Chapter 1 - Prologue

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The call pierced the icy silence, a voice lost in the desolation of a world frozen in time. The relentless snowfall shrouded the two figures trudging through this industrial tomb, where machines of steel and iron once roared to life, but now cradled only the ghosts of their former purpose.

Deep underground, they sought refuge from the biting cold, the heat of concealed pipes radiating an eerie warmth that seemed to mock the frozen wasteland above. Their gloved hands groped through the darkness, guided only by the faint echoes reverberating through the tunnels, remnants of their ancestors' toil.

In this forgotten realm, the threads of time and space intertwined, obscuring the boundaries between past and present. Edward felt the weight of the ages pressing upon him, an inexorable sense of loss and uncertainty.

He turned to his companion, a man named Henryk, a friend bound by something deeper than mere camaraderie. In each other's eyes, they saw a reflection of their own souls—a brother, a comrade, a knight in a desolate realm. Knights of Mars, defenders of a dying race, the last hope flickering in the cold void.

They moved with urgency, scurrying like rats in a maze of their own making. "What!" Edward's voice sliced through the frigid air.

Henryk spun around, his gaze fixed on the straggling students trailing behind them. He pushed forward, his steps unwavering, even as his companions stumbled and faltered in the face of impending darkness.

"We must seek shelter!" Henryk's voice rang out, filled with empathy.

Edward sneered, halting abruptly and scanning the desperate faces behind him. "The mission," he uttered with a sneer. "If they can't keep up, we leave them behind." He stopped midway and waited for Henryk to catch up, but Henryk remained rooted.

"I need a second who can follow orders," Edward declared, frustration seeping through his words.

Henryk stood resolute amidst the storm, his silence speaking volumes.

Edward's patience wore thin, and he scoffed, his eyes narrowing. "You're doing it for them, aren't you? After everything they've done for us," he spat out bitterly.

Henryk sighed, casting another glance at the stragglers. "You can't always be the hero, Henryk," Edward retorted.

"We're no heroes, Edward," Henryk replied, his tone sharper than intended, a simmering anger lurking beneath.

Edward fixed a cold stare on his friend. "Why does it matter?" he snarled, pointing to the sky above, a vast abyss filled with stars. "They sent us, the undesirables, into the cosmos. Pitiful failures, all of us, sent to die for an impossible cause."

Edward's chest heaved with emotion, his heart pounding in rhythm with the unforgiving elements. Henryk approached him slowly, bridging the emotional chasm that threatened to engulf them both.

He knelt upon the snowy expanse, a hand pressed to his chest. "We cannot save them," he murmured, his voice a mere breath of despair. Henryk joined him, and the others slowed their advance, recognizing the grim reality unfolding before them.

Ed's labored breathing gradually steadied, but the other house leaders, like a protective phalanx, encircled him. His loyal comrades, steadfast and resolute, gathered close, their eyes fixed on Henryk.

One hand rested gently on Ed's shoulder, clasped by Henryk's grip. But beneath his coat, hidden from view, Henryk's fingers clung to the hilt of a crimson leather sheathed sword strapped to his back. Edward's gaze descended to Henryk's waist, and it came as no surprise to find the reassuring presence of a plasma pistol, ready to spit fire if the need arose.

Even within the fold of their allies, wariness prevailed. With a sigh, Henryk stepped back, interpreting Edward's silent signal to stand down. "Very well, you have won," Ed snapped, his unexpected surrender momentarily baffling Henryk beneath his concealing exterior. "We shall seek refuge within this forsaken realm."

In that very instant, a voice disrupted their contemplation—Arthur. His imposing frame, accentuated by the armor he wore, possessed an air of stoic grandeur, reminiscent of the legendary figures from the annals of Shakespeare.

Arthur's words, more an inquiry than a statement, flowed like iambic pentameter. "Must there be sanctuary amidst this place?" he inquired.

Henryk responded. "Sanctuary, mayhaps," he said with a hint of ambiguity, "but locating it amidst this chaos may prove a real shitty task."

Ed surveyed their desolate surroundings, the ruins of a once-thriving city cocooning them from all directions. The need to discover a haven was paramount. "Has Fleeboy made contact?" Edward inquired.

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. "Fleeboy? In this tempest's fierce grip, 'tis an impossibility to reach him."

A chuckle escaped Henryk, drawing the collective gaze towards him. "Dost thou possess tidings to share, countryman?" Arthur queried in Shakespearean fashion.

Henryk's laughter grew heartier, emerging through the speakers within his helmet. "Believe ye this to be dire?" he mused, a wry grin touching his lips. "Back on my homeworld, a winter storm such as this would have been but child's play."

Laughter rippled through the group, but it swiftly yielded to a somber silence—a silence that bore the weight of sorrow and a longing for a time when the world still offered moments of levity. Those days were no more.

"Give it a try," Ed suggested.

Arthur sighed, turning to the others, his mannerisms and speech echoing the poetic cadence of the Bard. "Dost thou truly desire his return?"

A weary sigh escaped Henryk. "We ain't gonna save 'em," he muttered, his words heavy with resignation. Even beneath his helmet, Arthur sensed Ed's steely gaze bearing down on him.

In the chilling embrace of the snowy ruins, a tired sigh escaped Henryk, its frosty tendrils curling into the frigid air. Even beneath his helmet, Arthur sensed Ed's intense glare piercing through the cold.

"Call him, now," Ed commanded with an air of authority, his voice sharp as the biting winter wind.

Arthur huffed, his breath crystallizing before him. He turned to face Henryk, his arms wrapped tightly around his own shivering form. "You know that Henryk can sense him, right?" he retorted, a shiver of frustration running through his body. "He's not dead."

"Still, I want to know if he found something of use. Remember, Zephyr went along with him," Ed replied, mirroring Arthur's defensive stance, his arms wrapped around himself.

Around them, the others in the crowd had witnessed Edward's near panic attack, and they too sought respite from the icy grip of the snow. Some tended to their wounded comrades, while others were lost in contemplation of the recent events. Nevertheless, the conversation between the two continued.

"I don't know what that fool was doing," Arthur muttered, his lips clicking together in annoyance. He leaned against a nearby wall, his heavy machine gun resting securely on his back. He methodically loaded a fresh rack of bullets into the large-caliber weapon.

"Me too," Ed snapped, his words carrying a surprising undercurrent of malice, which took everyone aback.

Henryk, ever the voice of reason, shrugged his shoulders. "I assumed that he wanted to help."

"We don't need his help," Ed retorted, sweeping his hand through the air in a mocking gesture. "Zephyr is risking his life right now." He paused, realizing that the others were now staring at him.

Arthur grimaced. "Danger from the planet, or danger because he's now alone with Fleeboy?"

Ed scoffed and turned away from the pair. Arthur then turned to Henryk, his eyes reflecting a quiet acceptance of his words. Perhaps they held some truth, but he was second-in-command, Edward's right hand.

Arthur scoffed again. "You weren't there," he snapped, causing Ed to pause and listen. "The way Fleeboy was fighting...the others who escaped saw it happen, Edward."

Edward's eyes widened, his head snapping around. "What are you talking about?" he inquired, his voice chillingly deliberate.

Arthur sneered. "You know what I'm saying. You know for a fact that August hasn't been alright."

Ed scoffed once more. "We keep on doing this," he exclaimed, his irritation palpable as he turned back to the group. "Fleeboy is one of our greatest knights, and we don't have the luxury to be so damn picky about our recruits."

"Edward," Henryk interjected with a single, somber word.

"What?" Ed replied dismissively, his impatience showing. "What do you all want to do?"

"His spikes have definitely mutated," Arthur commented, feeling a pair of intense eyes scrutinizing him.

"How do you know?" Ed snapped, his voice tinged with concern.

Arthur stood before them, his eyes wide as moons, almost hauntingly so. With a deft click, he unclasped his helmet, revealing a visage marred by scars, the battle-hardened countenance of a young man teetering on the precipice of adulthood. Dark-skinned, with a beard beginning to carve its path across his jaw, he sported a wild mane of frizzy hair, secured in a bun. His glare bore into those gathered around him.

"You're no pair of fools," Arthur began, sweeping his gaze across his companions. "You see the corruption etched into his face, and you question the purity of his spikes."

Ed hesitated mid-sentence, his thoughts tangling like the wintry winds that swirled around them.

"Henryk," Arthur called out, summoning the silent observer. "You bore witness to what he did."

Henryk's eyes widened, his lips parting as if compelled to speak. "Fleeboy...August, he's going through a rough patch right now. I'm not saying what he did was right or wrong, but..."

"He murdered a woman," Arthur's voice cut through the frigid air, sharp and unyielding. "He felled her with his axe."

Simple words, devoid of flourish, hung heavy in the air, casting a chilling pall over the trio. Ed, however, rallied quickly. "She was attacking us."

"Her imprint still stains his helmet."

Yet, it wasn't Arthur who uttered this grim observation. Ed turned toward Henryk, his faceplate fixed on the snow-laden ground. Nonetheless, his words tumbled forth like ice-cold water. "He's parading it around like a trophy, as if it were a gruesome sport," he intoned, his voice void of emotion as he pivoted to face them. "He is..."

"I've been planning to use chemicals to ensure it doesn't fade. If we don't make it back to the manor before it's wiped clean or dirtied in some way, I'll employ chemicals to preserve what I can and conceal the rest with paint."

August, or Fleeboy as they'd come to know him, his name echoed among them. But their wide eyes shifted behind them.

They turned abruptly, their gaze fixating on the figure that had emerged from the storm's relentless shroud. They'd momentarily forgotten what they'd whispered about August, forgotten the darkness that lurked within him. He had become quieter, less conspicuous, and infinitely more dangerous.

Footfalls tread lightly upon the snow as Henryk's gaze honed in on the approaching presence. They hadn't even realized he was there until now, his form obscured by the blizzard's white curtain.

"You're back," Edward dismissed, his voice carrying the weight of anticipation. He turned to face Fleeboy, ready to receive a report, but the words didn't come. For the first time in hours, they were granted a true look at Fleeboy.

"Where's Zephyr?" Edward demanded, his voice etched with urgency.

Their eyes fixated on his armor, where blood splatters and bullet holes served as a gruesome testament to the violence he'd recently endured. His ritualistic helmet, adorned with a skull and now marred by a crimson handprint, concealed his face partially.

Arthur couldn't fathom how he could see with that handprint obscuring half his mask, but Henryk suspected that Fleeboy cared little for practicality. If it struck fear into his enemies and amused him in the process, Fleeboy would readily adopt it.

"Where is Zephyr?" Edward repeated, his patience worn thin.

Yet, Fleeboy remained silent, his reticence fueling Arthur's mounting frustration. "Speak, abomination," Arthur snapped, his anger simmering beneath a glacial veneer.

Fleeboy gripped the ornamental wings on either side of his head, withered appendages reminiscent of angelic feathers, small enough to be cradled in his palm. They heard a soft hiss as dark tar eyes regarded them.

"He's safe," Fleeboy responded with an unsettling chill, his voice a soft, eerie whisper.

Their gazes shifted uncomfortably, unable to withstand the unsettling depths of his eyes. Strands of sweat-drenched black hair clung to his features as he grinned, revealing too many teeth.

Unlike his Knight cousins, Fleeboy bore no guns or swords; instead, he wielded an axe, its blade stained with fresh gore.

Henryk noticed the splatters of blood that adorned Fleeboy's armor. "What happened out there?"

Fleeboy tilted his head, and they saw Zephyr being consoled by his comrades in the distance. Edward sneered and redirected his attention to his cousins.

"What's your plan?" Fleeboy inquired.

"During your scouting, did you find a place to weather the storm and the night?" Arthur interjected.

Fleeboy hesitated, glancing back at the growing crowd behind them. "We won't recover the artifact with this many people following us," he remarked, and even someone as battle-hardened as Fleeboy recognized the folly in their actions.

"It doesn't matter," Edward attempted to dismiss, but the falsehood in his features didn't escape Fleeboy's notice. "We all need rest, and we have to work together to get this done."

"It's a shame they wouldn't let us bring our machines," Arthur mused, a wry chuckle escaping him as he passed around a flask. The warm liquor coursed through their veins as they took sips and gulps.

"Funny," Fleeboy retorted with a scoff as he downed a large gulp of the fiery liquid. "I would've thought you'd want Zephyr dead."

The boys stood in uneasy silence, their collective gaze shifting from one to another. Henryk, ever vigilant, turned to Ed, awaiting his response. But Ed merely shook his head, a vexed gesture that spoke volumes.

"You found a place?" Ed asked once more, his voice tinged with impatience.

Fleeboy had reached his limit. "There's a spot, overrun with bandits," he finally answered.

"Bandits?" Arthur queried, his skepticism evident. "Were they bandits before you engaged them, or were they simply defending themselves from an attack?"

Frustration flared in Fleeboy as he turned toward the burly figure. "They were out for our lives, intent on seizing our power armor," he retorted.

Arthur snorted in disbelief. "I'll wager Zephyr's version of the tale would paint a vastly different picture..."

Arthur's eyes widened as the metallic clinking reached his ears, and he swung back to face Fleeboy. The ritualistic mask had returned, its bloodstains and skull paint accentuated by the menacing red eyes of the helmet. "I've had enough of this," Fleeboy declared.

The words held no anger or hatred, but the other two knew better. Fleeboy had retrieved his axe from his back, while the ritualistic gladius remained firmly at his chest, both hands poised on the blades.

"You'd be wise to choose your next words carefully, Knight," Fleeboy taunted, infusing the last word with a biting insolence, a clear provocation.

Henryk intervened, his hands firmly placed on the chests of both boys, extending his arms to separate them. His helmet pivoted between the two, his gaze unwavering. "This is not the time for this," he admonished them, though his eyes bore into Fleeboy.

Fleeboy's gaze hardened, his grip on the weapons tightening, the sound of leather sliding against leather filling the tension-laden air. They didn't inquire about the source of the stitched leather, but they all harbored a deep understanding.

Silver slid ominously from the blades, only to come to a halt at the brink of escalation. "August," Henryk addressed him by his true name.

Fleeboy grimaced, relenting as he returned his weapons to their sheaths. A collective sigh of relief escaped the boys, but the sloshing of snow behind them diverted their attention.

Turning around, they saw a smaller figure, dwarfed by their imposing presence, yet taller than the average girl. Clad in protective plates of light armor, concealed beneath a heavy winter coat like many of their comrades, she stepped forward.

"Piper," Henryk called out to her.

"What are we going to do?" she shouted over the storm, her voice filled with desperation.

Edward moved closer to his Knights of Mars, his tone curt as he responded to Piper's urgency. "We're figuring that out right now, Piper," he replied, his impatience palpable.

She took a step back, disconcerted by his tone. But then, frustration overwhelmed her, and she waved her hand behind her, gesturing at the injured. "Figure it out faster!" she yelled. "We have wounded."

Fleeboy's skull-faced helm pivoted, locking onto Piper's presence. "We?" he scoffed, a hint of mockery in his voice. "This ain't no 'we' affair, girl," he snapped.

"Easy now," Henryk intervened, taking a step closer to Piper, his voice measured.

Fleeboy's scoff persisted as he swung back toward Edward. "Why are we extending our hand to these weaklings? They scorned us at the academy, but now they come crawling for the might of Mars."

They paid him no mind. "Get everyone ready to move, Piper," Edward ordered. "We're heading to the place Fleeboy mentioned."

Piper nodded, and before they knew it, they were once again trudging forward, navigating through the drifts of snow as they continued along the path. "Here," Fleeboy commented, extending a gloved finger toward their destination.

It was a sizable structure, likely a factory in the days when the world still lived. Now it stood frozen in time, shrouded in darkness, with boarded-up windows casting eerie shadows. Fleeboy approached, his fingers curling around the doorknob.

Arthur scanned their surroundings. "Where are the bandits?" he inquired.

"The bandits," Arthur repeated.

"Oh, that," Fleeboy dismissed, the others hearing the creaking of the door against its ungreased frame. "They were lying in wait to ambush me and Zephyr, but I got the drop on them."

"So, how did you stumble upon this place then?" Edward asked.

Fleeboy scoffed, sarcasm dripping from his words. "A million and one questions from my cousins."

Arthur's features tightened. "Maybe we wouldn't need to question you so often if you were dependable."

"Can you all cease your bickering for a mere ten seconds?" Piper snapped from her position behind them, drawing their collective gaze.

"I am perfectly reliable, Sir Arthur," Fleeboy retorted.

Arthur sneered. "You used to be. Something changed, and I don't know what."

"I grew up," Fleeboy declared, then forcefully swung the door open with a display of his formidable strength. He turned to face his cousins and peers. "I fight my enemies once, and only once. I don't believe in mercy. Anyone who draws a blade against me is preparing for war, and I won't be defeated."

His words held a chilling calmness as he ventured into the darkened room, well ahead of the others. The space was pitch-black, and the rest had already activated their lights. But Fleeboy didn't require the illumination; he ventured further into the abyss, beyond the reach of their feeble beams.

It was as if the encroaching darkness slithered and coiled its inky tendrils around him, pulling him deeper into its abyss, refusing to release its grip.

Piper voiced her curiosity as others streamed into the room, seeking refuge from the relentless storm outside. "How can he see?" she wondered aloud, directing her question to Henryk as they positioned themselves near the doorway.

"Are you all right with keeping watch for a while as we establish a schedule?" Edward asked.

Henryk nodded, and Edward reciprocated with a nod of his own. He and Arthur, along with the rest of the group, ventured further down the corridor that led deeper into the ruins of the establishment. Henryk settled himself amidst a pile of rubble, finding a makeshift seat for his weary body. A collective sigh of relief escaped him.

Piper observed him as he began to remove his gear. She watched as he retrieved his plasma pistol, deftly manipulating the dials until the reactive purple strands of unrefined plasma cooled down. With practiced ease, he returned the weapon to its holster.

Next, he turned his attention to his sword, a long, gleaming blade. He drew it from its scabbard and planted the scabbard next to him in the debris before driving the blade into the earth. His long rifle followed suit, securely strapped to his chest with one hand gripping the rail, leaving his dominant hand free.

Then, he delved into his pocket, and Piper watched as he produced a small carton. Its steel exterior vaguely resembling the ones that once held old candies. However, this one contained rolled tobacco and marijuana.

Piper's gaze lingered on the carton as she saw his gun hand go slack. She closed the door slightly, her ears catching the faint muttering of words in a long-forgotten language, uttered in eerie, nearly melodic verses. Her eyes remained locked on his left hand.

A soft flicker, a wild cascade of sparks danced over his outstretched hand. Soon, a magnificent stream of purple fire illuminated the area around him, casting a vivid glow that played on Piper's features. Her long, orange-reddish hair cascaded down to her neck, its wild tendrils framing her face, freckles accentuated by the indigo flames' radiance.

Henryk's jet-black hair was disheveled, tousled by the relentless wind and snow, but it was his eyes that held the flame's hue, burning with a fiery intensity.

She sensed his gaze sharpening on her. "Are you all right?" he inquired.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she responded, her voice tinged with sheepishness.

"It took a lot of courage to confront August," he observed with a sigh. "That's not like you."

Her expression soured as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, retreating to the opposite wall. "Are you calling me a coward?"

He waved her off. "Never," he replied with conviction.

Her features began to redden, a brief flush of annoyance coloring her expression. She shook her head, struggling to regain her composure. Henryk's finger toyed with the rolled vices, and he singled out the one he desired among the group—the joint.

Piper sneered. "Can't believe you smoke those things."

His features darkened. "I thought you enjoyed weed?"

She scoffed. "Only on social occasions," she retorted. "We're in a desolate world on a doomed mission. Don't you think this isn't the time or place?"

Henryk remained silent for a moment, taking the joint and igniting one end. She watched as he inhaled the intoxicating smoke, exhaling without a single cough. "They help me focus..."

He was nearly hit by a freight train of a truck. His eyes narrowed, the redness in his irises clashing with the deep indigo. Once, his eyes were blue, but not anymore. Now they were a pure shade of purple, a testament to his spikes, those genetic mutations that granted him strength.

"I don't think smoking all those things is good for your lungs," Piper remarked.

Henryk shot her an irritated look. "I'm not looking for a lecture. I'm just trying to regain some of my abilities."

Piper scoffed.

This only deepened Henryk's annoyance. He gestured down the hallway. "The reason I'm busy smoking to replenish my abilities is that your housemates were the ones getting injured."

Piper scoffed again, her eyes blazing with anger. "Are you serious, Henryk?" she snapped. "You damn well know why so many of us got hurt. I'm sorry for needing your help." Her words dripped with sarcasm.

"Yeah, you should be," he retorted, a hint of a laugh in his voice. Normally, his laughter would have elicited a smile from her, but now it only served to irritate.

He toyed with the joint between his fingers, turning toward her. Her green eyes met his purple ones.

"Zephyr, he..." Piper began, then hesitated as Henryk's gaze bore into her. She trailed off, pressing herself harder against the wall. "That's what I thought," he concluded, taking another drag from his smoke.

Piper's features narrowed at Henryk. "You can't say that about him," she protested. She paused, her hand resting on her chest. "I was defending you. But remember how it is at the beginning of the year, after that whole thing with Jace and you, and the..."

"So, it's all my fault, then?" he said with a false smirk, rolling the joint between his fingers as the sounds of howling winds and swirling snow built up outside.

Deeper within the tunnel, a faint glimmer of light beckoned, but neither of them ventured towards it. Henryk had his obligations, but what was holding her back? Laughter echoed down the corridor, but Henryk turned away from it, anticipating the moment they would summon him to replace someone less weary.

"Quit being dramatic," Piper snapped.

Henryk shook his head and remained silent, continuing to take hits from his joint. Eventually, it crumbled into a charred, crushed ball of plant matter beneath his power-armored boot, scattering it across the metallic floor.

"I'm not being dramatic," he retorted.

Piper snorted. "You've always been dramatic," she said with mock friendliness. "And with that country accent of yours..."

Henryk chuckled. "How does my accent make me dramatic?"

"Well, then you're right," she said, clicking her fingers as her green eyes locked onto him, her unruly hair swaying in the breeze. "You never change."

There was a pause, and a fleeting gust of wind swept through the tunnel, but they remained unfazed, their gazes locked on each other. "I never change?" he repeated, his tone more questioning.

"Yeah," she admitted, her gaze drifting down towards the floor. Her cheeks reddened as she averted her eyes. She bent her knees slightly, bringing herself closer to the ground, her hair obscuring her features. "You're very sweet, and the accent doesn't change that. You're empathetic, you're strong, you're..."

His hand traced down to his back, and Piper's expression soured. Her face displayed a mixture of attraction and realization. She understood how much he had changed. Henryk was no longer the same boy who had entered that academy. She could still recall his smile and wide-eyed innocence as he left home.

But that world had crumbled before her. The duels, the battles, the missions—the deaths. He carried them within himself, the guilt and regret weighing on his heart. For a moment, he seemed like just a big man with peculiar eyes.

They were all peculiar, the Sons of Mars. Adorned in different armor for their weapons and mechs, armed with formidable gear and weaponry. Despite their small numbers, they were a formidable force. Piper finally realized the depths of Henryk's transformation—from a simple frontiersman to a Knight of Mars.

He had changed, just like his cousins. Piper couldn't help but notice that now. Her gaze lingered upon his armor, a patchwork of Martian relics showing its age. An amalgamation of twisted and bolted parts held the armor together, a living testament to years of use and countless campaigns on the red planet.

It was an old relic, and Piper could see the weight of history in its design. Despite the passage of time and the harsh conditions of Mars, it always found its way back to its rightful owner.

She watched as Henryk raised his right hand and flexed his fingers, the mechanical servos grinding within. Her emerald eyes returned to him, taking in the way the orange glow of the distant fire played upon his pale skin and how his indigo eyes met hers.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked.

She tilted her head away, her face growing even redder. "Nothing," she replied.

"Whatever," he waved it off. "You're a real strange girl, Piper. You say I'm strange, but when you're around, you can't make an ounce of sense."

She sneered at him and wrapped her arms around herself, turning her head away. She heard him chuckling as he pointed his outstretched hand towards her. She glanced at his armor.

It was old, a relic from a time long gone. It wasn't any pattern she recognized, but she knew from her research that the people of Mars had been fixated on various types of mechs and armor in the past. This was power armor, but it was designed to resemble the Knight Suits of old Europe, harkening back to the Xeno Days. Each of the Sons of Mars had a unique suit, tailored to their preferences and needs on the battlefield.

Henryk's battle plate was made of a strange metal, weathered and scarred from countless battles. It was polished but bore the marks of triumph and defeat. The main components were crafted from old Red Bronzium and Martian Steel.

His helmet, Piper's favorite part, looked ancient yet oddly full of life. It bore the marks of time, and the bronze faceplate had developed a rich, earthy patina, radiating timeless strength. But what set it apart were the formidable deer antlers protruding from each side, giving it a primal and fearsome appearance.

Yet, it was skull painted, mirroring Fleeboy's own. Piper's heart sank as she realized the significance, and her eyes traveled down to his bloodied gauntlets, where the grim truth lay.

"I'm sorry," Piper whispered, her voice laden with sorrow. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she felt selfish and miserable in that moment. As she gazed at her friend of two years, she realized just how much had changed between them. The heartbreak and the ache within her might never heal.

Henryk wrapped his arms around her, his embrace warm and comforting. "I don't know why you're crying," he murmured.

She sobbed harder. "Because I don't know why I'm crying. We're hardly even twenty, and we're here right now, on an impossible mission. There are so many things to do and say, and I haven't had the courage to say them, and I... I..." Her words stumbled out as Henryk held her tightly. She looked up at him and realized how close they were. She felt small within his embrace, as if a comforting shadow had been cast upon her.

"I don't want to die here," she admitted, the words slipping from her lips without a sob or a tear. The painful truth hung between them, but Henryk continued to hold her, his grip reassuring. She noticed his trembling, sensed his urgency, and knew he smoked to cope. Henryk was no invincible hero; he was scared, just like her. But he would never show it.

She broke free from his embrace and looked into his eyes. "Henryk, please don't..."

"Don't what?" he asked, smiling.

She winced. "I... I care about you." She hesitated as she looked at him. "Join us at House Mercury. You'll be treated well, and you won't be under Edward's control."

"What?" Henryk moved away from her abruptly, his eyes widening. He gripped the pommel of his sword, his gaze narrowing at her. Piper raised her arms defensively.

"What are you talking about?" he snapped.

"Zep, he... he..." Piper began, but guilt was written all over her face. He already knew what she was asking, and the revolting notion made him sick. His features twisted, as if he had swallowed something foul. Piper took a step forward, but he raised his hand to stop her.

"Zep sent you to talk to me," he snapped.

She hesitated, then nodded. "They're thinking of mutiny, Henryk," she confessed, her words echoing in the space between them.

"Mutiny?" Henryk scoffed, his head whirling in amusement. "What the hell is this? This isn't a democracy. Edward's the one who got everyone's shit together during the boarding and led us through the evacuation."

Piper shrugged. "You know how the houses are. It doesn't help that the teachers favor you... but a house getting such favors is..."

Henryk paused for a moment, his eyes drifting to his blood-stained gauntlets. Beneath them, his uniform bore the mark of the empire—a symbol of disgrace and the last remnants of a dying race. They were the Last Sons of Mars.

"Should've known," he muttered, his scorn evident. "You and your damn politics, houses and all."

Piper shook her head. "What's your problem, Henryk?"

"Oh, I think I'll play this," he retorted. "You tried to recruit me into your damn house. What the hell is wrong with you? And don't even get me started on Zephyr. That damn bastard... after what he did to Edward!"

Henryk shook his head wildly. "The audacity."

Piper's features contorted into a fearful expression. She reached for his arm, but he pulled away, stepping back and narrowing his purple eyes at her.

"This isn't like you," he said, his voice laced with suspicion. His eyes began to shift, brightening into a lighter shade of indigo, and he stared at her intently.

"You're afraid," he declared.

She hugged herself, her hair casting shadows over her face as she looked up at him.

"The Houses are all arranged against you," Piper declared. Her words caused Henryk's eyes to widen, and for a moment, she saw fear etched across his face. "Who?" he shot back.

"You know the houses," she snapped, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her tone resembled that of a reprimanding teacher or his mother scolding him. But he only grimaced in response.

He paused for a moment. "Is this going to get bloody?" he questioned.

Piper herself hesitated, and Henryk's gaze fell to the snuffed-out joint on the floor. He was already regretting ingesting the substance.

He turned around, throwing his gun across his back and gripping his blade. He placed it on his shoulder, his fingers wrapping around the antlers of the helmet. Piper heard the hiss of air being locked within the suit.

"Why?" he snapped.

"You know why," she stammered, and Henryk understood all too well.

"So, after all the crap we've been through saving you lot," he said with a humorless snicker, looking at her now, "you damn core world dogs still don't like taking orders from Mars. Even after our disgrace and censorship, you still think you're better than us."

Piper's eyes shot open. "Zephyr is not doing this out of spite," she protested. "He wants you to join us and..."

Henryk scoffed. "You want me to betray all I've known for two years. You're asking me to betray my cousins and my loyalties to Mars. Zephyr, that disgusting little rat. Even after what he did to Mars... even after what happened between him and Edward. He still hopes to recruit me?"

"Loyalty to Mars?" She scoffed in annoyance and anger. "There is no Mars anymore."

Henryk registered the hurt on her face. She paused, her hands going to her face as she struggled to find an apology for the shock of what had slipped from her lips.

"You know who to blame for that," he snapped.

Piper fell strangely quiet. Her eyes widened as the tears stopped flowing. "Henryk, don't..." Her words were veiled in shock and exhaustion. The type of exhaustion not willing to fight, but the shock of hearing such words from him.

Henryk scoffed at her. "You're too damn afraid to speak his name, his true name?" He chuckled, and this time, the distasteful humor in his words and tone was evident. He pointed at her. "Even after all the things he's responsible for, you're still too damn afraid to say his name."

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"He is... the emperor," she stuttered out.

His laughter erupted within his helmet, echoing in the tunnel, as she merely stared at him in embarrassed silence. "The false emperor sits on the throne."

Her eyes widened at that revelation, causing her to take a step back from him. She realized just how much that boy had changed. "Henryk, please, stop," she begged. "This isn't you."

"This... is... me," Henryk spat back at her, each word piercing her heart like an arrow. She moved closer to him, watching as his gloved hand touched his knight tabard. He was no ordinary soldier of the empire; he was a Knight of Mars.

"I am a Knight," he whispered, the words carrying a chill that seemed to resonate through the ages. In a time when knights had become a relic of the past, their remnants and the memory of Mars itself still whispered in cold, silent echoes as these sons fought against the dying of the light.

His hand tightened on his tabard, clutching the insignia. "I am Henryk Fitzgerald of the order 'The Red Templars' and a Druid," he declared, planting both feet firmly. Piper stared into the obscured eye slots of his helmet, realizing the gravity of the situation. "My lineage stretches back to the dark days of the Krill and their xeno infections. In those days, the evisceration weapons on my mech cleaved through legions of aliens until they were rendered extinct under humanity's might. My spikes are descended from my very forebearer. Now, you think I will join you for what?"

"To live," she implored as she reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.

He scoffed. "Have you no shame, begging me like this to join your cause?" he snapped, slamming his metal hand against his chestplate. Each word dripped with poison. "Shame, honorless, soulless, disgrace," he hurled at her like bullets. "You do not know Edward, and if you truly did, you would know that he would never commit such things."

He raised a finger, though. "However, your president of your house is all these things."

"Henryk, please, I am begging you," she grabbed his arm, but he snatched it away. Her hands flew to her mouth, and fresh tears began to flow. "Please, don't do this. Don't throw your life away for him!"

She screamed those words so loudly that everyone in the tunnel heard the aftershock of her cry. Edward, who had just removed his armor, and Melissa, the appointed doctor, were among those who turned their gazes toward the commotion.

Henryk stared back at her in cold, calculated silence. He closed his eyes and clenched his fist, his gaze locked on her. "Is this what you've been planning?"

"What?" she responded in surprise, her grip on him slipping.

"You know what I mean," he said. "Was this the plan all along? You've been trying to get me to your house for years, and now that the heat is on, you and Zephyr are trying to turn me."

This time she fell silent. Her eyes widened, no tears escaping, her lips trembling. For a moment, her heart seemed to pause. "Is that really what you think?"

A heavy silence settled upon him, and he turned away from her. His finger pointed deeper into the tunnel, where their peers and friends waited, along with their rivals and allies in such close proximity.

"You speak of Edward, but you do not know Edward," he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

She scoffed but remained silent.

"Piper," he spoke her name with conviction, his voice a declaration of his identity. She turned to him, and in that moment, she saw him for what he had become – the armor, the eyes, the weapons – all stripped from relics, from friends, from the dead. Physical changes aside, the boy from the frontier was gone, replaced by the Druid of Mars.

He gestured into the darkness, and she could hear Edward. "Do you hear him, Piper?" he asked, and she nodded. "That's Edward, the best man I know, and... the man I'm going to hell for."

The weight of his words hung in the air, leaving her stunned. She tried to fight it, but she couldn't save him. Slowly, she turned and walked away into the darkness, making her way to the center. All eyes were on her as she wiped away her tears and found a corner of the building to retreat to.

The underground space was large, most likely a bunker due to its size. There was little to note except for the destroyed furniture and a massive barrel filled with wood, providing a much-needed fire for the academy students.

They were scattered about, few mingling between houses. The students stuck with their respective houses, and Edward watched Piper from a distance. His armor lay beside him as he grunted in pain, almost screaming as Melissa stitched his open wound. "That... really hurt," he stammered.

"Really?" Melissa retorted. "Maybe if you had told me hours ago that you had a massive cut, I wouldn't have to keep double-checking and making sure it's clean."

Edward sighed. "Keep sighing," Melissa shot back.

Arthur voiced his concern. "Is he going to be okay?" His gaze drifted across the room, settling on the presidents of the other houses.

Zephyr's pale skin was touched by the firelight as his housemates crowded around him. House Mercury members enjoyed their rations and relished in the much-needed warmth, each bearing their unique arrangement of weapons and gear.

The other houses were similar, distinguished by their colors and equipment, representing planets from within and outside the solar system.

Edward, however, was no fool. His narrowed eyes sensed the tension in the room. Eyes darted toward him, thinking they were being subtle, but he saw through it. Two years, or more for the senior students and graduates, had seen plenty within the academy.

Edward's eyes began to close, his right hand sweeping across his tired face, marked by exhaustion. The academy – the place his father wanted him to be – now felt different, foreign. His mind wandered to flashes of red, green, and white, contrasting his inner turmoil. Brief memories danced across his thoughts, and a quiet sadness settled upon him.

His fingers clawed at his face, a momentary lapse of composure that didn't escape Arthur's notice. But Edward quickly regained his cool, his gaze returning to the presidents and their houses. Guilt, anger, hate, vengeance, manipulation – emotions swirled within him like a tempest. Why would his father have sent him to a place like this? He had witnessed friends maimed and murdered, and he had seen unspeakable acts committed by humans, mutants, and even things he couldn't fathom.

Edward's eyes fixed on Fleeboy now, observing how the crowd regarded him with a palpable sense of dread and unease. People huddled around the fire, seeking desperate warmth from the factory's furnace. Flames danced upon Fleeboy's armor, casting eerie shadows, and Edward watched.

Fleeboy was squatting, hands on his knees, absorbed by the flames. Edward remembered the old August, around the same height, thanks to the spikes in their backs that maintained their firm Martian genetics. Back then, August had been scrawnier, and he looked out of place in the grey and gold Martian uniform. Even marked with censure, the uniform of their homeland still clung to him.

Tired, quiet, and shy brown-greyish eyes met Edward's gaze for a moment. Now, August had changed. He had acquired many names – The Flayer, Cursed One, but Edward's favorite was Fleeboy. Simple and strange, yet terrifying in the worst possible ways.

Edward's eyes were drawn to the painted gauntlets stained with red. The Emperor had shamed them with one gauntlet, but the Martians had shamed them with two. An exhausted groan escaped Edward's lips as he hardly recognized him amidst the chaos of battle, but now he saw August's condition. Maybe it was the flickering firelight that made it all seem so dramatic, but Edward saw it clearly.

August's skin had an uneven pallor, some parts darker, some lighter. His body had filled out, and he looked stronger. His posture had improved. His armor, similar in pattern to Henryk's, bore old Martian metals with archaic designs. The rim of the plates had a light blue trim, while the main plate was a murky dark greenish-black. His gloves brushed against his kneecaps, bathed in the firelight.

Like Henryk's, August's armor displayed runes, glyphs, and strange symbols. One pauldron on his left shoulder featured these symbols, while the other held spikes for ramming into enemies.

The pauldron bore strange iconography, once a symbol of the lone Martian wolf, now twisted into something grotesque. Its tongue, stretched and splayed like a whip, seemed more like an instrument of flaying than honor.

In contrast to Henryk, Fleeboy sported a sinister array of spikes on his right kneecap, stained with grim fragments of blood and grime. On his other leg, bolts were visibly inserted into the metal, serving as extra plating. His helmet, reminiscent of Henryk's ornamental design, had a vaguely religious undertone. Avian in its beak-like shape, it also featured a skull motif. But, unlike Henryk's, the white substance on Fleeboy's helmet bore traces of dried blood, lending it an eerie quality.

Edward turned towards Arthur's voice, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and discomfort from his stitched-up wounds. "The plan?" Arthur inquired, his hand resting on a heavy light machine gun that felt more like a high-caliber rifle. "They've been eyeing us suspiciously for a while now. You know how the other houses must feel about this."

"Taking orders from a Martian," Edward muttered with a dry scoff. "I know."

"So, what's our move?" Arthur pressed.

"Damn it, Arthur," Edward spat.

"I'm just worried," Arthur admitted, his eyes darting toward the members of the other houses gathered around them – allies, enemies, rivals, and grudge-holders, all mingled within the ruins of the dead city and this forsaken factory. They watched House Mars closely, their intentions veiled.

"Edward," Arthur tried again, reaching for his bare arm, but Edward pulled away abruptly. The action didn't go unnoticed by those around them, and Edward drew Arthur closer.

"Listen to me," he snapped, his quiet rage commanding attention. Arthur fell silent, gripping his armament, his eyes wide as Edward seized his face. "Stop behaving like a mindless brute for a moment," he snarled. "Look around us. We're deep in the wolf's den, miles away from our objective, and it's absurd. We don't even know if our fellow house members are still alive, and there are many houses that want our heads."

"Then what..." Arthur began.

"I'm thinking," Edward interrupted, pushing himself away from Arthur with a sidelong glance.

Fortune had smiled upon them, as it appeared that only a few had witnessed the unsettling incident. Still, the treatment had left Arthur hardened. "We can't afford to show fear," he cautioned. "We're in the company of lions, wolves, or sharks, call them what you will. The moment they sense division or weakness, they'll pounce."

Arthur nodded, his gaze returning to their comrade lounging by the fire. "What about him?" he asked.

Edward shrugged. "He's not doing anything," he replied.

"Yet with Fleeboy, it's often a guessing game. What kind of trouble is he brewing today?" Arthur retorted, his words laced with contempt.

Edward sighed. "Fleeboy is—"

"A psychopath," Melissa interjected, her eyes darting between the two boys. "I don't know why you put up with him."

Edward fixed his stare on her. "He's saved us countless times. He's one of our best warriors and mech pilots, and we don't leave a Martian behind. Ever." His words came out curt, but Arthur shook his head.

"He's repulsive," Arthur snarled.

"Aye," Edward acknowledged.

"Quit playing the fool," Arthur snapped. "He's dangerous. Just look at him. This is not the August I remember. The August I recall was timid, but something's terribly amiss with that boy. You've seen it; you're not blind."

Edward lowered his gaze to the ground. "We don't have time for this."

"Have we even checked his spikes?" Arthur inquired, turning his attention back to Fleeboy. "They must have mutated for him to undergo such physical changes. Look at his skin, his mannerisms, his weapons. August wouldn't have cared for such things."

"I know," Edward replied, his voice louder than he intended. "Ali examined him, and—"

"This is unnatural," Arthur interrupted, pointing at Fleeboy. "Examine his arms."

Edward did as he was told. He observed the blood splatters and grime, the patches of torn flesh, and the unkempt hair. His eyes met the abyss-like gaze of Fleeboy, and Edward found himself involuntarily shutting his eyes. But even with his eyes closed, his mind conjured images of the weapons, the arms, and the eviscerations.

Fleeboy bore three weapons. His primary one, the Cleaver Axe, held great historical significance. The handle, designed for single-handed or two-handed use, was crafted from a combination of synthetic wood and a reddish-brown material. The polished metal blade featured an unusual curve along its metallic edge, capable of rending both bone and flesh with ease.

An ominous presence hung about it, an unholy amalgamation of axe and chainsaw. It stood as a merciless instrument of war, its serrated teeth engaged in a relentless, mechanical ballet, driven by an insidious engine pulsating with malevolent energy.

In the days when humanity first clashed with the invaders, such weapons and arms were within reach. However, as centuries slipped by, the knowledge of such weaponry faded into obscurity.

His second, a ritualistic Martian gladius, and third, a massive, hulking pistol holstered to his thigh, now complemented his arsenal. New additions had surfaced as well.

Stitched-up, alien skin formed a cloak draped across his back, concealing unknown secrets. A holster for his pistol adorned his form.

"He murdered a woman," Arthur uttered, breaking the silence that hung over the trio. Melissa and Edward exchanged wide-eyed glances as they listened to his accusation. Arthur, seated amidst the rubble, cradled his imposing weapon in his lap, his helmet cast aside. His eyes bore into them as he continued.

"He ripped her in half," he repeated, his gaze laden with disgust, focusing squarely on Fleeboy.

Edward sighed, seeking clarification. "Was she…?"

"An enemy," Melissa murmured.

"Then…" Edward began.

But Arthur cut him off with a scornful scoff. "That is not acceptable," he snapped. "There is a way to kill, and there's a way to kill. You've witnessed August's transformation, and I've held my tongue for too long. Something must be done; he revels in this."

Edward countered with a question of his own. "What do you propose we do? Come on, you're the problem solver. We're the remnants of a vanishing race, clad in armor and equipment nearing obsolescence. And now you want to eliminate one of our most capable members?"

"He's a monster," Arthur growled.

"Perhaps monsters are what we'll require to prevail in this war," Edward retorted.

A disquieting pause settled between the two men, while Melissa watched their exchange. Edward slowly turned toward Arthur, his mouth nearing Arthur's ear.

On the opposite side of the room, Piper wiped away her tears as she leaned against a metal wall. Zephyr approached her, his olive skin shimmering in the light, enveloped by his oversized jacket.

"I assume it didn't go well," Zephyr remarked.

Piper nodded, struggling to quell her sobs. "Y-yes," she stammered, attempting a feeble chuckle. "He's a real stubborn bastard." Her voice wavered, but Zephyr offered only a sigh as he leaned against the wall beside her.

"Are you ready for what we're about to do?" Zephyr inquired.

Piper's features contorted with a blend of anger and annoyance. "What exactly are we going to have to do?" She scoffed.

Zephyr wrapped his arms around himself, a near-dismissive gesture, as though he could wave away all her concerns. "We must do whatever it takes for our survival."

His words carried a tone of unwavering determination, as if he held the moral high ground. Piper scoffed once more. "This is what we are doing for survival," she retorted, her eyes shifting toward Arthur and Edward. Their gazes, too, roved across the room, sensing the palpable tension that had descended upon them all.

Some of the division leaders glanced at Edward with hope, while others looked upon him with shame and disdain. How many of the houses would align with House Mars, and how many would stand against them? The outcome remained uncertain.

"Do you pity them?" Zephyr inquired.

Piper paused, her gaze fixed upon him. "Do you?"

Zephyr sighed, his eyes momentarily reflecting regret before once again assuming that razor-sharp leadership persona. A man who appeared to have everything under control, but Piper knew the true depths of his character.

"Why do you persist in trying to recruit him?" Piper questioned.

Zephyr fell silent. "Do you regret your choice so deeply?" Piper scoffed at him, and he accepted her judgment. "The ignorance that once clouded my judgment, even after all that transpired between Mars and Mercury, I still believe it's the right thing to do. Perhaps it is selfish."

"Maybe, Piper," he admitted, turning to face her with weary eyes. "But for now, I've given Henryk a second chance. Now, it's up to us to see it through."

Piper scoffed once more. "Do it yourself."

Zephyr scratched the back of his head, his gaze drifting to his holstered pistol. "I expected as much," he sighed. "I can't blame you. I know your history with House Mars, especially Henryk..."

"Please, Zephyr," Piper implored, grabbing the cuff of his jacket, tears streaming down her face once more.

"It's out of my hands now," he sighed, witnessing Piper's heartbreak before him. He watched as her eyes filled with shame, dread, and an impending sense of doom. Yet, she remained bound by the loyalties she had forged. Her gaze returned to that dark tunnel, wondering what thoughts raced through Henryk's mind at that very moment.

"Fleeboy," Zephyr uttered.

All eyes converged on Edward. Arthur had resumed his seat, but those with a discerning eye would've noticed his heightened vigilance. Melissa busied herself packing and decontaminating her medical tools, while Edward wasted no time. He began donning his armor, securing his weaponry. Fleeboy turned toward him, his presence eerily silent.

"I want you to go on a round," Edward ordered, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Make sure we're truly alone. While you're at it, head up to the roof and scout the place."

Fleeboy didn't utter a word; he simply nodded. To those nearby, it might have appeared as if his tongue slithered across too many teeth, but they were too distant to perceive the peculiar action. "Okay," Fleeboy responded plainly.

He rose from the shadows, donning his ceremonial helmet. A satisfying click secured it in place. His axe gripped firmly in his hands, and his helmet adorned with skull paint and blood smears, Fleeboy's eyeplates concealed any emotion. His presence felt as cold and unforgiving as metal as he departed, descending further into the factory's depths.

Meanwhile, Edward had fastened his armor, clutching his helmet beneath his arm, and his rifle strapped to his back. He turned and navigated the narrow, dimly lit tunnel. "Henryk," he called out to the boy on watch.

Henryk turned to face him, his helmet secured, hands resting on the pommel of his blade. The metal helm swiveled to meet Edward. "Can I go now?"

"We still haven't established a schedule," Edward replied.

Henryk scoffed. "I've been freezing my butt off over here while you guys have been doing nothing," he retorted, peering down the hall. "What's happening down there?"

"Talks of mutiny," Edward disclosed, the words hanging heavily in the air.

Henryk sighed, and Edward approached, towering over the still-seated Henryk. "What happened with you and Piper? She seemed rather upset," Edward inquired.

Henryk scoffed once more. "The nerve... for her to cry."

Edward shrugged nonchalantly. "Is this another one of those 'Henryk and Piper' things, or should I make an effort to understand it?" He flashed a wide grin, his lips curling playfully. "Because, one day, you'll make her cry, and then I'll have to listen to you two..."

"Enough," Henryk snapped.

Edward's eyes widened. "Whoa, you're seriously pissed."

"No shit," Henryk snapped back, his hand gesturing around. "We're stranded in a frozen wasteland on some backwater planet that's clearly uninhabitable. Edward, what's the plan?"

"'Edward, what's the plan?'" Edward echoed, shaking his head and ruffling his hair. "That's the question on everyone's mind, isn't it?"

Henryk sighed. "You're our leader."

Edward's shoulders shrugged with uncertainty. "Haven't you felt it? Not much of a leader if the headmaster and the academy heads put me in charge, but now, with this looming threat of a..."

"Mutiny," Henryk interjected, his voice hushed. A heavy silence descended upon them as the word hung in the air.

"Yes, a mutiny," Edward acknowledged, his voice tinged with concern. "How did you know?"

Henryk inclined his head down the dimly lit hall.

"Piper warned you?" Edward inquired, a sly smile curving his lips as he wrapped his arms around himself. "What a gal, Henryk. She's from a completely different house, and even after all the trials you two have endured together, she's still trying to save you."

"I am a loyal servant of Mars, a knight," Henryk asserted, his dark eyes piercing Edward's with an intensity that matched the blue of Edward's own. He gestured down the hallway. "Especially, for these disgusting dogs of the emperor."

Edward sighed, seeking to bridge their understanding. "Listen, I get what you mean, but..."

"They were trying to convert me," Henryk confessed.

Silence descended once more, but there was no peace in it. Henryk watched as Edward's brow arched and a vein throbbed on his temple. Edward paused, tilting his head and body to face the distant light at the end of the corridor.

"You're kidding?" Edward looked on, his shock undisguised.

Henryk scoffed. "Would I really lie about something like this?" he countered.

Edward shook his head, his fingers curling into tight fists, and his jaw clenched. "Zephyr, that fucking bastard. Even after all the things that have happened between us, the nerve."

Henryk shook his head, but Edward pressed on. "The nerve," he repeated with venom lacing every word. "Even after what happened with Sarah, with you, and with..." He trailed off. "That bastard is going to try and poach my ace, even after all of that. He's dead."

Throughout their conversation, Henryk remained silent. Edward finally turned to face him, the anger dissipating from his features as he let out a heavy sigh. "What are we going to do, Edward?" Henryk asked again.

Edward, now irritated, turned to Henryk. "What do you think we should do, druid?" he retorted, his voice laced with bitterness. "I wanted to leave them behind and complete the mission on our own."

"Ed, you're not a fool," Henryk interjected, one hand still resting on his blade's hilt while the other gestured down the corridor. "One lone house can't stand against what's out there. That's why we were able to gather so many allies."

"...and, like the core worlds do," Edward turned back to Henryk. "They fight, they bicker, and they don't accomplish anything. Henryk, we should gather our allies and leave this place."

"Then what?" snapped Henryk, his tone filled with skepticism. "Do you really believe they're going to let us leave?" He scoffed at the notion. "Everyone here harbors grudges or rivalries. Within the desolation of a world that nobody watches, there's ample room for things to go wrong."

Ed's laughter was dry as he responded, "Then we eliminate those who stand in our way."

"You want to slaughter dozens of people," Henryk retorted, his voice laced with incredulity. He pointed emphatically at the distant light at the end of the tunnel. "Let's not forget that the houses here have brought their own assortment of aces and sanctioned wizards and witches from the empire," he said, listing names on his fingers. "They are all skilled in firearms, mechs, and blade combat. We may kill many, but we will undoubtedly fall due to their skills and numbers. Logan the Paladin of Neptune, Miya The Witch of Venus, and Aedan The Warmaster of Pluto."

Henryk's breath grew heavier as he ran through their weaponry, their armaments, and their skills in his mind, trying to calculate the odds. Ultimately, it all boiled down to numbers. Whichever side had the strongest houses on their side would emerge victorious, and the losers... decimated.

"Why are you so fixated on violence?" Edward asked. "You share the same grudges and rivalries. You should..."

Henryk cut him off with a shake of his head. "I won't attack them like this," he declared. He tilted his head slightly. "They're all frightened and trying to make sense of this. This mission was never meant to unfold like this, and now they're all..."

"It doesn't matter," Edward interjected, turning towards him. "Are we seriously going to continue acting like any of this will matter? That those in the room will survive what's coming?"

Ed didn't need to see Henryk's face to sense the shock that washed over him. Henryk's fingers trembled on the sword hilt, but he steadied himself.

"No," he asserted resolutely.

Edward sneered. "You've known where this path was leading, and now you lack the resolve to see it through?"

Henryk's grip tightened as he locked eyes with Henryk. "Don't speak like that," he retorted, his voice quivering.

"Edward, this path—I acknowledge that I've been aware of it—but in shadows and darkness. I never knew that..."

"You knew enough," Edward cut him off.

"Edward, this is something that can't be undone once it's set in motion," Henryk argued fervently. "This will be felt not only on the core worlds but throughout the entire galaxy. There has to be another path. There must be another way!"

Before Edward could respond, they heard it—a woman's scream, prompting them into action. They sprinted down the corridor until they emerged into the sparse light of the factory interior. Above them, they heard the clattering of something on the scaffolding of the factory.

The eerie echoes of power armor boots reverberated through the rusted, worn metal steps. Two figures raced down those unforgiving stairs. One was a girl in a tattered, stained dress, her disheveled brown hair resembling a storm raging across her features. Her bare feet gripped the chipped metal steps with a tenacity born of desperation, while her wide, fearful eyes cast haunting echoes through the sprawling ruins.

With each frenzied step, she let out piercing screams that resonated within the vast expanse of these desolate ruins. Pursuing her, a male figure closed the distance in a blur, a playful smirk dancing across his features as his obsidian eyes bore down on her.

Fleeboy's predatory gaze was locked on the trembling girl, his dark eyes fixated on the pulsating veins of her exposed neck. The scent of her fear wafted toward him, and he savored it like a connoisseur savoring fine wine.

Descending the steps, the girl darted away from Fleeboy as House Mars and its allies scrambled to their feet. Hands reached for weapons, some out of the heightened tension in the air, some in a show of solidarity with House Mars, and others with a resolve to put an end to the political machinations unfolding before them.

In her frantic escape, the girl slipped and sprawled onto the metal plating. Henryk and Edward watched in stunned silence as she lay there for a fleeting moment, her bloodied hand releasing a shard of glass that soared through the air before their eyes returned to Fleeboy.

"Where are you running, sweetheart?" Fleeboy taunted with an unsettling mixture of mirth and malevolence in his voice. The girl's eyes widened in sheer terror, her heart constricting as she scanned the growing crowd of onlookers.

"Help me!" Her desperate plea pierced the room once more, and all eyes fixated on the girl as she frantically clawed her way backward, seeking refuge among the crowd.

"No one is going to help you," Fleeboy's words slithered from his lips, his gloved hand descending to the hilt of his axe strapped to his back. He drew the weapon, its warm light casting eerie reflections across the room, crafted from an unknown metal of a bygone era.

Fleeboy's smirk deepened, and the girl's eyes widened in sheer horror as she inched backward, still facing her tormentor. She watched him thumb a button on the axe's handle, and her scream tore through the air, chilling the souls of those who bore witness.

It was a blood-curdling cry that sent shivers down spines, raised hairs on necks, and made some step back in shock and disbelief. Yet, as Fleeboy lunged forward, he was intercepted.

In a swift, overhead chop, Fleeboy aimed to cleave the hapless girl in two, but salvation arrived in the form of Logan. His disheveled, short blond hair appeared like a wild tempest as the sound of his glaive clashing against Fleeboy's archaic blade ignited a battle in earnest.

Fleeboy executed a graceful pivot, leaping backward to create some distance. Logan maintained his battle stance, wielding the glaive with one outstretched arm, the rapid unfolding of events dawning on the spectators.

With his hood pulled back, Logan's junior status within the academy became apparent. It was a formality some houses adhered to, while others, like Mars, saw little use for such conventions.

His power armor gleamed with sporadic, ethereal blue luminescence, casting eerie glimmers through the shrouded coverings. Logan was cloaked in a heavy duster, concealing his armor, and his gloved hands firmly grasped the glaive. His narrowed gaze remained locked on Fleeboy, whose intentions were shrouded in darkness.

"What are you doing?" Fleeboy's voice pierced the tense air.

"I could ask you the same," Logan retorted with a tone laden with bitterness. He glanced briefly at the terrified girl huddled behind him before returning his scorching gaze to Fleeboy. "You seem hell-bent on killing this woman."

Fleeboy's demeanor shifted, his playful visage giving way to an expression devoid of mirth. Logan could sense the annoyance and suppressed rage seething beneath the surface, yet, to his surprise, Fleeboy donned a smirk.

Raising his axe toward Logan, Fleeboy stated, "She is mine to deal with. This factory likely served as the base of operations for those bandits. Are you truly willing to play the knight in shining armor for a gang of filthy bandits?"

Logan's grip on the glaive tightened. "We don't know that for certain," he replied.

Fleeboy shook his head in dismissal. "…and I'm not interested in finding out," he retorted, refocusing his axe on Logan. "Are you going to protect my enemy?"

"Enemy?" Logan snapped, his free hand hovering protectively over the trembling girl. "She's just a girl. Clad in a dress, not in the attire of the bandits we've encountered. You can't possibly—"

"I don't care."

The room fell into a stunned silence at those words, and all eyes turned to the unexpected source. Arthur had risen to his feet, feeling the weight of his substantial firepower, his helmet adorned with aces and champions of rival houses.

Henryk and Edward both tensed, their hands inching toward their weapons.

"August!" Henryk's voice cut through the tension.

All eyes shifted to him, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. The temperature had changed, and they could palpably feel the impending storm. Two years of regrets, rivalries, and animosity formed within the crucible of their alma mater, a powder keg now primed to explode in the ruins of this desolate world.

Fleeboy never turned away from Logan, his finger aimed at him like the barrel of a loaded gun. "Your life or hers," he intoned, his words hanging in the air like a sinister verse.

A bead of sweat trickled down Logan's temple, his heart pounding fiercely. The weight of the glaive felt crushing as he slowly lowered it. Yet, amidst the tension, he heard her—a frightened, weary voice.

"Logan!" the voice called out.

Startled, Logan spun around to find Stella, their president, her rich chestnut hair concealed beneath her hood, her piercing blue eyes locked onto his. "Stella, what..."

A sharp, stinging slap jolted Logan's senses, causing him to wince in pain. An amused snort emanated from Fleeboy as the room's tension hung thick in the air. Stella's voice, filled with a mixture of anger and frustration, snapped through the growing turmoil.

"What the hell are you doing!" she snapped, her fingers latching onto the cuff of Logan's jacket, forcefully pulling him down to meet her gaze.

"Why are you acting so irrationally?" she continued, casting a withering glance toward the trembling girl. "We don't know this girl, and you're willing to risk your life against the Flayer for what?"

But Logan's resolve remained unyielding, his grip on the glaive growing tighter. "Stella," he began, taking a deep breath before speaking, "I can't just let this happen."

"Yes, you can, and you are, right in front of you," she lectured him.

But Logan remained steadfast. "No, this is wrong," he snapped, surprising himself with his calm expression.

"I can take him," he declared.

Stella couldn't help but stifle a frustrated response. "Maybe," she conceded. "But are you really willing to risk life and limb?"

"We'll duel with blunted edges," Logan announced, directing his words toward Stella but clearly loud enough for Fleeboy to hear. In response, Fleeboy nonchalantly slung the weapon over his shoulder, sneering.

"No," Logan echoed.

"No?" Stella responded, sneering herself. "The Flayer seeks blood," she stated, turning back to Logan. "Don't do this, Logan. I thought you had friends in House Mars. Do you really believe that killing one of their members in combat will preserve your friendships?"

Logan shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He shifted his attention to Fleeboy, his determination reignited. "It's the right thing to do. That's all that matters. As Logan of House Neptune, I can't allow such an injustice to proceed. Come and fight me."

A sly grin spread across Fleeboy's lips as he reached for his helmet, which dangled from his belt, emitting an audible click as he fastened it in place.

"No helmet," Fleeboy taunted.

Logan scoffed in response. "You damn animal," he retorted. "A warrior's face serves as inspiration to his comrades. Why would I hide behind such a thing?"

Fleeboy's laughter filled the room, causing a vein to throb on Logan's brow. "That's the fool's response," Fleeboy retorted, placing his hand proudly on his chest before addressing the surrounding crowd. "I assume we're following the academy's rules on this."

Logan nodded solemnly. "A duel to the death."

Fleeboy chuckled, his amusement unbridled. "The moment I taste blood, I lose control," he declared, throwing his head back in raucous laughter, an unsettling sight that left the onlookers uneasy. "Very well then," he concluded, slamming his hand against his chest in agreement.

"I am August of 'The True Sons,' my genetic lineage stretches back to one of the first Knight Houses of Mars. We have earned the right to be called 'True,' and you've earned the right for my axe to eviscerate you with its chains and rows of teeth," August declared with a fervor that echoed through the tense chamber.

"Oh, really?" Logan responded coolly. "You've got such a nice and big speech. It makes me..."

But sparks flew like ignited tempers in a powder keg. The battle raged with an intensity that adorned the grim scene with a deadly dance of sparks, amidst the remains of old and newly forged metal, all serving the will of the empire. Their movements were swift, a blur of arcs, cleaves, and slashes that left even seasoned warriors astonished by their speed.

Henryk watched the furious combat unfold before him, the clash of blades and the clash of wills between two young men, now engaged in a duel that would determine the fate of a stranger.

"This is wrong," Henryk muttered to himself as he began to move toward the tumultuous showdown. His hand rose, fingers splayed, ready to unleash a pacification spell. Yet, Edward's hand settled on his shoulder, staying his magic.

"Don't try to stop me," Henryk snapped, his frustration evident.

But Edward shook his head. "No," he replied, pointing toward the ongoing battle. "We can use this."

Henryk stared at him, his confusion palpable. "What?" he stammered. "No, no, no, that's Logan! He's our friend. We've fought beside him. He's just trying to save the girl."

Edward shook his head once more. "Don't interfere. Fleeboy may be a monster, but a monster is what we need right now. If Fleeboy defeats Logan in front of everyone, we might be able to turn the situation to our advantage."

Henryk could feel the shock and disgust not only in his expression but also in the tremors coursing through his body. "That's wrong, Edward," he snapped. "We should have intervened earlier."

"Do not interfere, damn you if you do."

"Then I'll be damned," Henryk declared, raising his arm to cast the spell toward Logan and Fleeboy.

Edward shook his head again. "You know damn well the spell won't affect Fleeboy. You've seen him shrug off worse. You know what? Do it. Let it hit Logan and let Fleeboy be the monster. We can control the crowd and..."

"You're a real damn bastard," Henryk growled, and the spell dissipated in his hand. He thrust his arm down, his finger gripping his sword's hilt, but he hesitated. His gaze remained locked on the fierce battle before him as Edward's words washed over him.

He watched as the axe came to life in motorized fury, its chains whirring with menace. Logan's glaive, its tip crackling with energy, met it with fierce determination. The two weapons clashed, and Logan, his features now glistening with sweat, met August with unblinking eyes, reddened from the intensity of the battle. His heart raced, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he fought to overcome his adversary.

Fleeboy was a savage beast, his teeth bared like a feral dog, growling beneath his breath as his blade sliced and cleaved through the air with a deadly grace.

"What's your plan then?" Ed asked, his voice edged with tension. "You're going to charge in there and stop this battle? They're already looking at us like we're fools, and now they're plotting a mutiny. I know they won't let us escape."

Henryk's gaze remained fixed on the unfolding carnage. "And what do you suggest we do?" he snapped back.

Ed's grip on Henryk's shoulder tightened, his voice as cold as steel. "Let Fleeboy finish him," he said. "Watch as Logan gets torn apart."

Henryk's eyes remained locked on the gruesome scene, unable to tear himself away. Logan, once strong and confident, was now wheezing, his breath growing shallow with each feeble thrust of his spear.

Fleeboy's blade hummed and roared with its unholy engine, its deadly song a haunting crescendo in the stifling air. The glaive and axe clashed and rattled through the battle, a mesmerizing dance of death.

"We can control the situation with this," Ed whispered, his voice pulsing with authority in Henryk's ears.

As Ed released his grip, Henryk couldn't help but remember the better days—the times he and Logan had spent together, the camaraderie forged through shared experiences and moments when death had hung over them by a thread. For a fleeting moment, he recalled the confident smile and the glaive that had once filled him with pride.

Now, he watched as that friend, his fellow warrior, was reduced to nothing but a pawn in Fleeboy's cruel game. With an avian helmet that seemed to dodge a final thrust, Fleeboy's chainsaw teeth tore into Logan's body, rending flesh from bone, and spraying blood in a gruesome arc.

With a shudder, Logan stumbled and fell, his gaze unfocused as he stared down at his mangled body. Blood flowed freely from the gaping wounds, and his glaive clattered against the factory floor.

Struggling to rise, Logan's breaths came in ragged gasps as he staggered. He saw his House, his comrades, and he knew he had fallen in battle. How had it come to this? He heard the girl in the tattered dress crying and screaming, but it all felt distant and surreal. His ears grew heavy, his vision blurred, and he watched in a daze as they wailed his name—Logan—each thump of his heart growing quieter.

In the distance, Zephyr watched in stunned silence, and Henryk could imagine the other division leaders and their houses, all witnessing his comrade's death. And there, among the onlookers, stood Stella.

Disappointment hung heavy in the air, and Stella's arms were wrapped tightly around herself. Her heart skipped a beat, and she cast a sidelong glance. In that fleeting moment, her immovable queen, bore a tear down her face.

"I-I'm sorry, Stella," he stammered, but before any further words could escape, Fleeboy struck.

With a brutal kick, he sent Logan sprawling onto his back, his roaring axe poised for the final blow. Logan winced, pain and fury etched across his features, but he was helpless. His gaze darted toward his glaive, his fingers clenching around it.

However, Fleeboy's power-armored boot came crashing down on his bare hand. Bones shattered, a scream filled the desolate factory, reverberating in Logan's ears as Fleeboy grinned beneath his mask.

Piper winced, her face contorted with horror, her hand instinctively reaching for her pistol. Yet, Zephyr's grip tightened around her hand, a quiet urgency in his voice. "What are you doing?"

"This is wrong, he's going to..." Piper began, her voice trembling.

Zephyr vehemently shook his head. "Don't play the hero. The moment he senses any threat, he'll turn on you. I am House Mercury, and I don't intend to die at the hands of the 'Flayer.'"

His words were stern, his resolve unyielding. It took a moment, but Piper sighed, her hand slipping away from her pistol. She couldn't bear to watch any longer as the roaring teeth of the axe were about to rend flesh.

Logan...

He was about to die. In the ruins of a factory, sons and daughters of influential figures from across the galaxy honed their skills—engineers, warriors, and politicians in the making. Yet, not one of them would step forward to help him now.

Except... for one.

Henryk brushed past Edward's restraining hand, his determination set in motion. All eyes turned to Henryk as he charged forward, both feet pounding the ground. "Henryk!" Edward screamed, and Fleeboy's helmeted gaze shifted, the avian visage sneering.

"August!" Henryk's voice echoed through the factory, piercing the tense silence. Piper and Zephyr swiveled their heads to see him, and even Stella couldn't look away.

With a burst of martial prowess, Henryk ignited purple bolts of lightning that cascaded across his body. He leaped into the air, his eyes radiating that same purple hue as he soared above. The revving of his sword became a blur of sound, and he clutched the hilt with both hands.

Ripping the blade from its scabbard, he poised it with both hands, and a collective gasp escaped from the onlookers. Henryk chanted a spell, his voice ringing through the factory.

"Hiorle!"

Fleeboy recoiled, his legs sweeping backward, and the cold bore down on him instantly. Frostbite kissed his skin as his helmet's eyeglasses frosted over. He struggled to catch his breath, perched on one knee, his axe now bereft of its menacing hum. Between them stood Henryk, eyes ablaze, as the bitter winds began to relent.

A makeshift barrier of spikes sprang up, separating Logan from Fleeboy. Henryk yanked his blade from the chilled floor, his gaze locked onto Fleeboy's wild eyes. The whirling storm ebbed away.

Fleeboy scoffed and chuckled, his derisive tone slicing through the frigid air. "Really, Henryk? I know you're fond of theatrics, but this, right here, in front of everyone?"

"Me?" Henryk's incredulous response spilled from his lips. He gripped his blade firmly with his one good hand, aiming it at Fleeboy. "This has gone far enough. Stand down, August."

Fleeboy sneered, but Henryk paid him little heed. "Melissa!" he shouted, and the girl was still as ice. Her gaze fixed on the battle, while everyone else remained struck by shock.

Henryk sighed, eyes never leaving Fleeboy, whose grip on his weapon grew tighter. "Melissa, I need you!" he bellowed into the crowd, finally prompting Melissa to spring into action. She dashed toward them, clutching her medical bag.

"Christ," she muttered to herself, eyes wide, as she observed the blood gushing from Logan's visceral wound. "Christ, Henryk," she said. "I don't know if I can do anything about this."

Henryk watched, his hand resting on her shoulder as a soothing purple light radiated from him, slowly reducing the size of Logan's wound. His breaths were heavy behind his mask, his wide eyes darting, black spots dancing on the edges of his vision. "I'm healing him, but I'm not sure I have the skill to do more."

She witnessed the wound shrink somewhat, but blood still spurted as skin stretched, and Logan cried out in agony. "Release him, Henryk," she implored, her hand on his trembling one as the purple light shimmered. "I'll do what I can."

Henryk steeled himself, moving over the crude ice defenses he had conjured earlier. Sword clutched in his right hand, he fixed his gaze on Fleeboy, whose actions grew increasingly erratic. His head bobbed back and forth, and he seemed to froth at the mouth.

"August," Henryk said his name, but at the sound, he saw Fleeboy slam his palm against his helmet with such force that it startled everyone in the room.

Stella stood with her house, urgency in her voice. "Someone grab Logan!" Several housemates rushed over, some doctors, others mere residents attached to the mission.

Henryk felt it, something off and unsettling about August on a psychic level. He couldn't pinpoint its origin or when it had begun, but it loomed like a gathering storm, dark and foreboding, threatening to engulf him.

"Get…out of m-my way!" He screamed, his voice reverberating with feral, animalistic intensity. Henryk observed as Fleeboy's left hand clutched his chest, where the gladius was housed. The blade was torn free, revealing its shimmering aquamarine surface, caught in the fiery moment. "August, enough!" Edward's desperate plea rang out, but Fleeboy refused to acknowledge him.

"Move out of my way, half-breed!" Fleeboy howled, but Henryk merely shook his head. He fastened his helmet securely and grasped his sword with both hands, the thud of his plasma pistol echoing in his awareness. He silently cursed himself for leaving his rifle behind but steeled himself for what lay ahead.

"So, you'll be the meat tonight, druid?" Fleeboy taunted with a perverse delight. "I'll swallow your blood and gnaw on your bones!"

With those ominous words, Fleeboy launched himself forward, and Henryk met his charge with a clash of blades. All around, spectators watched, poised like birds of prey, ready to swoop in at the right moment to seize victory or perhaps even obliteration.

Arthur and Edward observed the escalating confrontation while Melissa and the other members of House Neptune struggled to staunch the bleeding. "This is getting ridiculous!" Arthur snapped, taking a step forward, but Edward halted him.

"You want to wade into that?" Edward questioned, and Arthur sighed in resignation.

They became a whirling dance of metal, their weapons clashing, and their armor absorbing the blows. Two sons of Mars locked in a deadly confrontation.

Henryk deftly evaded a slashing attack and pounded his gauntlet against Fleeboy's helmet, sending the boy stumbling back, head ringing. Henryk tightened his grip on his sword, cleaving an arc in Fleeboy's armor.

"Enough of this!" Henryk snapped. "Control yourself, August. Do not force my hand."

Lifting the blade once more, he sliced off a piece of Fleeboy's armor. Fleeboy, nimble and agile, dodged the next three blows and delivered a kick to Henryk's midsection. Henryk gasped but regained his footing just in time to deflect Fleeboy's subsequent attacks.

Fleeboy's left hand guided his gladius into the gap in Henryk's armor, puncturing metal and drawing blood. In the next moment, the axe descended. A jagged piece of metal protruded from the fractured helmet.

Henryk rolled away with his sword in hand, and for a brief moment, shock gripped the onlookers. The axe had pierced the helmet's plating, rendering the right side, especially the eye area, into a twisted void. Fortunately, Henryk had escaped unharmed.

Fleeboy raised himself breathlessly, pointing his axe once more at Henryk. "This is still a duel to the death," he sneered, determination etched in his gaze.

Henryk's gaze scanned the assembly of onlookers, landing on Arthur, Edward, the other houses, Piper, Melissa, and the residents of House Neptune. The air crackled with tension and the unsettling sense that this duel might culminate in a symphony of blood and metal.

With purpose, Henryk rose once more, adopting his sword stance, his grip firm and determined. It felt like he held a spear, poised for a fateful strike. Fleeboy snorted dismissively and readied himself, brandishing his axe in one hand and the glaive in the other.

"You're not going to interfere!" Henryk declared, his voice firm and unyielding.

Piper approached, her eyes glistening with near-tears, her fists clenched. Arthur and Edward turned to her as the clash of metal echoed through the area. She winced at the cacophonous symphony of war raging around her.

Fleeboy charged with his axe and glaive at the ready. "Briskia!" Henryk's command sent a forceful wave of air hurtling toward Fleeboy, who was flung backward, landing flat on his back. The wind was knocked out of him, but before Henryk could descend upon him, Fleeboy was back on his feet.

Henryk's blade grazed Fleeboy's armor, but the glaive and gladius swiftly found their way through the gaps in Henryk's armor. Fleeboy savored the irritation in Henryk's expression as their weapons clashed.

Edward scoffed at Piper. "You really think so little of Henryk?" He turned away from her, his gaze locked onto the duel. "You never really knew him. Maybe that's always been your problem."

Piper watched as the axe descended, but Henryk parried it with his sword. "Al Briska!" Henryk shouted once more, his voice now fierce and commanding. Fleeboy was hurled into the air, his eyes darting wildly within their sockets. His fangs protruded as green fluid oozed from his lips. "I'll... eviscerate you!" he screamed, his body contorting with gruesome bone fractures and muscle convulsions.

The onlookers averted their gaze, unwilling to witness the brutal transformation. Fleeboy landed gracefully on a nearby scaffolding with an astounding display of aerial prowess, and Henryk knew what was coming next.

With a potent blend of his unique abilities and the might of his power suit, Fleeboy launched himself into the air, teeth clenched and determined. The scaffolding and railings shattered beneath him, sending bystanders fleeing to escape the impending chaos.

Fleeboy's scream filled the air, a wretched sound that forced those around to cover their ears. Blood trickled from Henryk's own ears, but he remained steadfast. As the ground crumbled beneath him, he pivoted his body to swing his blade in response to the purring of the axe. The two combatants, one with a blade charged in purple electricity, the other with a flying power suit, met in a deadly clash of metal and will.

Fleeboy arced through the air, and Henryk slashed with resolute defense. The very ground beneath them trembled and cracked as their bodies collided, a tumultuous clash of metal and lightning. Fleeboy found his footing in mid-air and propelled himself away from Henryk.

Another swift exchange of slashes followed, and then, in stunned silence, Piper witnessed a pivotal moment. Fleeboy's pauldron struck Henryk's helmet with a sickening thud, the sound of blood sputtering into the air.

"You bastard!" Henryk's enraged voice reverberated through the tumult.

Once more, Henryk's blade locked with Fleeboy's axe. "Yield or die!" Henryk demanded, but Fleeboy's axe was sent even farther, and he soared through the air with the momentum of his strike. In that fleeting moment, they all saw it—the indigo eye shining within Henryk's strange helmet, adorned with antlers.

"Finish this, Henryk," Arthur uttered, his eyes closed in contemplation. His thoughts drifted to the August he once knew, that timid boy, and the questions that haunted them all—where had it all gone wrong, and what had changed? Could it have been prevented? Where had the seeds of their downfall been sown?

"No matter," Arthur mumbled as he opened his eyes. He watched as Henryk found an opening, his blade slicing through Fleeboy's power armor, blood oozing from the wound. Fleeboy erupted in a fit of rage.

The next blow was fiercer, an astonishing display of power as Fleeboy's axe pounded upon Henryk's guard. The room's inhabitants narrowly dodged the blade as it impacted the wall.

All eyes remained transfixed on the duel, witnessing Henryk's relentless assault. He slammed his pauldron into Fleeboy's helmet, sending him crashing to the floor. Fleeboy struggled to rise, but Henryk thrust his leg into Fleeboy's body, sending him sprawling to the side.

"Yield, or I won't ask again!" Henryk's scream filled the air.

For a moment, nothing happened. Henryk stared at Fleeboy, his patience waning. He had asked the question repeatedly, but now it seemed Fleeboy was playing games.

Fleeboy's hands moved across his chest, drawing the ritualistic gladius. He lunged at Henryk, but this time Henryk was prepared. Fleeboy's gladius was no match for the powered two-handed blade. It clattered to the floor, rendered useless.

"Enough!" Henryk's roar filled the chamber. In one swift motion, he drew his plasma pistol, and a scorching orange beam blazed through the air, severing Fleeboy's hand from his body.

Fleeboy's scream was no longer that of a man; it had taken on a demonic, guttural quality. His remaining hand clutched at his wrist, while Henryk, breathing heavily, stood amidst the chaos, riddled with shallow cuts. Lost in the heat of battle, he hardly realized the extent of his own injuries.

His sword was jammed into the earth, his posture slouched as he kept his gun hand steady. As Fleeboy writhed in agony on the ground like a creature possessed, hands went to weapons all around them. Henryk and the others watched as House Mars prepared to make their move.

"You bastards!" Stella's voice pierced the tension. Her hand moved towards the rifle slung across her body, aiming it at Henryk's figure. House Mars observed with wary eyes as she held the weapon steady.

"Stella, Stella, Stella," Henryk repeated, his gaze fixed on her. "Do you really want to play this game right now?" He snapped, ripping his blade from the earth and pointing it at her. Members of her house raised their weapons in response.

Henryk didn't make a move, but he scoffed, readying his blade. Fatigue hung heavy on his muscles, and the well of his magic was running dry. His breath came in ragged gasps, and the footsteps of approaching figures echoed in his ears.

Edward aimed his rifle at another house, his knight ornate power armor gleaming in the flickering light of the room. The other houses hesitated, either backing away or remaining on the sidelines. Yet, a handful of influential figures among them waited, eager to turn this volatile situation into a golden opportunity.

Arthur held his weapon level, a deterrent against anyone considering rash actions. The room crackled with tension, with every eye and weapon trained on the others. Some aimed their arms at House Mars, while others found allies and enemies in different quarters.

Motivations ranged from the pettiest of grudges to age-old conflicts that transcended the stars and time itself. From the lowly offspring of industrial workers to the sons and daughters of planetary rulers and diplomats, all arms were at the ready.

Amidst the ruins of this desolate world, Edward knew what loomed on the horizon. His eyes darted to his comrades and brothers from House Mars. He watched as Fleeboy retrieved his sword and moved towards them, taking a stance against their adversaries.

"So, you'll stand with us now?" Arthur quipped.

Fleeboy sneered, his response dripping with defiance. "I am a Son of Mars."

Edward observed, fully aware of what was at stake. Two teams, allies to be found within their own houses, or foes to grapple with and eliminate. In this complex political game of the academy, two years' worth of rivalries and grudges were finally coming to a head.