyard of what was once the Republic's Northern Command, the banner of Alexandria fluttered in the wind—soaked in both victory and blood.
Herzl stood amidst it all, his coat torn, his left arm wrapped in a field dressing soaked red. His knuckles were raw, his boots blackened with soot. Around him, the ground was littered with the remnants of war—shattered helmets, broken rifles, and the limbs of men who once dreamed of peace.
"They're falling faster than we ever expected," murmured Commander Vale, adjusting his bloodied spectacles. "It's as if their command lines just… vanished."
Herzl didn't respond. He was watching the sky.
Another wave of airships passed overhead—Kingdom warbirds shaped like manticores, their engines growling like monsters. They unleashed payloads onto the city's remaining strongholds with terrifying precision. Whole blocks disappeared in plumes of fire and dust.
"Too easy," Herzl muttered.
Commander Vale turned to him. "What?"
Herzl lowered his gaze. "Something's wrong. This isn't retreat. This is abandonment."
From behind them, Grim's heavy boots approached. He looked unchanged—clean, pristine, as if the war dared not touch him. He glanced toward the smoke-wrapped ruins of the Republic's palace, its spires collapsed like snapped bones.
"This city was never their stronghold," Grim said flatly. "It was bait."
Commander Vale scoffed. "Bait? We've crippled their defense line in the north—"
"No," Herzl interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "They wanted us to believe that."
Grim looked at Herzl with a small smile. "Good. You're learning to doubt victory. That means you're ready for what comes next."
Before Herzl could ask what he meant, a sharp whine pierced the air. A shriek like a thousand vultures crying out at once. Everyone turned.
A shape descended from the clouds—massive, angular, and horrifying.
"INN-based propulsion," Vale said breathlessly. "That's not one of ours."
It was the Abyssal Dirge—the Republic's rumored INN-powered stealth bomber. No one had ever confirmed its existence until now.
It didn't fire weapons.
Instead, it released silence.
A soundwave so deep, so low, it struck the lungs before the ears. Herzl fell to one knee, clutching his chest as the tremor rattled through his bones. Around him, soldiers screamed, some collapsing entirely.
And then it passed.
When Herzl stood again, the palace was gone. Nothing but a crater remained.
"I… I felt something inside me break," whispered Vale.
"It's an INN anomaly," Grim said, watching the sky darken further. "They've evolved their usage. They're corrupting the balance."
"Is that even possible?" Herzl asked.
Grim didn't answer.
Later That Night
In the ruins of a burned chapel outside the city, the remaining squad regrouped. Soldiers whispered rumors of what they saw—monsters walking in fire, Republic soldiers with glowing eyes, and voices in the static of the radios speaking languages no man understood.
"Sir," said one young scout, trembling. "We found survivors… but their eyes… they looked through us."
"Put them in quarantine," Herzl said, trying to steady his voice. "No one sees them without my clearance."
Grim stood outside, gazing up at the black skies. The stars had vanished again.
"They're opening something," he whispered to himself.
Herzl approached. "What are they opening?"
Grim didn't meet his gaze. "Doors. The kind that should remain sealed."
Meanwhile… Deep in the Republic's Southern Laboratory
A figure stood in shadow, stroking the mask of a fallen Alexandria soldier.
"They walk willingly into the fire," said a voice.
The figure turned, face obscured. "That is why they must burn."
A console lit up behind him. On the screen: schematics for Project Eidolon.
And the name Herzl… marked for elimination.