“This is fucking insane!” Edward shouted, his voice trembling as he thrust his hand toward Henryk. His eyes glistened with frustration, a sharp spark dancing behind them. “House Mars does not support this action!”

Atticus scoffed, his face tightening in disbelief as he flicked his sunglasses up onto his head. “What is this all about, Clarissa?” he barked, his tone teetering between a question and an accusation. “Now we’ve got Executors mixed up in this mess? You want House Mars tangled with Earth’s politics, too?”

His sneer curled into something bitter as he turned sharply, stalking toward the ranks of House Mars. His stance was rigid, every step brimming with defiance. “They’re still warriors, Clarissa. We don’t need this. I never had any ill will toward Piper.” His voice grew quieter but no less cutting, the weight of his words hanging in the air like an executioner’s blade.

Clarissa’s eyes widened, her lips parting as if to speak but finding no words.

“Then what the fuck was this, then?” Iman interjected, her voice sharp as steel. She stood beside Marcus, her hand gesturing toward the chaos unfolding. Marcus and Margaret exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes wide, like they were watching a storm roll in.

“This random-ass roster is something else,” Iman continued, her voice dripping with derision. She tilted her chair back, boots kicked up onto the edge of the table with an audacious grin. “Atticus, halfway to throwing in with Piper and Henryk… At least she won’t get kicked out now without a fight.” A low chuckle followed, brimming with mockery.

Sarah snorted, shaking her head. “What’s her deal?” she muttered under her breath, barely audible but loud enough for the tension to ripple.

Anderson, standing stiffly nearby, narrowed his eyes at Iman. His lips curled back in a sneer as he muttered a single word under his breath, venom dripping from it like poison. “…Cunt.”

“I’ll fight alongside the Red Rocket and the Executor of House Mars,” Atticus declared, his voice dark and deliberate. Every syllable seemed to bite, his gaze locking onto the other houses like a predator cornering prey. “Three houses, Clarissa. I don’t follow this madness. But if the Martians are with her—” his eyes darted to Marcus, searching for validation, and finding a shared glint of unspoken understanding, “—then the Martians of House Mars are the truth.”

The room tensed. Atticus planted himself in front of his sister, standing like a shield against the storm he knew she would unleash upon him later. Her face twitched, a silent promise of reckoning gleaming in her narrowed eyes.

“You’re gonna die like a little bitch, Henryk.” Jose’s voice cut through the room, jagged and ugly. His finger pointed at Henryk, his laugh bursting out in crude, jagged spurts. “Like a dumb hick mutant! Fuck, hah! Hah, hah!”

The room froze. Every face turned toward Jose in stunned silence, the weight of his words pressing down like a suffocating fog.

Henryk blinked, his jaw tightening. He knew him and Jose weren’t friends—just casual acquaintances, sharing food and the occasional laugh. But this? This wasn’t a joke. Was it…?

“Woah.” Iman’s voice shattered the stillness, cutting through the thick tension like a blade. “What a real asshole!” she barked from across the room, her tone seething with disdain. “A real fat, incel prick!” She gripped the handlebars of her chair, shaking her head. “What kind of asshole pretends to be chill, then shows his racist-ass colors when it suits him?”

Henryk’s status at the academy had twisted and turned so many times it felt like he was caught in a storm, dragged this way and that without ever touching solid ground. Sirine. That name cut through his thoughts like a blade. When was the last time he had thought about her? A year? Two? The memories came flooding back—sharp edges dulled by time but still aching in a way that made his stomach churn.

And then there was Iman.

Iman.

How could she have known about Sirine? No one here should have known. Yet, as his eyes darted toward her, searching for answers, he froze. She already knew where his gaze would land.

Iman leaned back in her chair, raising a lazy thumbs-up and flashing a carefree smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that sent shivers down his spine—a smile full of secrets.

Iman… no… she couldn’t be…

“Enough of this.” Clarissa’s voice snapped through the air, cutting like a whip. She stood abruptly, her hands pressing against the sides of her thighs, fingers curling in tension. “This isn’t a duel to the death. So fine, then—I’ll fight on Earth House’s behalf.” Her voice lingered on the last words, dragging them out like a stone across gravel.

The room was dead silent until a masculine voice broke through from somewhere in the crowd. “President Clarissa,” he called out, steady and loud, “you’re a talented pilot, no doubt. But Atticus is an ace—a goddamn war vet. Let someone else have the glory.”

Clarissa’s head snapped toward the crowd, her eyes blazing as she scanned the sea of faces. Her tone turned ice-cold, slicing through the tension with deadly precision. “Shut the hell up. Who the hell even are you?” Her words hit like gunfire. “When I find you—two demerits!”

Her voice echoed in the stunned silence that followed, and even the boldest members of House Earth couldn’t bring themselves to meet her gaze. The air was thick, the weight of her authority pressing down like a heavy stone.

Finally, she straightened, brushing imaginary dust off her uniform as though she hadn’t just shaken the room to its core. “Good, then. It’s settled. We start… immediately at daybreak.”

Edward

Before, House Mars had hardly anything to its name. The boys had to scrape by with what little they had. Even now, Henryk’s piloting gear was stashed haphazardly between the communal locker room and House Mars’ meager storage.

He had expected Edward to be there, ready to kill him.

Henryk was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of guy whose presence filled a room even when he said nothing. Colony-born, he had the hardened look of someone who’d grown up wrestling the universe itself—but there was an ease to him, too. He could spend hours gaming on his PC, relaxed and distant, but this? This was different. This was new, even for him.

The Academy was old, older than most of the houses that called it home. Centuries of modernization hadn’t stripped it of its skeletal cement bones, and Henryk’s boots pounded against the cold, unfeeling floor. Fluorescent light flickered and caught on the gleam of his zipper as he walked past rows of lockers, hundreds—no, thousands—lined like a cold, gray labyrinth.

And there he was. Edward.

Edward stood like a statue, fists balled at his sides, dressed in the deep gray, utilitarian suit of House Mars. The shameful red trim marked him like a scar, a reminder of failures Henryk didn’t have to ask about. The red ink, however dishonored, was still threaded through Henryk’s own flight suit. To him, it looked beautiful—proud and strong, a reflection of something noble. The Sons of Mars.

For a brief moment, Henryk’s eyes flared as his mind reached back to the past. It had to mean something, didn’t it? They had fought together. Rescued hundreds, maybe thousands, in that hellish moment. They had been heroes, hadn’t they? But the gnawing doubts returned, the flicker of insecurity, the whisper of trauma telling him otherwise. Was I wrong about them? About myself?

“Henryk,” Edward called softly.

Leaning against a locker, Edward let out a long breath, pressing a hand to his forehead. He looked worn, defeated—nothing like the loud, cocksure leader Henryk remembered. “I’m sorry,” Edward began, his voice low. “If I’d known…I would’ve—”

Henryk ignored him for a moment, gripping the lock on his locker. His eyes drifted over the graffiti scratched across it: mutant, abomination, freak. The words clawed at him like ghosts he couldn’t shake.

“I dishonor my father,” Edward said suddenly, his voice louder, as if the admission had been torn from him.

Henryk froze, his fingers still on the lock. Slowly, he turned his head. “Huh?” His brow furrowed as realization dawned. “What the hell does that mean? Aren’t you the son of some great Knight?”

Edward let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Fuck, man, you don’t even know half of it.” He sighed deeply, the weight of his confession pressing down on him. “Joe…shit. What I’m trying to say is, I should’ve known you were struggling. Back in the day, we scouted guys like you—like the others—but everything’s changed. It’s been…different. Difficult.”

Henryk paused, his hand still on the lock. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to the side, pressing the button on his helmet’s visor. He lifted the helmet, looked inside it, and swung it to his side. “I know,” he said simply.

Edward almost crumpled at the simplicity of the response. He stared at Henryk, then down at his own hands, clenching them into fists. “It feels like ten years have passed since we got here,” Edward stammered, his voice uneven. “I didn’t realize running House Mars would be this difficult. I should’ve listened to the damn squirt when I had the chance…” His voice trailed off, his fists tightening.

“Why are you doing this, Henryk? We were in the clear for a bit… Christ. Even Jace finally let go of what his sister accused you of—”

“Jace is never going to let it go,” Henryk interrupted sharply, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Edward. His tone was cold, clipped. “This… this whole game of Houses. It needs to end. What does getting rid of Piper do for anyone? For anything? Hell, it only serves to make the Empire weaker!”

His voice echoed through the empty locker room, bouncing off the walls like gunshots.

Edward’s eyes widened at the outburst, stunned into silence.

Henryk didn’t stop. His voice rose, driven by something raw, something deep. “This whole time I’ve been at this school, nothing—nothing—has made sense. From the classes to the teachers to the students. Hell, even the dorms don’t add up. I knew this place was beyond a normal school. I knew if I succeeded here, it would mean something. But I didn’t…I didn’t realize the cost would be this high.”

Edward stood there, silent for a moment. Then, his voice broke through the stillness, quiet but firm. “...Me too,” he admitted, his voice faltering. His hands curled into fists, knuckles white.

“I apologize, Henryk. I really am.”

Ed sighed, trying to force a smile, but it came out brittle, cracking under the weight of something deeper. And then Henryk saw it—something he didn’t expect. Edward Wolfsheim, the man who had thrown himself into Henryk’s warcasket to save a girl they barely knew. The leader of the once-proud House Mars. The Son of a Great Knight.

And he was crying.

The tears came suddenly, sliding down Edward’s face as if they had caught him off guard. His hands moved feverishly to wipe them away, scrubbing at his cheeks like they weren’t even there, but it was too late. Henryk had seen them.

“Edward…” Henryk’s voice softened, and for the first time in what felt like days, weeks maybe, the anger, the fear, the looming duel—it all fell away. Those words Edward had spoken hung in the air like a knife suspended over his chest.

Ed let out a short, surprised chuckle, though it sounded more like a bark than laughter. “This is rich… You know something, Henryk? They’ve all got their shit to say about you. Every single one of them. But the truth is, you should’ve been the one here. In this position.”

His words spilled out like a flood, his breath hitching as he fought to keep his composure. Henryk, for his part, stood still, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tightening. “What position?” he asked flatly, his tone edged with barely contained frustration.

Ed sneered, looking away as if the answer was too much to face. He turned to the rows of utilitarian lockers stretching around them like an endless maze of cold steel. “Here. Leading House Mars. They needed someone like you,” he said, his voice low, raw. “Not me. I’m stuck in the past, clinging to the old ways. They needed someone fresh. Someone who could take what’s good about House Mars, but leave behind the bad. Someone who could learn from the mistakes of the old and never repeat them.”

His shoulders slumped, the tension draining from him. His gaze dropped to the floor as his fists unclenched, trembling slightly at his sides. “But now, I’m realizing something, Henryk. All my hopes, my dreams—every goddamn aspiration I ever had for this house—they might not be undone,” he said with a bitter chuckle, “but even if I pull off that one-in-a-million shot… even if I succeed… what happens then? What about the ones who come after us? Will they just make the same damn mistakes?”

Henryk’s eyes widened, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Edward, you aren’t making much sense—”

“I ain’t,” Edward snapped, his voice suddenly sharp, cutting through Henryk’s words like a blade.

Henryk blinked at the outburst, momentarily caught off guard. But there was no anger in his expression. No fear. Just surprise at the unexpected turn of events. Ed, usually so composed, so unreachable, was laying it all bare. This wasn’t the commanding leader, the unshakable figure everyone saw at the front of the room. This was something different. Something intimate.

Henryk couldn’t even remember the last time they had properly talked. Sure, there were moments—brief, fleeting. Sirine, the kitchen, the mess hall. They trained together. Ate next to each other. Spoke in passing. But Ed was always busy, and he only got busier as time went on.

Before, Henryk had thought he’d found a friend in Edward. But somewhere along the way, he’d made peace with simply following at his side, cosigned to loyalty and promises of good service. That was enough.

Until now.

“Yeah, you aren’t,” Henryk said, his voice steady, cutting through the tension. “Don’t get me wrong. I hear your worries. I really do. But first off—I’ve got a duel right now. And second…” He paused, his expression hardening as he locked eyes with Edward. “That’s all shit we can deal with later.”

Ed let out a low, sarcastic snicker, his gaze drifting to the fluorescent lights above them, their cold hum filling the silence. It wasn’t humor—it was bitterness, sharp and biting.

“That’s real rich, Henryk. ‘We’ll deal with that later.’” He shook his head as if the words left a sour taste in his mouth.

Henryk sneered, his patience wearing thin. “What, you think you’re the only one going through problems?” He jabbed a finger to the side of the room, pointing at nothing in particular but driven by instinct, frustration boiling over. “We all have our shit going on, Ed. You’re just pissed because things aren’t falling into your hands like you thought they would.”

Ed’s head snapped back, his expression hardening. “No, I’m not,” he shot back, his voice sharp and deliberate. “I knew this would be difficult. I knew it the second I stepped into this mess.” He raised his palm as if to physically ward off Henryk’s words, then let it drop, his voice dipping lower. “And that’s real rich, coming from housemates who can’t even figure out what the hell they want to do. You know…” Ed’s voice caught, and his eyes narrowed. “If you or the squires had pulled a stunt like that where I’m from, even that tiny little outburst would’ve gotten you either booted or killed.”

The words hit like a whip crack, the echoes bouncing off the locker-lined walls.

Henryk froze, his arms instinctively crossing over his chest. “Where I’m from,” he began, voice steady but laced with steel, “you can call bullshit when you see it. You don’t just shut up and let it slide because of some medieval crap.”

Henryk stepped forward. He was tall, but standing before Ed’s Martian-enhanced physique, he had to crane his neck slightly to meet his gaze. Even so, he didn’t flinch. His voice sharpened. “…And Ed, do you really think that’s right? That it’s what your culture should be?”

Ed faltered. The words left him stunned, his gaze dropping to the scuffed tile floor.

“No. Face me,” Henryk demanded, his tone cutting through the air like a blade.

Edward Wolfsheim—the young man who had been raised to near godhood, trained to embody the strength of a culture born of blood and conquest—felt a shame he hadn’t expected. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted his eyes and met Henryk’s.

“I will not ask again,” Henryk said, his words heavy with finality. “Edward Wolfsheim.”

Ed’s shoulders sagged, the anger fading from his face. What replaced it was harder to read—an exhaustion deeper than physical fatigue. He took a slow breath, steadying himself before he spoke.

“You make good points,” Ed admitted, his voice quieter now, as if the fight had been drained out of him. “About the battle maidens, about some of the policies. But Mars is a feudal world. The Knights of Mars. Kings, queens, Henryk—it’s not just a show. It’s history. Ancient treaties were drafted between the old emperors and the first Kings of the Red Moon. Mars has to stay a feudal world. If it doesn’t…” He hesitated, his voice faltering for a moment. “…While I can and will change things that don’t make sense, the spirit of this planet—my culture—has to survive. It’s essential.”

Henryk stared at him, unblinking. “Why?” he asked flatly.

Ed looked at him, confused by the simplicity of the question.

“Enough with the secrets,” Henryk pressed, his tone rising, not in anger, but in raw frustration. “Just tell me. Because honestly, Ed, I’m tired of this. I’m too tired for the high school secrets. Just freaking say it. Why? Why is it so important that—”

Ed sneered, his lip curling as if the weight of the words tasted bitter. “Same thing Bea told me—almost word for word.” His voice was sharp but low, like a blade drawn just enough to warn. “It’s because the Knights of Mars are the only thing standing between humanity and extinction.”

His hands dragged down his face, the motion slow and weary, as if the effort to explain it all was more than he could bear. “Has everyone been living under a damn rock? The only reason the universe, the Emperor himself, and the royal family have tolerated House Mars for so long are the things on our backs!”

Ed’s hand shot up, his thumb aimed at the small, sharp protrusions beneath his uniform, lightly pressing against the fabric. The spikes folded into him like dormant quills, alien yet oddly alive.

Henryk’s gaze lingered, his mind wandering in spite of himself. He wondered how much of it was physical. Was it like hair—something you knew was there but didn’t feel, not in the same way? Or was it like an extra limb, a finger or toe? The spikes looked small, almost harmless, but they weren’t human, not entirely. Henryk had known that from the first time he’d seen them. Deep down, he knew they weren’t some simple mutation. How right he was.

He was lost in his thoughts when Ed’s voice cut through, sharp and biting. “We were the best of the best,” Ed said, his tone hardening. “We put down rebellions, crushed uprisings, brought entire worlds to heel. Don’t get it twisted—when the other houses faltered, our worlds never rebelled. And when they did…” Ed’s jaw tightened. “…there was punishment. Swift and brutal. That’s what certain Knight Orders did to ‘unreasonable worlds.’”

“Punishment?” Henryk repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a curse.

Ed didn’t respond immediately, his gaze distant. Instead, he pressed on. “The Xeno Wars—you’ve heard of them.”

“Everyone has,” Henryk said, keeping his voice neutral.

Ed gave him a sharp look. “Well, sometimes you don’t seem all that schooled in history, Henryk,” he said, and there was just enough condescension in his tone to make Henryk’s jaw tighten. But Henryk let it go. He wasn’t here to fight over pride.

Ed continued, his voice carrying an almost rehearsed rhythm, like he’d told this story to himself a thousand times before. “Those damned alien conflicts. Not like the GrimGore—those were just beasts. No, these were far worse. Smarter. Crueler. Emotional. And it was the Knights of Mars who stood against them. Our sons. Our fathers. All of them carrying these damn spikes.” He touched them again, his expression grim. “We carry the bloodline of centuries of heroes. But do you know the cost? Do you know how many of us were scarred—how many worlds were shattered—because of it?”

Henryk could hear the anger breaking through Ed’s voice, but there was something else there too. Grief.

“My people…we were forced into a feudal society. It wasn’t a choice—it was survival. Can you even imagine the sacrifices we’ve made? And I believe we can move past it. I do. But you…you must be the Executor, Henryk. You have to.”

The words hit Henryk like a physical blow. Executor. The weight of the title felt like it could crush his chest. But he shook his head, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned.

“Enough!” he shouted, his voice reverberating off the cold locker-lined walls. “Before, I was entertaining the idea. But is this really what it’s like to be a Knight of Mars?” His voice rose, raw and bitter. “Is this what you’re asking me to be?”

“Henryk…” Ed began, his voice faltering.

“No!” Henryk snapped, cutting him off. His chest heaved, his voice trembling with rage and desperation. “Stop this talk of heroes. What’s going to happen to my sisters if I go, huh? What are you going to tell them? What will you tell my mother?”

Ed turned away, his silhouette swallowed by the cold fluorescent light. But Henryk wasn’t done. His voice cracked like a whip in the silence. “You say this life isn’t for you…then just quit!” The words spat out like venom as he whirled away, taking long strides toward the door.

Ed’s hands sank into his pockets, his shoulders tightening as he spun back toward Henryk. His voice dropped, laced with mockery. “…And that’s it, then?” He tilted his head, his lips curling into a sneer. “You’re just going to quit like that?”

Henryk barely turned his head. His voice was calm, deliberate, but the words came with a bite. “Yeah…fuck it. We ball.” His hand gripped his helmet, sliding it over his head with a firm click that echoed in the hollow room.

Ed’s eyes widened, and the disbelief in his tone gave way to anger. “You son of a bitch. Then why the hell are you fighting this duel? Huh?” He stepped forward, his words gaining momentum. “Why drag the House’s name further into the mud if you’re just going to walk away?”

Henryk stopped in his tracks, standing at the threshold of the open door, the soft glow of the hallway’s ethereal blue light wrapping around him like armor. “Because I won’t abandon my friends,” he said quietly, his voice steady, almost resigned.

Ed laughed bitterly, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Oh, friends, huh? You call those guys your friends?” He stepped closer, his hands emerging from his pockets and curling into fists. “They may be chill now, Henryk, but what happens when there’s a House war? When we’re on missions and they’re staring down the barrel at you? What then?”

Henryk’s voice carried no hesitation. “House Pluto fought by our side just the same.”

Ed’s expression darkened, his voice dropping low like a distant storm. “They despise us, Henryk. They despise what they see in you—what they fear you could become.”

Henryk turned, his brows knitting together in confusion, his jaw tightening. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Ed’s eyes narrowed, his gaze steady and cold. “You know enough of our history to get it,” he said. “The darkness of it. What we did to House Pluto…what Damien did.”

Henryk’s breath caught, and his chest tightened as if an unseen weight had dropped on him. “What are you saying?”

Ed’s voice turned wistful, as though lost in a memory. “The King of Mars…he chose Damien. And you want to know why?” He paused, the words lingering in the air like a shadow. “All the Kings of Mars—they held the Presidential position. Every single one of them that lived long enough to reach the age of Feudal society. That’s a little-known secret.”

He sighed deeply, his gaze drifting to the reflective gleam of a locker’s metal surface. When he spoke again, his tone softened, like he was seeing something Henryk couldn’t. “Oh, Henryk…as horrible as it sounds, there’s nothing like watching a Martian sunrise. That red, beautiful world…” He chuckled darkly, but there was sadness beneath it. “What those damned Xenos did to our planet in the dawn of the 21st century…they cut our population in half. Mars bled. But afterward? These new worlds, these Earths—they gave us hope. The castles, the maidens, it was like a fairytale wrapped in blood and steel. Legions of knights bonded with the power of the spikes, fighting wars and battles that shaped the stars.”

He stopped, his voice faltering. A small, proud smile crossed his lips. “My father…my father fought in those wars. He was the greatest of them all.”

And somehow, in that moment, Henryk found himself smiling too. It was small, hesitant, but it was there. Yet the smile didn’t last long. As he mulled over Ed’s words, the pieces began to fall into place, forming a picture he didn’t want to see. His stomach twisted.

“The Presidents were Kings?” Henryk’s voice was low, cautious, like he was testing the waters of an unfamiliar depth.

Ed sighed, his hand brushing over his own spikes as if they carried the burden of centuries. “I knew who you were, Henryk J. Brown…” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Or is it Fitzgerald? Or something else?”

Henryk’s eyes widened, the color draining from his face. “You…how did…” His voice faltered, trailing into silence.

Ed’s gaze locked onto him, unflinching, unyielding. He tapped his shoulder, right where the spikes would rest if they were his. His voice was soft but unwavering. “You think House Mars doesn’t know its own?”

“You’ve got to be…” Henryk began, his voice trailing off as disbelief flickered across his face.

“You really think I just randomly showed up in that booth?” Ed interrupted, his tone sharp, almost condescending. “Henryk J. Brown. Age eighteen. Born on some backwater world lucky to have WiFi. Steam account name is…what was it again? Oh, right—DoZy Euta. Very French, mind you.” Ed smirked. “And that’s your producing name too, isn’t it? You going to tell that girl from House Mercury about that?”

Henryk’s breath hitched. He didn’t reply, but Ed pressed on, unrelenting.

“Henryk, I’ve been watching you for a while now. The only reason we haven’t talked much was because I needed to at least set the foundation. But now…” He gestured dramatically. “We’ve got mechs. You’re out of that rust bucket. Things are looking up.”

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Ed smiled, but Henryk’s face dipped, his expression unreadable. “So…it’s ready?” Henryk muttered.

“Patched up by Bea to the best of her ability. You like that loadout?” Ed asked, trying to keep his tone casual, his eyes searching Henryk’s face.

Henryk paused, the gears in his head turning. Ed could tell this was his moment to let him breathe, to focus on something practical for a change. Something tangible.

“It’s a bit too bulky,” Henryk admitted, his voice thoughtful. “I can see it working in specific scenarios, but I’d probably be weighed down by the tank cannon. My evisceration weapon…”

“Your father’s,” Ed interjected, his voice softening slightly. “It’s been patched up by Bea. It’s a work of art.”

Henryk’s eyes blazed for a moment, but the intensity quickly shifted into unease. “Ed, this is weird.”

“I know it is,” Ed replied, his smirk fading into something more serious. “But there are people watching you, watching us. The true heir to the throne…” His voice lowered, almost a whisper. “Henryk, if humanity keeps on like this—being led by the Eunuch Emperor—”

“The Eunuch Emperor,” Henryk interrupted, his tone sharper now. “You keep repeating that. There are people who listen, Ed. People who take their loyalty to the Empire very seriously.”

Ed snorted. “I didn’t realize you were such a supporter of the regime.”

Henryk crossed his arms, letting out a derisive laugh. “I’m surprised you aren’t set in your loyalties. Wikipedia and some of the guys…”

“Axel and the others don’t see it that way,” Ed cut in. “But hey, time has a way of changing things.”

“Ai,” Henryk muttered, shaking his head. “So this is what it’s come to, huh? Friendship? Manipulation? This is how I’m going to spend my time at the academy…with House Mars.”

He turned away, his steps deliberate, his shoulders stiff with anger. “No thanks,” he spat, flipping Ed the middle finger as he walked. “You had me pegged as a fool. All this talk of honor…I actually believed it for a second. Thought maybe I could’ve been like my father. A hero. A knight. All that chivalry, all those ideals. I’ve got a mom, you know. Two sisters. I’ve read the same damn knight books you have, had those same dreams. But Ed—those dreams you want to manifest? They’re ugly.”

He turned his head slightly, his voice cold as ice. “The spikes are shoved into young men, turning them into genetically engineered super soldiers. The process is repeated over and over, and mutations run rampant. This feudal society you hold so dear—it’s rotting. The universe didn’t respect you, Ed. It feared you. And sometimes…” He paused, his voice breaking slightly. “Sometimes, I just don’t want to be a part of it.”

Henryk clenched his fists and took another step toward the door. “I’m doing this for Piper. Nothing else.”

The silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant hum of machinery.

And then, Ed’s voice shattered it. “Henryk, I was not lying!” he shouted, his tone filled with raw ferocity. His words echoed in the room, trembling with emotion. “I don’t give a fuck who hears me now! Don’t you dare sound so high and fucking mighty! My father, my grandfather—every single boy in our House, except for the squires, was raised hard. Not by choice. All we’ve known is death.”

Ed’s voice cracked, and he took a step forward. “They, we, I—we’re here to rebuild. To create something good again. And if you don’t see that…then go!”

Henryk paused for a moment, his back still to Ed. He didn’t turn around, didn’t say another word. He just walked away, his boots echoing against the floor.

Ed stood frozen, watching him disappear. His hands trembled as he dropped to his knees, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I’m sorry, Henryk. I’m the reason why they all hate you,” he choked.

He stared at the floor, his vision blurring. “I just wanted to be a knight again. Like my father. I wanted to uphold the rites of chivalry, to defend a maiden.” His voice broke, and he let out a bitter laugh, tears streaking his face. “But you…you were not the Antlered Knight.”

Marcus

They were spring-locked and thrown, their mobile suits careening through the false gravity of the artificial arena. The crowd murmured, a sea of mixed expressions as they watched the trio in action: Piper’s orange-red mech, blazing like a falling comet; Atticus’s, shining gold with streaks of white-hot plasma; and Henryk’s—sleek, efficient, a military-grey war machine that moved like a predator in the brush.

The tank cannon had been stripped from Henryk’s loadout, granting him greater speed and maneuverability. His thrusters flared with blue, a color that burned with a distinct brilliance compared to the standard fuel streams. He smirked behind the visor of his cockpit, feeling the pulse of the machine, savoring the freedom of motion. In his left hand, he gripped a beam rifle, its barrel sleek and glinting. In his right, a submachine gun—its angular design a modern echo of old World War II German engineering.

“What the hell is he wearing?” Iman asked from afar, pointing toward Henryk’s mech with a slight tilt of her head.

She and Marcus had drifted to the sidelines, keeping their distance from the throngs of spectators. Unlike the benches of orientation—packed with wide-eyed cadets sizing up their peers—this arena was different. Here, the choice was stark. Some watched from the fringes, while others avoided it entirely. But there were always deviants. There were always those who reveled in the bloodsport, drawn to the way the bouts skirted the line between sport and slaughter.

Marcus squinted, his gaze narrowing on Henryk’s mech. Something about it stood out. “It’s a…tabard,” he said after a pause.

“A tabard?” Iman’s brow arched.

“Yeah,” Marcus said. “It’s something knights used to wear…back in the day. To show off their heraldry.”

Iman turned to him, crossing her arms. “Never took you for a history buff,” she remarked, her tone half-teasing.

“Didn’t know shit about the Knights of Mars before…” Marcus trailed off, his voice faltering as his eyes returned to the battlefield.

Iman glanced at him, her curiosity piqued, but she let his hesitation linger unchallenged. She leaned against the cold steel of the banister, her bright orange academy jacket standing out against the muted grey of the arena. The chill of the metal seeped into her caramel skin, but she didn’t move away. Her green eyes—rare and almost unnaturally vibrant—gleamed in the artificial light, framed by her twin pigtails that spilled forward over her chest.

Her gaze drifted back to the fight. Henryk’s mech moved like a blur, its grey armor a shadow among the more vibrant suits. The tabard fluttered behind him, a small but deliberate touch that seemed to speak volumes. Iman’s voice softened, thoughtful now. “Does he always have to be so…extra?”

Marcus chuckled quietly, but it lacked humor. “Henryk’s not one for subtlety.”

In the arena, the three mechs collided in a flurry of fire and steel. Piper’s orange-red suit darted forward, the blaze of her boosters cutting a stark path. Atticus countered, his gold mech surging in with brutal precision. And Henryk? He hung back for a moment, calculating, before lunging forward, a streak of blue thrusters and controlled aggression.

Iman’s voice cut through the background noise of the crowd. “Still…he’s got something, doesn’t he? That edge. Like he’s fighting for more than just the match.”

Marcus didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered on Henryk’s mech, watching the way it moved—efficient, ruthless, but almost graceful. “Yeah,” he said finally. “But sometimes, that edge cuts too deep.”

Her eyes locked on him, sharp as a blade poised to strike. “Tell me, Marcus,” she said, her voice low but deliberate.

Marcus’s eyes widened, his lips parting to respond, but the words snagged in his throat. “…you,” he managed, though the word sounded hollow, almost pleading.

She sighed, the weight of it like a stone dropping into still water. “Stop it. You, of all people… Wizards, Witches, Star Children, Astrisants,” she said, her tone laced with something close to exhaustion. Then, almost as if the air between them had grown too thick, she turned sharply, her gaze flicking back to the battle unfolding before them.

She could see them on the other side of the arena—the boy, Jose, Clarissa, and…

Something tugged at her, an unfamiliar pull, like a whisper just on the edge of hearing. She didn’t know what moved her or why, but she could feel it. Something within the veil, something even Henryk, with all his power, couldn’t see.

“That’s not…” She paused, narrowing her eyes as if to focus on something distant. “Who’s piloting that mech?” she asked, pointing upward.

Within the cockpit, Jaicob laughed—a raw, grating sound, his one visible eye glinting under the shadow of his black eyepatch. “I’m gonna kill you, you fag mutant!” he shouted, the venom in his voice matched only by the sneering faces of those around him.

“I…” Marcus hesitated, his voice cracking under an invisible weight. “Iman, I know what you are, but you have no right.”

Iman didn’t flinch. “You think I like this?” she said, her voice tightening, sharp and trembling like the edge of a blade about to snap. “You think I asked to be able to read into people’s heads? It happens, Marcus. Sometimes it happens even more with people who are—” She stopped, catching herself, before stepping closer. Her presence was intense, magnetic, though she didn’t touch him. Instead, she stared into his eyes, her gaze unflinching. “Marcus… Margaret is not good for you.”

Marcus’s eyes widened, then narrowed, his jaw tightening. He shook his head as though trying to physically shove the idea away. “I—I… we are not having this conversation right now,” he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. He waved his hand as if to swat her away. “We’re talking about Piper losing everything. All that rank and fame, straight to the streets. I—”

“You’re struggling with Lucas’s death,” she interrupted, her voice quieter now but piercing all the same. “There’s a sadness in you, Marcus. I can feel it. A great sadness. You’re strong, but…” She hesitated, searching his face. “How is this going to affect you in battle?”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed, his jaw working as if chewing through her words. “What are you talking about?”

“When was the last time you entered a Warcasket?” she asked, her tone flat but pointed.

His eyes widened, a flicker of panic flashing across his face. “Don’t…”

“Yeah, I won’t,” she said quickly, her words spilling out like a dam about to break. “But that’s not it, is it? Something happened out there, Marcus. When you were captured. Why are you hanging out with Henryk? How the hell did you even stumble upon—”

“We were…” Marcus sighed, the fight draining from his voice. “I forgot. You weren’t around back then. You were gone. On a mission. You and the…”

“Yeah,” Iman said, her eyes narrowing as memories stirred. “I missed that whole thing. Zephyr and Clive, that whole mission… fucking mess.”

“W-wait,” Marcus stammered, his eyes darting to her. “Clive? Zephyr sent a whole battalion to assist Clive?”

“Yeah. Why?” she asked, her tone suddenly cautious.

Marcus exhaled deeply. “Fine then. You tell me where you’ve been, and I’ll tell you where I’ve been.”

Iman crossed her arms. “I was at Clive. We were raiding backwater worlds, looking for artifacts. But Clive didn’t find anything of use. Total waste of time. We lost two guys out there… but hey, that’s just life.”

Marcus’s gaze lifted to her, something darker now swimming in his eyes. “We were captured by Jacen’s pirates,” he said, his voice tight. “For… like a day. Just a day…”

“I heard about that,” Iman said, her gaze dropping, her voice quieter now. “I know. That kind of thing—getting captured—it changes people. It always does. And never in a good way.”

“You’re lucky if you’ve got insurance,” Marcus muttered, his hand drifting to scratch the back of his head. “First thing I did when I hit planetside was radio home. My mom practically passed out seeing me again.” He paused, his voice trembling. “You know what it’s like seeing your own gravestone?”

Iman’s eyes widened. “…And they sent you back here?” she asked, incredulous.

Marcus looked away, his jaw tightening again. “Imperial law states that all academy students who pass their first year can become honorary citizens of their house’s main or sub-worlds. You know this. If I gave up… my whole family would be displaced. I’ve got to graduate. I’ve got to make this work.” His arms tightened, fists clenching at his sides.

Iman stared at him, her brow furrowed in thought. “You couldn’t have been gone for just a day…” she started, her voice trailing off. Then her head snapped up. “Wait. A day by them…” She shook her head. “Marcus, stop being cryptic. What happened to you? Your eyes, everything about you—it’s like you’re dragging something back with you.”

Marcus’s hands trembled, his eyes wide and blazing red and white, as if lit by an inner storm. His voice dropped, low and haunted. “I don’t know what we encountered out there,” he said. “But it was the Knights of House Mars who saved us that day.”

And in the silence that followed, Marcus’s mind filled with the sound of Nailer Fire, relentless and unending.

Piper

Henryk’s submachine gun crackled, a rapid staccato of gunfire tearing through the artificial vacuum. The asteroid field was dense, a minefield of floating debris, and he moved through it in bursts—launching, boosting, landing, running. Again and again. His thrusters flared, a burst of blue flame propelling him forward as two opponents closed in behind him.

“Piper… Atticus, what the hell are you doing!?” Henryk shouted, his voice ragged through the comms.

He landed hard on a jagged rock just as Jaicob’s missile came screaming toward him. The Venusian’s machine was sleek and predatory, its purple frame slithering through space like a spear cast from the heavens. Henryk had never fought a Venusian before. He’d heard stories. None of them were comforting.

Jose was just some kid from a colony world—just like Henryk. And yet, here he was, laughing over the comms as his machine fired twin elbow-mounted launchers, the payload streaking toward Henryk like twin fangs.

Henryk twisted away, his thrusters burning at full tilt as he shot upward, barely slipping past the explosion. “Damn it!” His fingers gripped the controls so tight his knuckles went white. He darted a glance at his console, at the sluggish readout of his own speed.

“Even with the damn missile launcher removed, this thing still isn’t fast enough.” He slammed his head against the headrest in frustration. “Damn it all!”

The sense—instinctual, primal—coiled in the back of his skull, an urge whispering at the edge of his thoughts. Move. He didn’t think, just acted. His mech dipped, weaving into the wreckage, scattering debris as he maneuvered through the thickest patch of floating ruin.

Then—

“Henryk, relax,” a voice cut through the chaos, smooth and unmistakably Australian. “We’ve got my cunt of a sister to deal with first.”

Clarissa’s machine emerged from the black, a nightmare of steel and fire. Her tank mech was something different, something unnatural. Instead of treads, it hovered, outfitted with specialized thrusters that let it glide effortlessly through zero gravity. On her back, eight missile launchers gleamed, their stubby mechanical arms pivoting and locking on. A grenade launcher bristled from her left side, a minigun spinning on her right, spitting tungsten rounds into the void.

Her cockpit flared forward in a sharp V-shape, an executioner’s blade bearing down.

“I’m going to enjoy being the only sibling, Atticus!” Her voice was raw with fury, heavy and unyielding.

Piper veered wildly, her mech caught in a haze of fire. The orange paint seared off in great strips, peeling away under the onslaught. “Holy shit—this is what you guys were packing in Earth House?”

“A hybrid-tank Warcasket,” Atticus barked. “Clarissa’s custom-built that thing into a fucking death machine. We’ve got to hit her between the gaps. Focus the missile launchers first, or we’re dead!”

Henryk could hear the strain in her voice, the urgency.

“Henryk, we’re handling this. You’re a Knight of Mars, right? I’ve heard stories about what you people can do.”

The words hit him like a slap.

“Damn you!” Henryk’s voice cracked, something raw and panicked breaking free. “I ain’t one of them… I can’t—I can’t…”

His protests died as a missile screamed toward him, its vapor trail slicing through the void. He barely had time to react before the impact sent him spiraling, his body jerking violently in his harness. His mech slammed hard into an asteroid, the metal groaning under the force. Stars exploded in his vision as his head cracked against the cockpit frame.

“What the hell is he doing?” Axel’s voice cut in from afar, sharp with confusion. “This isn’t how he fought at Oceana.”

Arthur was silent, his eyes fixed on the screen, watching. Witnessing. Henryk’s mech, battered and flaring, drifted unsteadily. His thrusters plumed blue fire, but the shield surrounding him flickered, unstable. For a moment, it was there—vibrant and strong. Then, it shuddered, phasing in and out like a dying ember.

Something was wrong.

And Arthur knew it.

Henryk tried to blast off, but both mechs were on him. They moved in perfect synchrony, beam blades drawn, the energy crackling against the void as they lunged—aiming straight for his cockpit.

“That’s—that’s an illegal hit,” someone muttered from afar, voice tinged with unease. Even in a training duel, a strike like that could kill. The head was the only legal target, that was the rite, the rule. But Henryk…

Iman saw it happen.

Her mind’s eye flashed—a searing bolt of green light in the darkness. And through that split-second vision, Henryk saw it too.

Through the blood trickling down his temple, through the splintered crack in his visor, through the numbing weight of impending unconsciousness—he saw.

For just a moment, his fingers slipped from the controls, and the world behind his eyelids was not his own.

It was hers.

He saw the galaxy, not as stars and planets, not as war and bloodshed, but as threads—golden, living, tethered together in a vast, intricate weave. He saw the currents that bound all things, the silent, invisible forces moving beneath the surface of reality itself. It was beautiful. Terrifying.

There wasn’t even a name for what they were.

And yet, that didn’t matter.

A Knight of Mars—no, a Druid of Mars—that had a better ring to it. A title that could have brought honor, greatness. But was that what he wanted? Was it worth the cost?

No.

His mother. His sisters. His colony.

They were the reason he was here. They were his strength. His foundation. His people.

His tribe.

And from that truth, he pulled something deep, something raw and primal.

“In… one… fell… movement!”

Henryk’s voice roared—not just through his comms, but through every mech, through every cockpit, through the very bones of those present.

A ghostly crackle echoed through the comm channels, and Clarissa’s hands trembled on her controls. The sound—his voice—made her breath hitch, her eyes widen, something etheral clawing at the edges of her mind.

Jose and Jaicob froze. Their breath hitched, their chests seized as if some unseen force had clenched them in a vice. Their Warcaskets buckled under the sudden, instinctual terror.

Piper’s hair whipped as she twisted away, her gut lurching with the memory—this power… She had felt it before. She had tasted it. It had maimed her.

Her gaze snapped toward the lapse in Clarissa’s missile barrage. She could see the flaw, the gap—her console flashing red-hot with calculations, with trajectory readouts. She could mainline it into her eye, take it all in at once.

Her mind flashed to Ernest. To his warnings.

Her fingers hovered over the command.

She sneered.

And she didn’t do it.

Instead, she moved.

Her thrusters flared, a hard roll to the right, but the minigun was too close—spitting tungsten rounds as it shredded through her mech’s left foot, then chewed into the upper leg of her bipedal Warcasket.

She grit her teeth, adjusted—

Pulled the trigger.

The bazooka’s blast roared through space, and the shot rang true.

Clarissa’s Warcasket was thrown backward, sent spiraling into the asteroid belt, vanishing into the chaos of dust and shattered rock.

“Good job, Piper!” Atticus shouted, his mech diving in a cleave, beam blade ignited in a blinding arc.

But Clarissa wasn’t done.

One of the stub arms of her Warcasket snapped upright, a beam blade flashing to life just in time to meet his strike. Sparks spat in every direction as the two weapons crashed together, locking in a molten embrace.

Clarissa was still rattled, her reaction sluggish—Atticus took advantage, snapping a kick into her V-shaped visor. Her head whipped back, cracking against an asteroid with a dull, sickening thud.

He moved to finish it—a side cleave aimed to carve her down.

But Clarissa cut her engines.

She dropped, gravity-free, her thrusters dead silent—until she unleashed a storm of missiles straight at him.

“Ha… got me, sis,” Atticus grunted.

His shield flared, absorbing the barrage, but it was too much. The impact threw him across the battlefield, airbags detonating inside the cockpit as his Warcasket was ripped apart. By the time he stopped tumbling, it was nothing but a limp corpse—no limbs, no head, just a ruin drifting in space.

The intercom blared.

“Atticus of Earth House. Defeated by Clarissa of Earth House.”

“Fuck…” Edward exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. He turned to Henryk and Piper. “Come on, Henryk. You’re the only one who can fly high enough, right?”

Henryk didn’t answer.

He slammed his thrusters forward, his rockets streaking past the two opposing mechs. But instead of pulling for distance—

He howled.

The submachine gun dropped from his grip. He wrenched his father’s evisceration weapon free.

Diamond-tipped chains screamed as they whirled to life, gnashing hungrily against the void.

The Venusian mech never stood a chance.

Henryk tore through it like butcher’s steel through bone, shearing off Jose’s left and right legs in one brutal sweep.

“You think you’re hot shit? You’re dead!” Jaicob roared, lunging.

Beam blade met evisceration weapon, energy and steel clashing in a brutal deadlock. They separated, heat shimmering between them.

Jose fumbled for his beam rifle—

Henryk drove both feet into his cockpit, a savage, two-legged kick that sent Jose careening into a tangled nest of asteroid debris.

Jaicob came again.

Harder this time.

They slammed their throttles, both Warcaskets twisting, spinning, their weapons powering against one another, their engines whining in protest.

Even now—even after everything—a mass-produced Mars Warcasket was holding its own.

“You’re gonna die here, you hick mutant!” Jaicob spat.

Henryk didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

His sneer curled, both hands tightening on his blade’s handle. He forced harder, his muscles straining, thrusters bucking against the asteroid’s gravity.

Jaicob screamed as his back slammed against the asteroid. Sweat beaded across his brow.

And Henryk…

“I can smell your fear, Jaicob.”

The voice didn’t come through the radio.

It was inside his head.

Jaicob’s breath hitched.

“W-what?” he stammered, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest. His mech groaned beneath him, the rockets straining, sputtering under the force. He could hear them wrenching.

“Small men like you…” Henryk’s voice was everywhere—coiling through the static, thick as smoke. “Quick with your words. Quick with your torture. But when it turns onto you… you fear.”

Jaicob could hear his rockets whining.

Could feel them dying.

And then—

Henryk jerked.

A searing pain exploded through his left side.

His eyes widened.

His left arm—gone.

From the elbow down, nothing remained but blackened slag and sparking wires.

A stray beam blast had ripped through him.

Henryk kicked his thrusters into full reverse, breath ragged, chest heaving as he stared at the damage. He barely had time to process before his comm blared to life.

“You good?”

Jose’s voice.

Inside Jaicob’s cockpit.

“Y-yeah…” Jaicob’s voice was shaky. He swallowed hard, his body trembling, his trousers damp.

Jose exhaled. His mech was barely functional—legs severed, his only propulsion now coming from his back rockets. But in zero-g, that was more than enough.

His eyes narrowed.

“Keep pressing him,” Jose said. “He’s already down to one arm. Put him down.”

A pause.

“Remember…” Jose’s voice was a low, measured thing.

“One good shot.”

Jaicob exhaled sharply.

“That’s all we need to make it look like an accident.”

Jaicob nodded. “Of course. For your mother and colony, right?” His voice was steady, but the words carried a quiet weight.

Jose hesitated.

Then, slowly, he nodded. “Sometimes, you’ve got to step on those like you to move up in this universe.” His voice was colder now, resigned. “That’s just the way humanity is.”

With that, he clicked his visor down, sealing himself away behind the black glass. His face vanished, his expression gone—just a voice in the void now.

And then he charged.

The beam rifle kicked in his grip, a burst of light searing across the black. Henryk’s blue rockets flared in the expanse, twisting and burning to stay ahead of the barrage.

Piper was breathing hard, each inhale ragged. She ripped her helmet off, sweat-slicked hair spilling free. Then the jacket came next, tossed aside.

“Fuck it,” she muttered.

Henryk was out there, being hunted.

She exhaled, long and slow.

“If we don’t win this…” Piper’s fingers curled into fists. “My life’s down the drain anyway.”

She hovered, the mech gently shifting beneath her.

From afar, Iman’s voice cut through the intercom.

“What the hell is she doing?”

Marcus’s eyes widened. “Ernest—she’s—”

“Ernest?” Iman repeated. “The lead engineer?”

Piper didn’t hear them.

She pressed a thumb against her false eye, rolling it back ever so slightly. Then, with her other hand, she gripped the red wire and snapped it into place.

A click.

No jolt this time. No sharp, shocking pain.

Instead—

It was like coming alive.

Like a defibrillator to the chest, like breath hitting dead lungs. A sensation that sent something warm and electric curling through her stomach, something she couldn’t name but almost—almost—enjoyed.

Her head snapped forward, breath ragged, pupils blown wide as the wire trailed from her cheek like a scarlet tear.

“You wanna play?”

Piper licked the blood from her lips, nostrils seeping red.

“I’ll give you a fucking show.”

And then she dove.

Thrusters cut, gravity took, and she fell.

“Damn you!” Clarissa roared, her entire canopy of weapons erupting.

Missiles. Rail rounds. Beam fire.

All of it.

Piper punched the throttle.

Her Warcasket responded—like it knew her now, like it was alive with her, an extension of her nerve endings. She zigged, zagged, burning through space at impossible angles, dodging through the storm of gunfire with a speed that shouldn’t have been possible.

“This shit shouldn’t even be fair!” Piper’s laugh crackled through the radio, manic and breathless. “That thing you’re piloting? That ain’t a damn school fighting Warcasket!”

Clarissa had no time to respond.

Piper moved like something unleashed.

She twisted, whipping past, her bazooka kicking against her shoulder as she fired, her own rounds screaming back at Clarissa.

From the distance, Marcus could only stare.

“Holy shit…”

Margaret—who had been scanning for Marcus just moments ago—froze in place.

The others watched, their expressions a mix of awe, terror, disbelief.

Piper howled inside her cockpit.

She pulled the trigger again.

The shot slammed into Clarissa’s mech helmet—blood splattered inside the cockpit, fast, sudden.

Piper saw red.

Beam blade drawn—

She spun.

A single, flourishing cleave.

Clarissa’s mech lurched, her Warcasket’s head separating from the body in a clean, burning slice.

Both mechs fell.

Clarissa’s cockpit tumbled into the void, spinning wildly. Piper’s own mech was drifting, its movements sluggish, weak.

Piper could only watch, her vision swimming. She smirked, but it was lazy, unfocused.

“…Huh,” she murmured, voice slurring as blood trickled from her nose. “That… hasn’t happened before.”

The cockpit swayed. Her arms felt leaden. Her head lolled.

She exhaled, closing her eyes.

“It’s all up to you now, Henryk.”

Darkness took her.

Jose kept firing, his Venusian mech weaving through the black, beam rifle scorching the dark in rapid bursts. Jaicob’s Warcasket veered left, then right, dodging the supercharged blasts, each shot a fraction too slow to connect.

“Hit the mutant!” Jaicob snarled into the radio, panic bleeding into his voice.

Henryk ignored him.

He took aim—not at Jaicob, but at the asteroid beside him. His Martian rifle hummed, then fired, the shot detonating the rock in an explosion of dust and shrapnel.

Jaicob howled, his mech lurching sideways, caught in the sudden blast wave.

Henryk snapped his body around, using the force of his thrusters to spin himself midair. He twisted, realigning himself—now directly facing his two approaching enemies.

Jose and Jaicob.

The battlefield was narrowing.

Henryk lifted his last remaining arm, rifle aimed squarely at Jaicob’s cockpit. He barely had to adjust—Jaicob was coming straight at him.

For a split second, Jaicob knew.

He was cooked.

Henryk had him dead to rights. The shot lined up, the moment stretched out. Jaicob could almost see the trigger squeeze, feel the purple plasma slicing through his hull, vaporizing him before he even knew what had happened.

But Henryk hesitated.

Not out of mercy.

Not even out of doubt.

But because, for a brief moment, his mind flickered—unbidden, unwanted—to the image of her. The enigmatic orange-haired girl.

Piper.

Henryk didn’t know why, but it was enough of a delay that something inside him clenched. Old-world rules. Old-world honor. This was a duel—a game, for all its brutality. Killing Jaicob outright in front of everyone, in front of his house, in front of her…

He didn’t need to.

Didn’t want to.

But still—

His finger twitched.

A bright flash erupted from the muzzle.

The beam lanced through Jaicob’s mech, striking the head unit. The Warcasket pitched, trailing smoke, slamming into an asteroid with bone-rattling force before bouncing back into open space, spinning, burning.

“Someone—get a recovery team out there!” A voice cracked over the comms, panic barely contained. House Neptune’s members lurched to move, but then came the snickers.

The other houses—Venus, Earth, Mars—they laughed.

Neptune had lost. Again.

And suddenly, Henryk felt it.

This wasn’t just a fight between students. This wasn’t just House Earth versus House Venus.

This was bigger.

Something was wrong.

But before the thought could root deeper—

Jose barreled toward him, his rifle still firing even as the barrel glowed with heat. It was overheating, but he didn’t stop, not until the weapon clicked, drained.

“Just lay down and die like a dog, Henryk Brown!”

Jose’s voice was raw with fury as he ripped his beam blade from his back.

Henryk didn’t hesitate. His own evisceration weapon hissed to life, its diamond-edged chains whirring, screaming as he brought it to bear.

They clashed—

A storm of wild, frenzied blows.

Henryk threw a brutal kick, but Jose barely flinched, slamming his throttle forward, dragging Henryk with him as they spiraled in a violent grapple.

Henryk twisted, drove his knee into Jose’s cockpit. The impact sent a shudder through the frame.

“Take this!” Henryk snarled, twisting his body and slamming an elbow into Jose’s mech.

Jose reeled, tried to break away—

But Henryk was on him.

Chasing him down.

“Where you running, Jose?” Henryk’s voice crackled over the radio, mocking now. “You out of shit to talk?”

Henryk swung, his evisceration blade coming down—

Jose lifted his beam saber to block—

And then twisted, cracking back with the blade in a feint.

A trap.

“Why are you fighting me?!” Henryk’s voice cracked as he roared through the comms, his Warcasket thrusters sputtering as he pushed forward. “I—I know you, Jose!”

Jose’s laughter was sharp, bitter. “You know me? You don’t know shit!” His voice spat static. “We were just two losers who sat next to each other. You don’t mean anything to me.”

Henryk’s grip tightened on the controls, his breath coming short and ragged. “So all that talk—about our mothers, our backgrounds, all of that—it was nothing?”

A pause.

For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of fire, the distant hum of engines. Then, Jose’s voice came low, steady.

“I’m capable of doing whatever I need to succeed.”

Henryk’s sneer twisted into something colder. He whipped his Warcasket’s leg around, the heavy metal foot crashing into Jose’s mech, sending him reeling. Both machines slammed into the void, thrusters sputtering as they fought for control.

Jose recovered first, his beam blade carving an arc of burning light as he lunged.

Henryk reacted instinctively.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

His hand snapped up in a counter-feint, twisting Jose’s strike wide. Jose tried to correct, raising his arm to block—

Too late.

Yellow light erupted around Henryk’s Warcasket like a dying sun, electric arcs dancing from his fingers to the edges of his evisceration weapon. His body burned, every nerve screaming—

And then, so did Jose.

Henryk’s blade tore through the cockpit, shearing clean through Jose’s mech from thigh to stomach, from chest to opposite shoulder. The severed arm spun away in a slow, floating spiral.

The silence stretched.

Henryk stumbled back, panting, blinking hard as his vision wavered between the blinding light and the twisted wreckage before him.

His hands shook.

The Warcasket’s servos whined as he forced himself to look at what he’d done.

“Guys… I—I did it…” His voice cracked, but no one responded.

No cheers. No cries of victory.

Only silence.

Then—

BZZZT.

Sparks erupted from the wound in Jose’s mech, pilot lights flickering—one last desperate grasp at life before—

Fire.

The explosion ripped through the suit, flames blooming outward in a violent cascade, consuming the machine in an instant. The force sent Henryk reeling, the plume of smoke and ash scorching the paint from his Warcasket, burning his tabard to charred ribbons.

He watched, breathless, as the last pieces of Jose disintegrated.

The comms were dead silent.

And then—

“Henryk…” Piper’s voice cut through the static, trembling.

He barely heard her.

The voices swirled in his head—echoing, overlapping, warping. He felt them, heard them, but they found no purchase.

Henryk screamed.

He screamed like a wounded animal, raw, unrelenting.

“Henryk!” Piper called again, but he wasn’t listening.

He was seeing.

The way the other pilots were staring. Not at Jose’s wreckage—no, not anymore.

At him.

At what he’d done.

What he was.

The fear in their eyes crawled up his spine like ice.

Even the ones on his side—Marcus, Iman, even Margaret—they stared. Like he was something else. Something other.

“Henryk, look at me!” Piper’s voice cracked this time. “You—You lost control! You—”

He couldn’t breathe.

Jose’s scream still lingered. He could hear it, somewhere beneath the static, beneath the hum of his failing thrusters.

And suddenly, he wasn’t screaming anymore.

He was just… staring.

At the charred void.

At the pieces drifting away.

At nothing.