The room hummed with quiet energy.
Some leaned against walls or perched on tables, trading jokes and stories in hushed tones, their laughter breaking through the low murmur from time to time. Others moved in pairs, looking over gear or tending to gadgets in one manner or another.
At one corner, one figure swayed to an unheard beat; his feet tapped out a continuous rhythm against the worn floorboards.
He moved with fluidity, a series of rhythmical dances that were abstract and from another world of his own.
At the other end of the hall, three men squabbled over a deck of scuffed cards, their raucous voices just audible enough to cause a tide of mirth to eddy around the listeners.
The air was the faint scent of gun oil and sweat mingling with the sharp tang of metal from stacks of dismantled weapons. It wasn't noisy, but the constant shifting of bodies and the occasional scrape of boots against the floor created a kind of background hum that made the quiet feel alive.
None of them wore matching uniforms but were instead clad in mismatched, casual layers intended to be hidden beneath their armor-thin undershirts, tactical pants, and sturdy boots.
The door banged open, silencing the chatter for a moment. A tall man strode in; no words were said, but his presence was commanding.
Sunglasses perched on his nose glinted under the dim ceiling light, obscuring his expression, but his easy grin was unmistakable.
His neatly styled black hair looked like it hadn't moved an inch since he walked out of a barbershop.
Slung across his broad, tan-brown arms were a handful of assault rifles, their sleek, black barrels gleaming like predators in the faint light. His muscular forearms strained slightly under the weight, veins pulsing like taut cords beneath his skin. The faint clink of metal accompanied each step, punctuating his confident stride.
"Hey!"
He called out, his voice rich and slightly gravelly.
"I have some new guns for you to try out!"
Conversations paused, heads turned, and even the dancing figure stopped mid-spin to glance over.
A murmur of interest rippled through the room as eyes zeroed in on the weapons, their weighty promise cutting through the lighthearted air like the first crack of thunder before a storm.
The man reputed to be the boss - Alduin - sat at the far end of the room, hunched over a table littered with cartridges and empty magazines.
His gloved hands slid the.308 Winchester rounds into the 20-round magazine as though he had done this a thousand times. Four magazines, fully loaded, aligned nicely beside him, shining under the poor overhead light. A fifth was almost full.
Despite the office's cramped, slightly humid air, Alduin remained in his signature attire: the hood wide over his shoulders, casting a shadow so deep that half his face was swallowed by darkness, and beneath it, his mask firmly in place.
“The AC is broken.”
A voice came from the corner, cutting through the room’s quiet hum.
“You don’t want to damage that mask again, boss.”
The speaker wasn't a really intimidating man—Chubby face and prey eyes. For some reason, his personality was quite the opposite.
The response was immediate and explosive. Alduin slammed the freshly loaded magazine onto the table that made the cartridges rattle.
Rising from his chair, he flung the magazine at the corner with startling accuracy.
“Shut your dirty mouth up, ballsack!”
Alduin roared, his voice like thunder in the confined space.
The man in the corner dodged the flying magazine.
“Do you think I’ll just forget what happened after that suicide drone blasted your damn head off?! Huh?!”
The room fell dead silent. All conversations ceased; all idle movements froze. All eyes turned to Alduin.
The others instinctively straightened, their postures snapping to attention as if Alduin's anger was a physical force that demanded respect.
But through all the tension, one was unbothered. Rocky, who sat several feet away and halfway through refilling his own magazine, cast a sideways glance in the commotion's direction. His gaze held for a half-second on Alduin before he rolled his eyes and continued working, saying something under his breath.
The man who'd just entered the room—a stout figure with rifles slung over his shoulders—froze mid-step.
Wordlessly, he quickly laid the guns down beside the door, straightened his uniform, and leaned back against the wall.
Alduin's grip on the magazine tightened, his knuckles white as veins bulged against his skin.
His forearm shook with the effort of restraint in holding his frustration back. The memory of that fight was so alive in his mind, he had Ezra right in his sights, kill certain, and yet. the Lynx had interfered.
He could still hear the hum of the hostile drone, feel the bitter sting of failure gnawing at his pride.
His gaze remained fixed on the desk, as if staring hard enough might rewrite the past.
Around him, the whispers began-soft, almost imperceptible murmurs shared between the others. Heads leaned in close, voices barely audible, yet Alduin didn't need to hear them to know what they were saying.
The man who almost got a magazine thrown at him didn't budge, though. He stood rooted to his spot. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his mind replaying the fight.
The door creaked open suddenly, and all eyes shifted toward the entrance.
A figure sauntered in, drawing every gaze. The long white hair swayed with every step as red eyes gleamed bright with a mischievous light. The bunny ears atop the head twitched a little with every movement, the rest moved with feline grace, arms swinging casually at the sides. Every step of the confident catwalk seemed designed to mock the tension in the room.
The person stopped just before Alduin's desk, leaning forward with a playful smirk spread across the face.
"Man, it's just a game…"
The person cooed, a cute girlish voice lilting in a teasing melody.
"Don't be so hard on yourself, okay~?"
The room drew in one tense breath, before every pair of eyes flickered from the bunny-eared intruder back to Alduin. The tension had reached critical levels before his words finally sliced through it like a knife.
“What the fuck?”
One man whispered, his voice barely audible but sharp enough to cut.
Before anyone could intervene, Alduin's hand darted into his pocket, drawing a pistol in a fluid motion. Without hesitation, he aimed low and fired.
The bullet hissed through the air, skimming dangerously close to the white-haired intruder's crotch but missing the mark. Their breath hitched.
Immediately, Alduin's aim shifted, and he squeezed the trigger again.
The second shot didn't miss.
The intruder's head snapped back, crimson blooming from the impact. The body crumpled to the floor, blood spreading like ink on paper. The room froze as every breath was caught in every chest and every eye shut tight from the deafening gunshot that reverberated across the narrow space.
But Alduin wasn't done.
He emptied the rest of the magazine into the intruder's forehead. Each shot punctuated by the metallic crack of the slide.
The others winced, eyes squeezed shut, ears ringing from the relentless gunfire.
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When the last shell casing clinked onto the floor, Alduin stood motionless, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.
He tilted his head, his gaze blank as he pressed the warm muzzle of the gun against his own temple.
And then—he pulled the trigger.
Click.
The empty chamber echoed hollowly.
Slowly, the others opened their eyes, their faces pale, their breathing shaky.
Alduin remained where he was, sweat trickling down his forehead as his breaths came in short, labored bursts. His hand holding the gun trembled slightly, the anger in his eyes now replaced by something indescribable.
Nobody dared move. Nobody dared speak.
Arwan lifted the rifles, carrying them to Alduin's desk. He did not say a word; his expression was stoic as he placed the weapons carefully in front of his boss. Then, he tossed a small silver key to the man near a safe.
Arya caught it in mid-air and turned to that safe immediately. The characteristic click of the lock sounded across the room as the heavy door creaked open.
Inside, the arsenal gleamed under the faint light-an assortment of finely crafted weapons lined meticulously, as if on display in some private collection. Each had its own set of accessories: high-grade sights, ergonomic grips, collapsible stocks, and silencers arranged neatly in their slots.
Alduin's voice cut through the silence, low and commanding.
"Arwan, Arya, Rocky, Reese, Vega, Pharrell, Rafael, Danny, Hassan, Hans Edward,
He listed, his tone sharp. He paused for the briefest of moments, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.
"Man your weapons."
"Yes, sir!"
The response came in unison, like a drumbeat, loud and resolute. The men in question moved, stepping forward to claim their assigned firearms.
Inside the box, an exceptional array of weapons was arranged, each a testament to their purpose. The AAC Honey Badger Assault Rifle gleamed bright in the light, his frame compact, promising both agility and firepower. The long-barreled KAC M110 Designated Marksman Rifle lay beside it, exuding confidence as if it would get its targets from afar.
The P90 sat ready for action, its bullpup design distinctive, its compact shape promising a quick draw in tight situations. Two OA-93 pistols were laid next to it, sleek and minimalist, their modern lines drawing the eye. The Winchester M1887, with its classic wooden stock, stood out-a piece that felt as much a part of history as it was a weapon, the smooth action inviting memories of old westerns.
The 40mm Milkor MGL Revolving Grenade Launcher was lying there ominously, its multiple chambers hinting at chaos just waiting to be unleashed. Two Desert Eagles gleamed with polished metal, their weight promising a serious impact, while the Koch USP added a sense of reliability, its grip familiar and comforting.
The Schmidt M1882 revolver sat proudly nearby, its artfully patterned form a contrast to the utterly modern pieces. The AA12 shotgun was all intimidating bulk, promising unrelenting firepower; the M1870 Italian Vetterli represented the classic bolt-action sniper rifle, promising quiet precision from a distance. And at the very rear, there was the HK-417.
Everybody did, reaching for weapons of choice. But Alduin himself took the HK-417 for himself.
***
Ezra walked down the dark hallway; his footsteps echoed against the tile floor. The air felt heavier the closer he got to the principal's office.
He stopped in front of the door, his hand hovering over the cold metal handle. Above the door, a faded hanging sign said Principal's Office.
He looked to his back. The window that he flew out of was open.
Ezra closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the stale air of the corridor.
"Only one God exists."
He muttered under his breath, as if the words were some sort of talisman.
Slowly, he pressed the handle down. The mechanism clicked softly, and he nudged the door open, his body tensing as though bracing for an explosion.
Nothing.
The room beyond was whole, no sudden blasts or hidden traps. Ezra exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Stepping cautiously into the office, his eyes were immediately drawn to the glow of a projector illuminating the far wall. The screen displayed nothing but a blank, black rectangle.
Carina sat at the desk, her posture as casual as her expression was sharp.
Her chair was reclined, her legs crossed, and her boot heels perched on the edge of the desk while the faint sheen on her leather caught the projector's glow. Her fingers were tapping out a time on the armrest as though accompanied by an unheard cadence.
Ezra’s gaze darted around the room. A few of Carina’s team stood nearby, their attention focused on the conversation before them.
“Anything new?”
Carina asked, her voice smooth but with an undertone of impatience.
“Yes. The Obsidian Compass. We’ve detected it using the gravity sensor.”
The young man’s voice replied.
Carina leaned forward slightly, the change in posture making her appear even more commanding. The glow from the projector highlighted the sharp lines of her face, her eyes narrowing as she considered the words.
“Good.”
She said, dragging the word out like a verdict.
“Any other details?”
“We’re still triangulating its exact location. Current error margin is approximately four cubic kilometers. Once we’ve pinpointed it, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Alright.”
Carina replied, leaning back again, her heels gently placed against the desk as she resumed her earlier position.
The screen flickered as the call disconnected, the projector’s light turning a dull blue.
Ezra lingered near the doorway, hesitant to interrupt. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the projector’s fan. Then, Carina tilted her head slightly, finally noticing him.
“Oh, Hi Ezra.”
She said without looking directly at him.
Ezra straightened instinctively, as though he’d been caught eavesdropping.
“Oh-I, uh… just wanted to report in.”
“Please come in and close the door.”
Carina replied.
Ezra immediately walked inside and closed the door. He then just stood in front of the door.
“Stan, your reports please.”
Carina ordered.
“Yes. According to our supply crew, our munitions and guns are running low. Estimated munition sufficiency is just until 2 battles.”
Stan answered, reading the list in the book he was holding.
“Since we got a new guy here, shouldn't we give him some new guns too?”
Adit suggested too.
“You're right.”
Carina took her heels off the table, pressed a certain button on her laptop as the projector shifted the image into an underground tunnel.
“This afternoon, we will start Operation Hunter Killer!”
Ezra suddenly began to tremble, as he mumbled the word “Hunter Killer”, the first thing that came into his mind was a submerged nuclear submarine firing torpedoes into another submerged nuclear submarine.
“What's wrong, Ezra?”
Oliver asked him.
“Ah, I'm actually seasick so I guess I'll pa—”
Ezra tried to answer him.
“What are you talking about?”
Carina cut him off.
“We're going to the underground mine.”
“Oh, underground mine, thank God!”
Ezra exclaimed in relief, then took his words back again.
“Underground?!”
“How stupid…”
Davin muttered as he was assembling more Hunter Killer Drones.
“We call it Subterranean Layer 7.”
Carina began, her tone matter-of-fact.
“It’s located 7,000 meters below the surface. That’s where we store and research our blueprints and weapons.”
“Like a bunker for valuable stuff?”
Ezra asked, tilting his head slightly.
“More than just a bunker.”
Carina’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“One sheet of R&D down there is worth more than the entire location.”
Ezra frowned.
“What if the enemy finds out about it?”
“Then it becomes a race.”
Carina crossed her arms.
“Fortunately, the trap systems and the sheer depth of the place are enough to discourage most from even trying.”
She pulled out her phone and tapped a number, bringing it to her ear. After a brief moment, someone picked up.
“Pungkas, we’re diving for the compass this afternoon. Disarm the traps.”
“Copy that. Have a safe trip.” Came the curt reply before the line disconnected.
Carina pocketed her phone and turned back to the group.
“Alright, rearm and reload. We’re taking everyone here.”
Adit glanced around the room.
“Wait, where’s Senu?”
“That idiot’s probably off doing shit again.”
Oliver muttered.
“Doesn’t matter.”
He added.
“Ezra’s a better rusher than him anyway.”
“By the way, Carina, who’s that big guy I fought yesterday? His friends called him Alduin.”
Ezra asked.
Carina arched an eyebrow.
“The one with the mask covering his entire face?”
“Yeah, him.”
“People used to call him Orion.”
She said.
“Orion?”
Ezra echoed.
“That sounds more like a callsign than a name.”
“Haven’t you realized yet?”
Oliver interjected, suddenly appearing beside him.
“All of our names are pseudonyms.”
Ezra blinked in confusion.
Oliver grinned.
“We have real names, but we don’t use them. Some of us even have more than one pseudonym.”
Carina nodded.
“That’s why, on your first day, I asked for your full name. You couldn’t remember it, could you?”
Ezra’s eyes widened.
“Wait… so my name…”
“Is also your pseudonym.”
Carina finished for him, smirking.
“But what about Orion's ‘Alduin’?”
Ezra pressed.
“Why would people name him after a video game character? Isn’t that… copyright or something?”
Carina chuckled softly.
“Orion is just another pseudonym.”
“And Alduin?”
Ezra asked again.
“Yes.”
Carina and Oliver said in unison.
***
Two men stood by the window, their gazes fixed on the hill beyond.
The first stared quietly, his eyes lingering on the tall wall and the empty artillery howitzer perched atop it.
The second man fished a lighter out of his pocket, flicking it open with practiced ease.
“You're quite the smoker, huh?”
The first man remarked, breaking the silence.
The lighter's flame flared to life, illuminating the second man’s face for a brief moment. His gray-blue eyes reflected the glow as the tip of his cigarette began to burn. His short hair, thick with streaks of premature white, seemed to catch the light.
“Can't help it.”
The smoker replied, exhaling a plume of smoke.
“Been at it since I was young.”
The other man wrinkled his nose.
“You know your lungs are turning into jerky, right, Caleb?”
Caleb smirked, taking another drag before speaking.
“You should worry about yourself, Aban. If you're standing here, inhaling my smoke, you're not exactly winning any awards for clean living.”
Aban waved a hand dismissively and turned back to the window, his attention shifting to the artillery reflecting sunlight. Two bot soldiers walked towards it and sat beside the artillery.
The silence stretched, filled only by the faint rustling of the wind outside.
Finally, Aban spoke again, his tone casual yet pointed.
“Danny said you were killed yesterday. Shot by some guy with an AK-47. Said you fell straight into the loader’s room with a hole in your skull.”
Caleb stiffened, his sharp gaze locking onto Aban. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Caleb opened the window, flicked his cigarette into the open air, and blew the last of the smoke into the wind, some came out of his nose.
“I don’t recall dying.”
He said, his voice flat but firm.
Aban was undeterred.
“That guy who shot you—before he used an AK, he had a shotgun. Charged in solo to take on the Architect.”
“I know him.”
Caleb cut him off, leaning against the window frame.
“Great reflexes. Hitting the Architect with 11 buckshot rounds at CQB range? That's a damn good aim. But this time, you're rushing.”
Aban shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“Who’s stronger? You or him?”
Caleb shot him a side eye.
“You tell me.”
Aban looked to the sky, as if the drifting clouds held the answer. After a moment, he answered.
“If he’s got that same shotgun and rushes me with every round loaded, it’d be a problem.”
Caleb leaned closer.
“But would you die?”
Aban snorted, glancing at Caleb.
“Nah…I’d live.”