Lord Drall charges into battle with a regenerative patch quickly easing the pain on his arm. The stinging sensation makes him wince, but it also empowers his anger, doubling his strength!

"Graugh! You Buzor have long formed a tepid alliance with the Kraktol, but compared to your scheming ways, I'd much rather have a Terran on my side!"

Drall's words project outward, enraging the Buzor while also making the many younger Kraktol look up to their leader with pride.

Gorlax Stormfang, former officer under Commander Orgon, pumps his fist into the air. "That's right! We Kraktol are honorable conquerors, not mountain-dwelling, underground-burrowing cretins who live in the darkness! Not like you Buzor!"

"Bring out your leader if you dare!" Kilgore shouts. "I'll battle him one-on-one! Let us settle this like true warriors!"

A dozen elite Mitteras soldiers tremble with anger. These termite-like bugs sport thicker carapaces than the ordinary soldiers around them. They level their weapons at Gorlax and unload a barrage of sonic pulses.

[Hah! Honor! You Kraktol are little more than gutless backstabbing swamp-dwellers! Our queen is ten times the leader your so-called Thülvik will ever be!]

"Those are quite the fierce words for a bunch of dead Buzor walking!" Drall roars. He lunges forward, ducks low, and skitters across the ground on all fours like a gecko. His incredible speed, easily greater than Kilgore and any other Kraktol, allows him to dart into melee range before the Mitteras can react.

[You...!!]

The Mitteras, each possessing enough strength to lift ten times their body weight, might pose a threat to a weaker Kraktol, but against the figurehead of the Kraktol military, they stand no chance.

Lord Drall lashes out with his claws. Using his hands and feet in tandem, he yanks the pincer-arms off the nearest Mitteras, then follows up with a finger-stab to the giant bug's thorax. He digs into the creature's plated exoshell, then forcibly rips it open, causing its guts to spill out. The Mitteras quickly bites at Drall's exposed neck, intending to behead him, but Drall deliberately falls flat on his stomach and scoots forward, diving underneath the termite while its movements lag.

The other eleven elite warriors recoil from Lord Drall, putting distance between themselves and their slithering predator. Too bad, with all their attention focused on one Kraktol, they fail to notice Gorlax Stormfang and Kilgore's follow-up feeding frenzy.

Gorlax charges the left group of five Mitteras, while Kilgore aims for the right group. Both of them, though much weaker than Drall physically, possess decades of combat experience. They work together, sowing disharmony and preventing the Mitteras from firing their weapons without hitting each other.

In less than a minute, the group of three slaughters a dozen elites Mitteras without suffering a single wound, making them one of the most efficient killing groups on the battlefield, sans Admiral Rodriguez and the ten Titan-suit pilots.

"To me!" Drall shouts, as he stomps the last elite soldier's head into mush. "Come, Gorlax! Kilgore! Individually, we are strong, but together, we are unstoppable!"

"Hurgh! It is as you say!" Kilgore growls.

The three Kraktol elites join claws. They sweep across the battlefield, pouncing upon the flying Wuspa by ambushing them from below, slaying the weaker, ordinary Mitteras soldiers without issue, and crushing the Rocharocks with overwhelming force.

Thirty minutes pass. Then, an hour.

After a long, uninterrupted killing spree, the three of them momentarily retreat to catch their breath. Covered in green, yellow, and red fluids, they look and smell like death. They breathe heavily, chuffing to try and calm their racing hearts.

"Good fighting out there..." Drall says, aiming his praise at Kilgore. "But I should expect no less from a Kraktol of your caliber. You are a soldier loyal only to the Kraktol Empire."

Kilgore, gasping heavily, nods. "Hurgh... yes, Lord Drall. You know my heart well."

Drall turns his gaze on Gorlax. "And you, little brother. You knew better than to follow Orgon the Betrayer to an early grave. That must mean that you, too, have made your allegiances clear."

Gorlax nods slowly. "Yes, Lord Drall. You know well I would never betray the Thülvik."

"Of course. Of course..." Lord Drall replies, repeating both words for emphasis. "Heh. However, I must confess, in recent months, I have not found the same to be true of a certain subset of my warriors; the ones who came with us aboard the Red-Tongue."

Kilgore and Gorlax both fall silent. The two of them eye each other for a moment before returning their gazes to Drall.

"...Indeed, Lord Drall," Kilgore replies, his tone slow and deliberate. "Hurgh. I have noticed a few of my brethren whose allegiances may have... wavered."

"Mmm. No doubt, due to the Terran's excellent training," Drall replies, his predatory gaze fixated on his half-Algaru nephew. "Joining such a formidable warrior, one who also possesses a veritable fleet of warships... would such a chance ever present itself twice? Surely, some of the weaker-minded among my crew might have faltered in their love for their Thülvik."

"Not I..." Kilgore says. "But others? You might be right."

"Have any names caught your attention?" Drall asks, while casually looking around. He observes the Buzor's battle-lines faltering, while his allied forces push forward.

"A few, perhaps." Kilgore nods. "Some of your sons. Some of your daughters."

"I see. And might one of them be... Sapphire?"

Kilgore shuffles his feet. "Hurgh. You know as well as I that she has expressed a sort of childish infatuation for the Terran Admiral. I could not say if her loyalty has shifted to him, or if her thoughts of mating will quickly fade once he leaves her sight."

Slowly, Drall rubs his under-jaw.

"You seem to be holding back, Kilgore. Are you absolutely certain that your convictions have not wavered? With your bloodline and pedigree, a chance to serve the next Thülvik as her royal guard will surely present itself. Graugh! Turning your nose up now would allow you an opportunity to become a disposable puppet for the Terran. Do you truly value his teachings, when you already conquered his trials with such ease?"

"I harbor no such loyalty to the Terran," Kilgore replies, straightening his posture. "It is just... Lord Drall. I thought we were to make an ally of Admiral Rodriguez? I do not know if you are planning something which would... offend the Thülvik. We do not want another embarrassing repeat of Orgon the Betrayer to tarnish our people's name."

At the mention of Orgon, Gorlax Stormfang's scales lose some of their color. However, he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't interject, opting only to listen silently to Drall's words.

"Graugh. I see," Drall growls. "So that is the reason for your hesitation. Worry not. Befriending the Terran is one of many missions the Thülvik gave me. Do you believe our leader would prefer to capture the Terran in a shaky alliance, or to eliminate him and take his technology for ourselves? I think the question goes without saying."

Gorlax summons enough courage to speak. "Lord Drall, with all due respect... if this has been your plan all along, why did you not say anything to the crew? Today's meeting is the first time I've heard of any such deception."

"Fool..." Drall mutters. "Do rocks rattle about inside your skull? The Terran's synthmind originates from the Fiftieth Era. Any words we spoke aboard his vessel, and possibly even ours, would have been monitored. However, down here, the synthmind's spying capabilities are far more tenuous. If we are to turn against the Admiral... we have only a limited window of opportunity. Otherwise, we must stick to the Thülvik's original plan."

Kilgore nods. "...I understand. Hurgh. I bear no ill-will toward the Terran. However, I swore a blood-oath in the name of my ancestors to always follow the Thülvik. I will not go against her wishes. Since you speak for her, I can only trust that your words are the truth."

Gorlax nods quickly. "Yes. Graugh! I nearly failed my Thülvik once. I shall not do so again. Whatever you ask of me, I will follow your commands to my dying breath."

Drall smiles, exposing his teeth. His eyes narrow to slits as he gazes at his two confirmed accomplices.

"Good. If you break those oaths, the Kraktol ancestors will curse you from their graves. They shall bar you from ever entering the Forbidden Swamp, and your souls shall rot for all eternity."

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

After a few seconds, Drall's shoulders relax. "Alright. We will split up now. Inquire among the soldiers. Find out who among us still supports our cause. If I give the signal, I expect enough warriors to follow my- hm?"

Drall pauses mid-sentence. He glances behind Kilgore, where a short but muscular Kraktol comes running up behind him.

"Lord Drall!" The Kraktol says, while holding up a weapon in his claws. "Graugh! I think you should take a look at this! It is a weapon I recovered from the Buzor!"

Drall, Kilgore, and Gorlax all share a quick glance with one another, then put their conversation on hold. They turn to face the newcomer, while Drall smiles politely and folds his claws behind his back.

"The Buzor's weapons. Yes, hmm. What about them, Grundle?"

Grundle, formerly the weakest of all Drall's soldiers, now stands firmly in the center of their power rankings, having bulked up over the past few months. After following Admiral Rodriguez's directions, no matter how hellish, his body appears to have taken on a somewhat bronzed tone, making him look stronger than others within his weight class.

"I spoke with a few other Kraktol," Grundle hurriedly explains. "The Buzor- we've never seen them use weapons in the past. Isn't that right?"

Drall nods. "Yes. Go on."

"Well, after inspecting the weapons, I noticed that they had a unique shape. Look at the gun's grip! It's much bigger than any weapon we've seen, most likely to allow the Buzor to grip it firmly. And the trigger, it's a different mechanism than we've seen before... but doesn't the weapon's overall design resemble those the Mallali use?"

A flicker of recognition appears in Drall's eyes. His formerly confident smile gives way to a strange look of foreboding.

"A Mallali-design? Here, let me take a look."

"Yes, Lord Drall."

Grundle obediently hands the weapon to Drall, who proceeds to spend twenty seconds scrutinizing its barrel, its energy cylinder, and its sonic condensation matrix.

"...Yes. This certainly resembles the carbines many Mallali use. Kilgore, Gorlax, what do you make of it?"

"I agree," Kilgore replies. "Surely, that must mean the Mallali have been supplying the Buzor in secret."

"Not necessarily," Gorlax interjects. "These weapons might be stolen. Perhaps the Buzor have conducted secret raids on Mallali weapon stockpiles."

"Yes, perhaps," Drall adds, "but aren't you forgetting something? The Buzor are stupid and primitive. They alone could never refashion weapons en-masse to fit their body requirements. The Mitteras, for example... not only are they uneducated in the ways of technology, but their limbs and mandibles are far too clunky to manipulate complex machines, such as those needed to mass-reconfigure so many weapons."

"The Disperra might be able to pull it off..." Kilgore mutters, as he rubs his jaw. "But personally, I believe the Mallali must be supplying the Buzor to further some goal. Perhaps they've grown tired of occupying the Core Worlds, and so, they wish to spread to the Outer Rim. We Rodaks will surely oppose them, so they might have armed the Buzor to act as scapegoats."

"Whatever the answer," Drall says, "we won't likely guess it here. Let us keep this discovery between ourselves. Grundle, you did the right thing by bringing this matter to my attention. Speak no more of it to anyone outside our little circle."

Grundle's scales lose some of their color. "L-Lord Drall? What about Admiral Rodriguez? Shouldn't we tell him, too?"

Lord Drall's eyes flash with a killing light. "Graugh. You will speak of this to no one, understand?"

Grundle turns pale. As Drall, Kilgore, and Gorlax's gazes all fall upon him, he bows meekly.

"Y-yes, Lord Drall. I, err, understand."

Without another word, Grundle slinks away, leaving the former three by themselves.

"Keep an eye on that one," Drall growls. "I don't like his shifty, lackadaisical attitude. If news of these weapons leaks, we should assume it was he who spoke glibly."

"Grundle mentioned that his comrades had noticed the oddities of the Buzor's weapons," Gorlax posits. "Others are sure to draw similar conclusions."

"True, but even so... I do not trust our little 'friend,'" Drall says. "I think he might have caught a strain of 'Terranitis.' He clings to the Admiral like a Dakkit pup suckling its mother."

Kilgore nods. "The Admiral raised him to greatness. Even I would waver if my life situation improved so rapidly. Grundle now walks as a proud warrior of the Kraktol, when before he was little more than a mechanic for our ship. Any others in a similar situation may just switch their allegiances."

"That is what I fear most," Drall replies, his tone grave. "Now, go. Spread out and find others amenable to our cause. Keep your inquiries subtle. We'll meet later to discuss our strategy."

"Yes, Lord Drall," Kilgore and Gorlax reply in unison.

Both of them leave, returning to the frontlines once more. After they disappear, Drall strokes his lower jaw.

"Oh, Admiral. You might be a cunning warrior yourself, but I am a crafty Rodak, once who has accomplished much for my Thülvik. I think it might just be you who falls in the end."

With that, he leaves to finish off the remaining Buzor.

.......................................

Admiral Rodriguez, a cyclone of terror, rips through his enemies like a butcher through a field of helpless chickens. Two Wuspa dive-bomb him from above, aiming to strike his exposed flank with their stingers. He teleports ten feet backward, causing them to screw up their flight paths and smash into the dirt where he once stood. An instant later, he leaps forward and beheads the giant insects, erasing their existences from the universe.

José pants like a dog. His breath comes in heavy gulps, often fleeting due to the intensity of his melee combat. After slaying the two Wuspa, José staggers for a moment. His vision wavers, making him suddenly see multiple images of the Buzor around him. The giant bugs shout expletives, their unrefined words traveling directly into his brain telepathically.

Shit... José thinks, as he staggers backward. My head feels like it's about to split.

"Admiral," Umi says, transmitting her words into his brain. "I have detected the presence of a Psionic Interference Device somewhere nearby your combat zone. It seems to be negatively affecting your mind. Based upon the strength of the signal, someone must have placed it within one hundred paces of your current position."

José shakes his head to try and rid himself of the dizziness plaguing his mind. "Can't... can't think. Brain hurts."

"Darling!" A woman cries from behind José. "Watch out!"

José turns around, only to see a giant centipede rushing at his flank. With his body suddenly moving sluggishly, José stumbles backward and falls on his ass, just in time to watch as the centipede lunges its maw toward him.

An instant before the centipede meets its mark, Sapphire appears! The blue-scaled Kraktol female jumps in front of the centipede and holds up her arms protectively.

CRACK!

The centipede closes its jaws on Sapphire's left shoulder, causing a crackle of energy to pop around her figure. Her Survival Suit, overtaxed by the Buzor's powerful jaws, rapidly begins to buckle.

At the last second, Sapphire pops a specialized 'Spitfire Grenade' off her belt, presses its activation button, and hurls it the Buzor's mouth.

THOOM!

An explosion of hellfire erupts in the Buzor's maw. The humongous bug immediately releases Sapphire, then rears back, screaming incoherently as molten liquid spills around in its gut, boiling it from the inside out. For several seconds, the centipede thrashes around before finally flopping to its side, never to rise again.

"S-Sapphire..." José grunts. "Damned, reckless idiot. You nearly died."

"As did you!" Sapphire says, while rubbing her left shoulder. She glances at her limb, then winces. "I think I dislocated my arm. Hurry, come with me!"

She grabs the Admiral and helps him to his feet. He wraps one arm around her shoulder and staggers along, half-heartedly shooting any Buzor he can see, though most of his shots miss.

Once Sapphire drags José far enough from the Buzor, his vision begins to clear up. It doesn't take long before he pulls away and shakes the disorientation from his eyes.

"Shit. Thanks for the assist, Sapphire. The Buzor hit me with some sort of psionic interference; messed my head up real good."

The two of them move to the backline, giving the Admiral his first glimpse in two hours of the overall battle situation.

Tens of thousands of Buzor lie dead along the cavern floor, with more than a few Kessu and Kraktol amidst their ranks. Every dead bug curls its body up, as if reflexively having shifted to that position by the Creator's hand himself. The Admiral's fallen allies, meanwhile, nearly all lay on their backs or sides, having perished due to frontal attacks from their Buzor enemies.

José's expression turns livid. "Yama! That worthless little... all this time, and nobody has so much as sighted the Shadow Emperor or his minions! Ludicrous! I've thrown away these soldiers' lives for nothing! I practically killed them myself!"

"No, no, Darling, you didn't!" Sapphire protests. "Don't you see? There's so much more going on down here than the Buzor establishing some random underground colony. These weapons are far too advanced for their liking, and I've never seen so many sub-species working together! Whatever's happening on Tarus II, it is much more significant than one lone Demon Emperor."

"Yes, but you miss the point..." José mutters, his eyes downcast. "I don't care about the Buzor, the Kraktol, the Kessu, or any other species' squabbles. Once I kill Yama, that's it; I'm done. I'm out. If I put in all this effort to kill him and fail, then any other discoveries won't mean a thing! I've wasted lives pointlessly for a war between species I don't even understand."

Sapphire hesitates for a moment before replying.

"Well... even if it doesn't mean anything to you, it does to me. This underground lair is extremely significant. I say we should press on and hope for news of the Demon Emperor."

"And what if we don't find anything?" José asks. "What if it was all just a waste of good soldiers' lives?"

"You might see it as a waste, but I don't!" Sapphire retorts. "We don't. The Kraktol will happily lay down our lives if it means advancing our species' interests. If you care at all about Megla, Soren, or me, then you should consider what this discovery means to us, Darling."

The Admiral sighs.

"Easy for you to say, Sapphire. The Kraktol and Kessu hate one another. Simply by sheltering the Kessu, I've taken a side in your conflict. Perhaps the old me might have made that decision, but the new me doesn't understand it at all."

Sapphire blinks twice. "...Huh? 'Old me'? 'New me'? Whatever do you mean, Darling?"

José visibly echoes her confusion. "Oh. Err, well, I'm speaking... metaphorically. Yeah. It's a Terran thing. You wouldn't understand."

Internally, he groans in annoyance. Idiot. I almost told her about my 'death' and memory loss. No matter how sweet Sapphire might be, I cannot reveal that information to anyone on Drall's side. I still don't know the full extent of her loyalty.

Sapphire, however, merely nods. "Kyargh! I see. You Terrans have such a... way with words. Well, now that you've caught your breath, I hope you will excuse me, Darling. My shoulder aches terribly."

José glances back in the direction of the slowly dwindling Buzor combatants. Their shrieks of rage grow feebler by the minute.

"Yeah. Get Kisa to patch you up. Don't come back until you're in tip-top shape."

"Aww, you finally care about me!" Sapphire teases, flashing him a cute croco-smile. When José doesn't respond, she simply pauses for half a breath before wandering away.

José shakes his head. "Women. I barely understand the human ones... but crocodilians are a complete mystery to me. How in the Divine Emperor's name does she intend to mate with me, anyway? An interspecies relationship would surely fail before getting off the ground."

The Admiral smiles wryly. Without giving the matter any more thought, he turns around and heads back to the frontlines, his head finally clear from the psionic interference.

"Umi. Start triangulating the transmitter's position. It must be mobile, perhaps strapped to some random Buzor's body. If we can destroy it, I can finish off the enemies who remain."

"Affirmative, Admiral," Umi replies. "I will begin at once."

"Excellent," José says, as he grabs a random rifle laying on the ground, its dead owner nearby, never again to walk among the living. "Let's finish this mission and get out of here. I'm already sick and tired of the smell of roasted bugs."