5 YEARS AGO

The Asklepios-3 shuddered violently as another impact struck its port shield array. Warning indicators flashed across the command console in angry pulses of crimson, and the acrid smell of burnt circuitry filled the bridge.

Vylaas gripped the neural interface controls, brow furrowed in concentration. "Chimera, status report."

"Port shield array at thirty-seven percent," Chimera responded, her digitized voice calm despite the chaos. "Hull integrity holding at eighty-nine percent. Structural damage detected on decks three and four."

Another blast rocked the ship, sending a shower of sparks cascading from an overhead conduit.

"Make that twenty-two percent on port shields," Chimera amended.

"Thorne, we need those shields!" Vylaas called over the comm.

The chief engineer's voice came back strained, background noise suggesting frantic activity. "Working on it! Rerouting auxiliary power now, but we've taken damage to the primary coupling. I need two minutes!"

"We don't have two minutes," Vylaas muttered, his fingers dancing across the neural interface as he adjusted their course. The ship responded instantly, banking hard to starboard to present its stronger shields to the incoming fire.

Thorne's voice crackled over the comm again. "If you'd stop throwing my ship into enemy fire, maybe I could fix something without it breaking again!"

"Your ship?" Vylaas allowed himself a tight smile despite the situation.

"When it's breaking, it's my ship," Thorne shot back. "When it's working, you can have it back."

The banter was familiar, a rhythm they'd fallen into over years of working together. It did nothing to diminish the danger they faced, but it kept the edge of panic at bay.

"Incoming transmission," Chimera announced. "Emergency frequency."

"Put it through," Vylaas ordered, adjusting their course again as another volley of enemy fire tracked their movement.

Static crackled across the comm before resolving into a voice—male, strained, punctuated by the distant sound of weapons fire. "This is Lieutenant-Colonel Handran to any Imperial vessels. Requesting immediate extraction. Coordinates follow." A string of numbers scrolled across Vylaas's display. "Under heavy fire, position compromised. Authentication code Sierra-Echo-Seven-Niner-Delta."

Vylaas studied the coordinates, a frown creasing his brow. "Chimera, verify authentication."

"Authentication code confirmed," Chimera responded after a brief pause. "Lieutenant-Colonel Darius Handran, 42nd Vanguard Division."

"Plot a course to those coordinates," Vylaas ordered.

"Unable to comply," Chimera responded immediately. "Coordinates are seventeen kilometers beyond the current battle line, deep in Raxian-controlled territory. Probability of successful extraction without catastrophic damage: below seven percent."

"Vylaas," Helena Reeves's voice cut in from the medical bay, "we've got wounded back here. Three critical, seven stable. If we take another direct hit—"

"I know," Vylaas interrupted, his mind racing through options. "Chimera, what's the shortest route to Handran's position?"

A tactical map materialized above the console, showing their current position relative to the coordinates. A red line traced the most direct path—straight through the heart of the Raxian defensive line.

"Recommended course of action: retreat to safer territory and dispatch a dedicated combat unit for extraction," Chimera advised.

Vylaas's fingers hovered over the neural interface as he considered the options. Lieutenant-Colonel Handran wasn't just any officer. He'd earned a reputation as one of the few military leaders who prioritized minimizing civilian casualties, even at the cost of tactical advantage. His methods had drawn criticism from Imperial High Command, particularly from those who favored High General Valerius's more aggressive approach.

"By the time a combat unit is authorized and deployed, Handran will be dead," Vylaas said finally. "Chimera, you have control of the ship. Take us in—maximum speed, evasive pattern delta."

"Vylaas, this course of action exceeds acceptable risk parameters," Chimera protested. "The Asklepios-3 is a medical vessel, not a combat craft."

"Heard and overridden. Comply."

A momentary silence followed before Chimera responded. "Override accepted. Plotting course. All personnel, secure for high-speed maneuvers."

The ship's engines roared to life, acceleration pressing Vylaas back into his command chair as Asklepios-3 surged forward. The tactical display updated in real-time, showing their rapid approach toward the Raxian line.

"Strap in back there," Vylaas called over the ship-wide comm. "This is going to get rough."

"What exactly are we doing?" Reeves demanded, her voice steady despite the clear concern in her tone.

"Extraction. Lieutenant-Colonel Handran is pinned down behind enemy lines."

"Handran?" A brief pause. "The one they call 'The Merciful'?"

"The same."

Another pause, longer this time. "Understood. Medical bay secured for combat maneuvers. We'll be ready."

Thorne's voice cut in next, his tone suggesting he'd been listening to the exchange. "I've got the shield coupling patched. Not pretty, but it'll hold—assuming we don't fly directly into a Raxian artillery battalion."

"About that," Vylaas began.

"Gods and archons," Thorne swore. "What are you planning?"

"A rapid extraction," Vylaas replied. "Emphasis on 'rapid.'"

"This ship is a medical transport, not a warbird!"

"Which is why they won't expect us," Vylaas countered, his attention shifting back to the tactical display. "Chimera, time to intercept?"

"Four minutes, seventeen seconds to Raxian defensive line," Chimera responded. "Four minutes, forty-two seconds to target coordinates."

"Incoming fire," Chimera announced, her voice cutting through Vylaas's thoughts. "Multiple targeting solutions locked on our position."

The Asklepios-3 banked sharply, defensive countermeasures deploying automatically as streaks of energy fire lanced through the space they'd occupied moments before. The ship's enhanced engines—one of Thorne's many "unofficial modifications"—pushed them through the barrage with surprising agility for a vessel of its size.

"Raxian defensive line in visual range," Chimera reported.

The forward viewport revealed a grim tableau of war. The Raxian forces had established a formidable defensive position along a ridge that spanned the horizon. Artillery emplacements dotted the high ground, while armored vehicles and infantry formations controlled the approaches. Energy barriers shimmered in the evening light, protecting key positions from aerial assault.

"They've spotted us," Vylaas observed, noting the shift in artillery positions as they tracked the approaching ship.

"Confirmed. Incoming fire in three, two, one—"

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The sky around them erupted with energy blasts and kinetic projectiles. Chimera pushed the ship into a series of evasive maneuvers, each more aggressive than the last. Warnings blared as the shields absorbed hit after hit, power levels fluctuating dangerously.

"Shield array at critical levels," Chimera warned. "Hull breach imminent if current rate of fire continues."

"Then we don't let it continue," Vylaas decided. "Chimera, divert all power to forward shields and engines. We're punching through."

"Vylaas, what are you—" Reeves began over the comm.

"Brace for impact!" Vylaas called, cutting her off as the Asklepios-3 plunged toward the center of the Raxian line.

Vylaas's eyes flashed with electric blue light as he submerged himself in the neural interface. The connection with Chimera deepened, their consciousness flowing together like twin rivers merging into a torrent of power.

Through his bond with Chimera, Vylaas accessed the ship's cultivation arrays—Thorne's "borrowed" tech from a Titan-class Siege Armor. Energy surged from Vylaas's core, amplified by the ship's systems, and erupted outward in concentric layers of protection.

First came a rippling barrier of golden light, then a crystalline matrix of blue-white energy, followed by a pulsing field of crimson that absorbed and redistributed kinetic force. Each layer reinforced the next, forming an impenetrable aegis that turned aside enemy fire like water off stone.

The Asklepios-3 pushed forward, untouched by the storm of destruction around it. Raxian artillery operators stared in disbelief as their most powerful weapons failed to even slow the medical vessel's advance.

They'd penetrated the Raxian line, but at a cost. The tactical display flickered with damage reports, and the ship's engines whined in protest as Chimera pushed them toward Handran's coordinates.

"Hull breach on deck two," Chimera reported. "Emergency bulkheads engaged. Life support stable but compromised. Your shields kept the main systems in the green, but it won't last."

"How long to Handran's position?" Vylaas asked, sweating visibly but already unstrapping from his command chair.

"One minute, forty-three seconds. Vylaas, the ship cannot withstand another direct assault. We must retreat."

"Not without Handran," Vylaas replied firmly, making his way toward the armory adjacent to the bridge. "Bring us as close as you can to his coordinates. I'm going in."

"This exceeds all operational parameters," Chimera protested. "The risk—"

"Is the reason we exist," Vylaas finished, entering the armory. "Maintain position once we arrive. Be ready for immediate extraction on my signal."

The armory was compact but efficient, stocked with equipment for emergency response rather than front-line combat. Vylaas moved quickly, Chimera splitting her focus, part of her flowing from the ship core to merge with his armor. The symbiotic relationship they'd developed over the years allowed the transition to happen seamlessly, the armor adapting to enhance his natural abilities.

"Approaching target coordinates," Chimera announced, her voice now resonating directly through their neural link. "Heavy enemy presence detected. Artillery, armor, and infantry converging on Handran's position."

"Show me," Vylaas ordered.

A tactical overlay appeared in his field of vision, displaying the battlefield in precise detail. Handran's position was marked—a partially collapsed bunker surrounded by Raxian forces. The lieutenant-colonel had established a defensive perimeter, but it was shrinking rapidly under the sustained assault.

"He's still alive," Vylaas noted, studying the life signs data. "But not for long if we don't intervene."

The ship lurched as it came under fire again, the remaining shields flickering dangerously.

"Critical shield failure imminent," Chimera warned. "Thirty seconds to target coordinates."

"Take us in low," Vylaas ordered, moving toward the deployment bay. "Create a diversion to the east of Handran's position. Draw their fire away from us."

"Acknowledged. Deploying countermeasures."

The ship banked sharply, descending toward the battlefield as it released a barrage of decoys and electronic warfare measures. The tactic worked—partially. A significant portion of the Raxian forces diverted to engage the perceived threat, but plenty remained focused on both Handran and the approaching medical ship.

"Ten seconds to arrival," Chimera announced. "Preparing for hover deployment."

The deployment bay doors slid open, revealing the chaos of the battlefield below. The Asklepios-3 hovered twenty meters above the ground, its remaining shields shimmering as they repelled small arms fire. Directly ahead, perhaps two hundred meters away, stood the bunker where Handran was making his last stand.

Between Vylaas and the bunker lay a gauntlet of Raxian soldiers, a light tank, and a field of debris from earlier fighting.

"Shields failing," Chimera reported. "We cannot maintain position for long."

"We won't need long," Vylaas replied, stepping to the edge of the deployment bay. "Keep the engines hot."

Without further hesitation, Vylaas jumped.

He fell through the air, armor adjusting to absorb the impact as he landed in a crouch amidst the chaos of battle. Immediately, enemy fire converged on his position—energy blasts and kinetic rounds striking the ground around him.

Vylaas responded instinctively, channeling his will through Chimera's enhancements. The Aegis shield manifested before him—a translucent barrier of pure energy that intercepted the incoming fire. Simultaneously, his Bastion aura activated, creating a field of protective energy around his immediate vicinity.

"Target located," Chimera reported through their neural link. "One hundred eighty-seven meters, bearing zero-four-five."

Vylaas moved without hesitation, the Aegis shield held before him as he charged forward. His enhanced strength and speed, amplified further by Chimera's modifications, allowed him to cover ground rapidly despite the heavy fire. The shield absorbed everything the Raxian infantry could throw at him—energy blasts dissipating harmlessly against its surface, kinetic rounds deflecting away.

A squad of Raxian soldiers attempted to flank him, their weapons blazing. Vylaas pivoted, sweeping the Aegis shield in an arc that deflected their fire back toward them. Two fell immediately, while the others scattered for cover.

"Tank targeting, three o'clock," Chimera warned.

Vylaas glanced right, spotting the light tank as its main cannon swiveled toward him. He had seconds at most before it fired.

Redirect, he thought, focusing his Intent on the Aegis, willing it to redirect rather than merely absorb. He flared his Willpower in turn, shrinking his Bastion aura, making his domain compact and powerful.

The tank fired. The blast hammered the shield, shoving Vylaas back three steps despite his augmented muscles. The Aegis flared white-hot as it caught the impact and channeled the energy outward instead of through him. Warning indicators still flashed across his HUD as his armor's systems redlined from the peripheral effects.

"Shield integrity at sixty-three percent," Chimera reported. "Armor damage minimal but accumulating."

Vylaas didn't waste time responding. Instead, he charged directly at the tank, the Aegis shield held before him. The tank's secondary weapons opened fire—a stream of rapid-fire plasma bolts that splashed against the shield in a dazzling display of deflected energy.

When he was within ten meters, Vylaas abruptly changed tactics. He dropped to one knee, anchoring the Aegis shield to the ground before him.

Aegis: Return Force.

The energy that had been accumulating in the shield—both from the tank's main cannon and its secondary weapons—surged outward in a concentrated blast. It struck the tank's treads, not its armor, melting the metal links and fusing them to the drive wheels. The sheer impact of the returned power buckled the frame of the tread, causing the tank to lilt to the side.

Vylaas was moving again before the tank's crew could react, circling to its vulnerable rear section. A targeted lance of kinetic energy disabled the tank's main power coupling, rendering it combat-ineffective without causing a catastrophic detonation that might harm those inside.

"One hundred meters to target," Chimera updated. "Enemy concentration increasing. They are prioritizing Handran's position for elimination."

Indeed, Vylaas could see a renewed assault on the bunker. Raxian forces were converging, determined to finish the lieutenant-colonel before extraction could be attempted.

Vylaas pushed himself harder, the Aegis shield clearing a path through the scattered infantry. He wasn't fighting to kill—he didn't need to. The shield provided enough protection to allow him to simply push through, knocking soldiers aside with its energy field rather than engaging in prolonged combat.

"Fifty meters. Handran's life signs deteriorating," Chimera reported, a note of urgency in her usually composed voice. "Detecting internal injuries and blood loss."

The bunker entrance came into view—a half-collapsed concrete structure with signs of heavy bombardment. Two Raxian soldiers were attempting to breach the makeshift barricade Handran had erected. They turned at Vylaas's approach, raising their weapons.

Vylaas didn't slow. The Aegis shield absorbed their fire as he barreled into them, the impact sending both flying backward. Without pausing, he reached the barricade—a jumble of debris and fallen support beams—and began clearing it, enhanced strength making quick work of obstacles that would have taken a team of regular soldiers to move.

"Handran," he called into the darkened interior. "Lieutenant-Colonel Handran!"

A weak cough answered him, followed by a strained voice. "Identify yourself."

"Prince Vylaas, the Bastion. I'm here to extract you."

A pause, then a pained laugh. "Thought I was hallucinating. The Gentle Prince... this far behind enemy lines?"

Vylaas pushed through the last of the debris, entering the bunker. His armor's enhanced vision adjusted to the dim light, revealing the lieutenant-colonel propped against the far wall. Handran was in bad shape—a severe wound to his left side had soaked his uniform with blood, and his right leg was pinned beneath a collapsed support beam. Despite his condition, he maintained a grip on his sidearm, which was now pointed directly at Vylaas.