[Chronosphere - Activated - Four objects have been teleported to the designated coordinates.]

[Chronosphere - Activated - Fourteen thousand objects have been teleported to the designated coordinates.]

[Chronosphere - Activated - One object has been teleported to the designated coordinates.]

[Proton Accelerator - Firing. Target: Barza Bay.]

[Proton Accelerator - Firing. Target: The Resistance Base.]

The Resistance Base – 9:13 AM

A frantic alarm blared from the control panel. The communications officer leapt from his chair, his face contorted in terror.

"Urgent report! Our superweapons… they've activated themselves!" His voice trembled as though his own words were beyond belief. "The system has registered more than ten thousand unidentified objects teleported to a location four miles from the base! And... and..."

He choked, his throat tightening as his eyes locked on the glowing display before him. The flashing lights reflected off his pale, stricken face.

"Report immediately! What's happening?" Razor roared from the center of the command room. His face was flushed, not with anger but with the primal fear coiled in his chest.

The soldier couldn't respond. His eyes were frozen on the screen, where crimson warnings pulsed like the heartbeat of doom:

[Dangerous energy signature detected - Activating Chrono Shield.]

[Chrono Shield has been disabled.]

A cold voice resonated from the system, pressing down on the stifling air of the room. Then everything fell silent, a chilling stillness, as the heartbeats of everyone became unnervingly clear.

Razor shouted, his voice thundering. "Disperse immediately! Activate the shield at once!" His orders reverberated through the base, mingling with the frantic footsteps and the cries of people. But he knew, deep down, that all efforts were futile at this point.

Then the silence was shattered by blinding light.

In the sky, ten streaks of light descended like the Grim Reaper unsheathing his sword. Proton shells—each containing destruction beyond imagination—hit the ground, and the world exploded.

Each explosion didn't just obliterate everything on the surface. They tore through space, sending shockwaves that pulverized everything, including humans, into dust. The ground shook violently, the sturdiest steel walls crumbling like dry sand. Everything was blown away in an instant, leaving nothing but deep craters and a sea of fire.

Razor stood motionless, his legs feeling anchored to the ground. He saw everything he had protected, everything he had fought for, reduced to ashes. The screams of soldiers around him dwindled, then vanished completely, as if life itself had been drained from the place.

In the distant haze, a voice emerged, deep and cold, like wind blowing through graves. "Their superweapons... are the final blade. This is the price for resistance."

A figure stood there, cloaked in black. The Gemini Warden troops lined up behind, silent as statues. A faint smile appeared on the commander's lips—not one of joy, but of cruel satisfaction.

After more than thirty seconds, the chain of explosions ceased. The silence was so profound that one could hear the ashes falling to the ground. The resistance base, once the last hope of humanity, was now a smoldering ruin, burning in the fiery red of hell.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Razor knelt among the debris, his hands clutching the charred earth. "No..." he whispered, his voice breaking, drowned by the crackling of fragments. "Not like this..."

The sky above was filled with black smoke, no light penetrating through. And in that darkness, humanity—just wanting to live—was extinguished like a candle before the whirlwind of war.

As the black smoke from the Proton explosions still enveloped the area, the ground beneath the survivors began to tremble. Initially just light tremors, like the final breaths of a dying planet. But then, heavy "booms" sounded from afar, merging with the clash of metal, like funeral drums heralding an approaching nightmare.

"What...?" A soldier whispered, his voice shaking. He struggled to stand, his legs unsteady on the ash-covered ground littered with corpses. Valera supported him, but even she couldn't hide her fear.

Razor looked east, a mix of suspicion and foreboding creeping into his mind. "Valera," he said, his voice rough from the smoke. "Activate the tactical radar. We need to know what the hell is happening."

Valera quickly activated the remaining handheld device. A small screen flickered a few times before displaying an image. But as the data appeared, her face turned ashen.

"Sir... nearly fourteen thousand mechanical objects are moving towards us from the east. Gemini Warden..." She looked up, her eyes red, unable to believe what she was seeing.

Her words left everyone frozen. Razor squinted, gritting his teeth. "They're... finally showing their faces."

From the eastern horizon, Alsma's army began to emerge. Their ranks stretched like a river of steel pouring onto the devastated land. Every step of the Gemini Warden was synchronized, never stopping, creating the heavy sound of death. These mechanical warriors knew no fatigue, no rest, with only one goal: to eradicate every trace of humanity.

Razor gritted his teeth, turning to look at Valera and the remaining soldiers. "How many do we have left?"

"About three hundred," Valera replied, her voice choked. "But many are severely injured, and..."

"It doesn't matter," Razor cut her off, resolute. "I don't care how many we have left, but I need every one of you to stand up! This is the decisive moment. If we want to survive, we have to fight. There's no other way."

The crackling of fire was interrupted by a new sound—a hollow, mocking laugh that echoed from the enemy lines. A figure stepped forward. It wore the uniform of the Mystic Accelerator Corps, but the pale skin and glowing blue veins traced along its face betrayed something inhuman.

"Vankenholf," Valera whispered, horror etched into her face.

Razor's teeth ground together as recognition pierced his rage. "You traitorous bastard! You sold us out?!"

The figure chuckled, shaking its head. "Betrayed?" The voice was smooth, devoid of warmth. "Vankenholf died long ago. I am General Ior now. And this body… is merely a vessel."

Razor's stomach churned. The creature wore the face of a man who had once fought beside him. And now? An empty shell wielded by the enemy.

"You may kill us," Razor said, his voice low with defiant venom, "but you'll never extinguish humanity's spirit."

Ior's eyes flared with scorn. "Spirit?" he echoed, amused. "Spirit won't save you from what's coming. Look around, Razor. You are rats in a burning maze. No hope. No escape."

Suddenly, Razor laughed—a sharp, reckless bark. The sound startled even his own soldiers. He turned to face them, eyes blazing.

"Did you hear that?" he roared. "They say we have no hope! But hope isn't given to us. We forge it ourselves!"

He seized the battle-scarred flag lying among the rubble—a crimson banner bearing a black eagle, torn and soot-stained. With a forceful motion, he raised it high, letting the tattered fabric whip in the smoky wind.

"This may be our last day. But if it is, we’ll make it a day that Alsma will never forget!" His voice surged like wildfire. "Let them come! Let them break against us! We are humanity, and we will never yield!"

"For humanity!" Valera shouted, eyes ablaze with resolve.

"For humanity! Kill!" the remaining soldiers echoed, their cry rising through the despair like a war hymn.

With what strength remained, they charged toward the mechanical horde, like the last flames lighting up in the endless night. Their weapons flared like dying stars, their hearts fueled by a single, unyielding truth:

Even in the face of annihilation, humanity still had the power to resist.