The battlefield was no longer a map of trenches and air strikes — it had become a war circus, and at the center of it was Grim's crew, tearing through Republic forces with flair, finesse, and just a touch of chaos.
The sun never rose that morning.
Clouds hung low, smothered in smoke and soot, as the final battalion of the Republic's elite soldiers charged through the ravaged remains of Krael Valley. Their mission: eliminate the Grim unit, believed to be the last significant threat within this region.
They were wrong.
🌀 A Strange Welcome
"Hey! You brought your own swords this time? Cute."
Anna, arms behind her head, leaned lazily against a crumbling arch, twirling a lollipop. Her crimson scarf fluttered in the wind, stained from yesterday's ambush.
From behind her, Ouro, the sarcastic explosives expert, grinned.
"Careful, Anna. If you taunt them too early, they might run away before I get to show them my new invention: 'Kaboom Mk.3' — now 20% more unnecessary fire!"
The Republic commander gave the signal.
"Formations! Eliminate them—"
BOOM!
A dozen mines detonated, hurling soldiers like confetti into the blackened sky.
Anna sighed.
"You never let me have any fun."
⚔️ The Fight Begins – Dance of Fire and Laughter
Grim's crew didn't fight like an army.
They fought like legends out of bedtime stories, each of them stylized, exaggerated — and terrifyingly efficient.
Kael, the Iron Monk, slapped incoming bullets with his bare palms, laughing wildly as he juggled soldiers like bowling pins.
"Come on! Is that all your Republic schools taught you?"
Lilia, the illusionist, duplicated herself into a dozen dancing shadows, confusing the enemy with versions of herself singing opera.
"Oops, wrong note. That one's real."
Grim, silent, deadly, and unnervingly calm, walked through the chaos like a man strolling through a garden. His blade didn't swing; it whispered. Where he passed, bodies dropped with precision. Not a movement wasted.
"You're not fighting ghosts. You're fighting people better than you."
And Herzl — now no longer the scared boy of war — had found rhythm in his pain. His Inn manifested as streaks of light around his fists, exploding with each punch. He and Anna back-to-back, their banter echoing louder than the gunfire.
"How many you got, Herzl?"
"Seven."
"Cute. I'm on ten."
"You stole one of mine."
"War is theft, sweetheart."
🧩 A Twist in the Tale
But then… the laughter cracked.
From the east cliffs, a low hum grew. Engines. Dozens of them.
"Uh… guys?" Ouro muttered, his cocky grin fading. "That's not ours."
A fleet of Republic warplanes soared overhead — experimental models, sleek and covered in glowing sigils. They began raining down bombs laced with artificial Inn. The sky caught fire.
The valley trembled. The banter stopped.
One of the planes turned, revealing its insignia: a serpent wrapped around a crown — the emblem of the Black Council.
Grim narrowed his eyes.
"They weren't supposed to have that tech… not yet."
Anna clenched her fists.
"We've been betrayed."
Herzl, staring into the inferno, whispered,
"They're not just trying to win… they're trying to end us."