City-21 “Kyiv,” UNSA Protectorate, Avril Dominion
Sky Bastion “Queen Lamarck,” Strategic Headquarters of the Fourth Division of the Internal Security and Counterintelligence Service
Jurgen von Scholz, August 14, 2049, 06:01 AM
Only half an hour had passed since the end of the renouncers’ operation. All the Shaiszu that broke through the two “wandering” portals near the Wall’s future site had been neutralized. The Protectorate Army was preparing for a potential new Shaiszu attack — unfortunately, according to analysts, the likelihood of this was alarmingly high.
Engineering services had begun extinguishing fires and clearing the wreckage at the remains of the Factory. Security’s forensic robots were already conducting preliminary surveys of the surrounding sections, paying special attention to where the renouncers had launched their drones, bombs, and ground robots.
As for the Internal Security and Counterintelligence officers, it was time to draw the first conclusions, right on the heels of the operation.
“Oberst-Lieutenant Waldemarson, report on screen, please.”
“Yes, sir,” nodded the tall blonde, her hair tied into two long braids hanging down to her waist.
“Let’s begin,” von Scholz’s voice was, as always, emotionless, his demeanor calm, and his expression remarkably restrained. Only senior officers, who had worked alongside him for decades, could tell that the head of the service was deeply displeased.
The first slide appeared on the screen.
“The ‘Socials’ have done an excellent job this time. The perfect image of an ‘internal enemy’ was crafted — a ruthless, bloodthirsty beast that, like a true animal, who will stop at nothing.”
The slide switched to the next one.
“They even pulled off the classic propaganda trope, seen in every possible world: the ‘grieving mother whose sons were killed by rebel bombs.’ And they did it brilliantly, making it incredibly convincing. Most of the public will believe the renouncers deliberately targeted the relocation camp full of civilians waiting for resettlement.”
Von Scholz clasped his hands behind his back and scanned the room with a cold, piercing gaze.
“It’s six in the morning now, and the first major news broadcast won’t air until seven. But the Surveillance and Control Service has already recorded excellent numbers in the collection of Geist-Tokens throughout the city. Twenty-seven percent above the norm.”
A new slide appeared on the screen.
“The Kriegsherzog was highly impressed by the materials received. A significant portion of it will be broadcast not only in local news but planet-wide. And some of this footage,” von Scholz gestured to the screen, “could even make its way into the world of the Great Spheres.”
Another slide.
“The military. Not bad. The use of androids disguised as live soldiers, as always, justified itself. They showed exactly as many casualties as the Department of Social Psychology required.”
“As for the real losses,” von Scholz continued, “the numbers are excellent. Ninety-six percent of those killed during the mission were on the liquidation list, agreed upon by the Fourth Army’s Analytics Department, our service, and signed off by the High Priest.”
Another slide: “Preliminary results of the Internal Security and Counterintelligence Service.”
“Now… our work. So, officers, the first bomb. Yes, it was difficult to predict its appearance; it’s high-tier local military tech. Nevertheless, it ended up in the hands of common bandits. And that, no matter the case, is our failure.” He emphasized the last word with his voice.
“I’m not interested in excuses or theories. We might have underestimated the level of local corruption, or we may have misjudged the social status of the group controlling the Factory.”
The Oberst-Protector clasped his hands behind his back again, his sharp gaze scanning the room.
“But the result is the same — our department messed up. The list of potential breach sites was prepared and delivered on time. We were obligated to discover this bomb beforehand.”
It felt like the air in the room was starting to freeze...
“Next. The second wave. Our most critical failure. How did the renouncers manage to deceive us? Why didn’t our intelligence immediately report that the subsequent bombs were merely distractions? Why didn’t the intel about the real threat being limited to just one powerful bomb arrive in time?”
He paused, pacing along the screen.
“Let me remind you: had we known, the Barrier Deployment order could have acted sooner, despite the Shaiszu threat. We could’ve trapped far more renouncers in the city.”
Jurgen von Scholz sighed, switching the screen to a large holographic map. Operation “Renouncers” had unveiled an unpleasant new reality for HIS Service, one he’d personally never encountered on this scale. The Oberst-Protector raised his gaze, coldly scrutinizing those seated opposite him, and continued:
“These events, without question, demonstrate an extraordinarily high level of the renouncers’ organization. Their coordination was impressive at every stage, from preparation to execution. And we failed to anticipate it. This is unacceptable.”
He spoke slowly, emphasizing every word.
“It seems,” he went on, crossing his arms behind his back, “the renouncers were equipped with reliable communication. And considering all the measures we implemented for electronic warfare, they clearly used TACTA’s secured network.”
He paused again, allowing the gravity of his words to settle over the room.
“How could this have happened?” He posed the rhetorical question. “There are two possibilities. One: they somehow acquired several communication modules and pre-coordinated summoning the Drones in advance. Two: the more troubling option — this could be a provocation from TACTA itself. That would explain how the rebels so quickly and precisely chose and used TACTA’s equipment.”
Jurgen turned back to the tactical map.
“Think about it. For the first time in our experience, nearly one hundred percent of the renouncers chose the same method of escape — stealth tech. This was an organized group plan, not improvisation. That means we can expect more attempts.”
He confidently marked several points on the map, tagging potential renouncer enclaves in Kyiv.
“Our forecasts indicate there are still several groups in the city that may attempt to pull off this trick again. The surveillance must be intensified — this gives us a chance to learn more. Accelerating agent infiltration and using every necessary method — are a must. We cannot allow anyone to outmaneuver us again.”
Jurgen fell silent, surveying the officers gathered in the room.
“In any case,” he continued, his voice now slightly softer though the tension remained, “we have prisoners. Work with them. By noon, I want every scrap of information we can get. Even the smallest fragment might be the key we need.”
He turned to his aide, Oberleutnant Leony Waldemarson, and added:
“I’ll need a detailed report on the other numbered cities. What happened here — was it a fluke, a unique situation, or part of a larger trend? Bring in additional analysts. I’ll also send a request to the Great Father, the True Keeper of Thought, the Embodied Eternal Sun, for a few Analytical Threads from the Temple to assist in this matter.”
Von Scholz stopped again, standing still in silence. There was a brief pause, his gaze remaining as heavy and impeccably cold as ever.
“We’re all in for far more trouble than you can possibly imagine.”
Of course, he kept those words to himself. His subordinates, who would soon leave this hall, didn’t need to hear them; they’d better go, motivated to fix their failures. As for those who’d stay behind — they already understood this reality all too well.
“Dismissed, gentlemen, ladies,” he finally said, gesturing to the exit. “Get to work.”
The officers began slowly rising, preparing to leave the operations room, but Jurgen raised his hand.
“Team Nine,” he said. “Stay. We need to discuss something...”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
* * *
Von Scholz silently entered the small tactical room, followed by the most trusted officers from whom he had formed Team Nine, specifically to carry out the directive to find and capture Maksim’s group. As the door quietly sealed behind them, without a word, he activated the “Closed Session” protocol. Now, anything said or done in this room was a matter strictly for the Internal Security Service.
He sharply turned toward the team; his expression was still unreadable. Though the tension in his gaze made it clear — what had just been discussed in the previous room wasn’t the whole story. And what they were about to hear now… they wouldn’t like it.
“Gentlemen,” began the Oberst-Protector. Despite the calm and confident tone of his voice, the seasoned officers who had served under him for years already knew where this was headed. “This is a total failure.”
Jurgen paused for a moment, motioning toward the tactical table.
“And I believe it happened because none of us took Directive 9/00 seriously enough. I’ll go further — I underestimated the situation myself,” he continued. “Unlike our enemies.”
Von Scholz switched the table into 3D Holographic Map mode, displaying the western outskirts of Kyiv. With a controlled layer, he added all Protectorate equipment, including patrol drones, and rewound the timeline to 4:47 AM.
“This was one of the key escape routes. We knew the renouncers might use stealth modules to break through, so we were prepared. Even when most patrol units were recalled due to the bomb incident, there were still had enough machines for a swift response.”
He zoomed in on the critical moment of the breach, displaying the details in high resolution.
“Right here,” von Scholz highlighted the area where the renouncers’ vehicle was likely located, “their driver made a mistake. Minor, but enough for the Tower’s sensors to detect. This allowed us to sound the alarm in time and send drones for search and intercept. Such trap corridors were set up along nearly all breach points, though they didn’t work as effectively as we’d hoped. We’ll address why that happened separately.”
He paused, casting a cold glance at his officers, his voice turning harder, ringing with a steely edge.
“But then the Shaiszu entered the scene.”
Von Scholz pulled up the footage showing the exact moment the creatures emerged from the portals. The Shaiszu moved at incredible speed, their claws effortlessly tearing through vehicles, destroying patrol drones despite the Protectorate’s firepower.
He fast-forwarded the timeline to the portal opening and layered the display with infographics detailing the paths of each creature, including a swarm of fiery wasps, marked as a singular entity.
“We know one of the Shaiszu Matriarchs is already on the planet. The reason for this is another matter, one that shows just how serious and dangerous the situation is. That’s also a topic for later discussion. For now, let’s focus on the recent operation. The Shaiszu’s ability to interfere with our missions is a fact. The main question is — why did they intervene now? Why did they assist the renouncers? What could they possibly gain?”
Jurgen frowned, contemplating his next words. After a brief pause, he continued.
“My intuition tells me they know about Alisa. She might be their target. And here,” he pointed to the section marked by the mediaglyph “Presumably, renouncer’s vehicle, type: cargo transport.”
“That’s exactly where she was. Along with Maksim Chernykh’s entire team, including Alisa and the equipment for running Moira, their AI. I can’t see any other reason for the Shaiszu’s behavior. We know the Hive’s psychology well enough, know how they operate, so I’m confident in my conclusions.”
He fast-forwarded the projection to the moment the force field appeared.
“But if that’s the case,” the Oberst-Protector stopped, his gaze fixed on the tactical projection, “why didn’t they capture them earlier? The behavior of the younger Shaiszu during this event clearly shows they knew where the truck was. Perhaps they could even see it.”
He slammed his palms down onto the tactical table.
“Yet instead of capturing or even destroying it, they HELPED the renouncers escape the city. Why? What game is the Matriarch playing? I don’t understand, and that’s what troubles me most.”
The room fell into heavy silence. The officers sat in stillness, fully aware they weren’t just in the presence of a military leader — they were facing someone who likely knew more about the Shaiszu than even the High Priests of the Temple.
Someone who had waged an unending war against the Shaiszu across multiple worlds for over two centuries. Who had led the Fourth Division of the UNSA Internal Security and Counterintelligence Service, Avril Dominion, for one hundred and twelve years without pause.
He had personally encountered threats that went far beyond common understanding.
More than anyone else, he knew that the Shaiszu were more than just enemies to the inhabitants of the Great Spheres. And now, they had become an unpredictable factor, one that could derail the Protectorate’s meticulously crafted plans for this undoubtedly promising world.
Worse still, they had become their rivals in the struggle for the most important prize, one that had been at the heart of conflict since the era of the Exodus.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this. This kind of mistake won’t happen again.”
The Oberst-Protector decisively wiped all projections from the table and switched it into group work mode.
“I’ve finished the briefing. Let’s begin the session, senior officers.”
----------------------------------------
She stood still with her eyes closed. Completely relaxed, ready to snap into full concentration in an instant. In her hands, she held two rapid-fire electromagnetic needle guns.
Waiting.
Breathing steadily.
It was about to begin.
A short inhale.
A sharp, double exhale.
In just a second, it would start! A flash of intuition yanked her instantly into battle mode.
A quick, deep breath.
The transparent tubes running from her back to her nostrils instantly filled with a dense, neon yellow gas.
Pure Geist-Lumen surged into her lungs — a deadly poison, even a small concentration in the air would kill a large, healthy person in seconds.
But for her, it had become the very foundation of life.
Her irises changed, dilated, filling with the color of molten gold. At that moment, it was as if she could sense the world in a whole new way — every slightest movement, the faintest whisper of sound. The air around her trembled, defying the laws of physics. A subtle refraction of light highlighted the effect, making the space seem fluid, almost unreal.
The training ground came to life, and the bots suddenly materialized from all sides, moving chaotically and unpredictably. The first shots rang out. Protectorate drills left no room for hesitation — and her body had already begun acting on its own, dodging the incoming fire.
Everything here was real — not Death, but Pain. The training rounds didn’t pierce flesh, but their impacts caused such horrific agony that it would be better to be shot for real! Through this brutal method — True Pain — brought training as close as possible to actual combat.
Her Mentor’s words flashed through her mind:
“Mind acceleration, also known as local time dilation, is one of the key skills for the Templar-Analyst. But you can only acquire and master it in a real battle.”
Only this way.
Yes, Templar-Analysts weren’t like Priests, capable of merging with the Great Father in combat, channeling his Power and Will to perform miracles on the battlefield.
They weren’t the proud Knights, armed to the teeth, in gleaming white armor, equally proficient with a two-handed plasma sword and all types of firearms, immensely strong, agile, and masters of tactics against all Shaiszu entities the Protectorate had ever encountered.
But the strength of the Analysts lay elsewhere — they saw every move the enemy would make before it happened. Their minds moved so fast that they wasted no motion. Armed with high-velocity smart needle guns, they could guide every one of the hundreds of large-caliber needles fired in the first second of combat, hitting their mark with deadly precision.
The Protectorate knew how to create real warriors, training them to achieve the highest possible efficiency on the battlefield. Ready — at any moment.
NEURAL SURGE – ACTIVATION!
She did it right, followed all the instructions, remembered everything they had drilled into her over those insane past few days.
Her mind accelerated...
...only to see that the bots were appearing too quickly. She couldn’t hit them all. Her reaction, her speed — it was still ordinary. Another moment, and she wasn’t able to dodge.
The rounds hit her chest, shoulders, thigh.
The pain was so intense it felt like her teeth might crack from clenching.
But it was normal.
She was strong.
She could handle it.
“Pain is a lesson.”
Her Mentor had repeated those words so often that they now echoed automatically in her mind.
“Again!” she shouted, standing up, ignoring the pain. “I’m ready!”
She struggled to focus. And then a vision ignited in her mind — Max and his damned “all-girl squad.” Renegades, enemies, traitors.
She imagined facing them head-on — their powerful figures standing right in front of her, maxed out to the peak of their abilities, and fully prepared for battle. Oh, yes! The Great Father saw it all, she knew their development paths. The amount of Knowledge the Protectorate had gathered was vast, but she devoured every piece of it she could find, every free moment.
The first thing she studied, after the Protectorate’s methods, were the paths of TACTA. So, odds were, she knew what awaited Max better than Max himself.
There they stood, smug and grinning. The redhead, whatever her name was, obviously in top-tier mech armor, fully synchronized, heavily armed. Daria. A “dark horse,” you’d think Vasilevskaya had no place in combat, what could she do there? But apparently, she was likely a true sniper. Better at seeing probabilities than even the Priest-Templars. Alisa — of course, drones. It was obvious she had led the Swarms into battle last night. And Maksim…
Maksim…
She felt a kinship with him, a strange understanding that they were closer than anyone else. They were so... similar? Was that it? Was he just like her? Grinding through NEURAL SURGE too, huh?
And he had probably mastered it already, hadn’t he?
He was always first, at everything.
Infuriating!
So infuriating!
A wave of pure, primal rage surged from her heart, filling her entire body, resonating with the Power that now coursed through her veins.
NEURAL SURGE?
“What could be easier?!!!” she screamed, and the activation... worked.
She saw how she would strike them all down before they even had a chance to react! Only Maksim might see the deadly needles piercing his body — but even then, only if he activated his ability in time.
Reality snapped back to the training battle. The bots appeared around her again, but by the Sun, they were so… slow!
Ha!
Her needle gun, at full throttle, could fire up to five hundred needles per second, but a second... a whole second was SOOOO long. And she didn’t fire in bursts, squeezing the trigger, but in micro-bursts of three needles, triggered by her accelerated mind.
Fifteen targets. And she would hit every one of them, just the last two needed a slight adjustment to the trajectory so that each needle reached its target.
She saw the rounds that had just begun flying toward her in this thick gel of slowed time, and effortlessly moved into a position where all of them would miss.
“Already dead bots, I might add!” she managed to think smugly…
But her instant euphoria was cut short by a sharp blow. Her Mentor had stepped up and struck her over the head with his staff.
“You idiot, Alba! Hatred again!” His voice was filled with reproach. “You keep trying to win with it, but it’ll burn you out. The stronger your power, the stronger the hatred. And the only person you’ll take that fury out on is yourself.”
Alba clenched her teeth, feeling the pain from the strike, but didn’t break eye contact. Her molten gold eyes still burned with adrenaline, but she knew her teacher was right. Hatred fueled her power, but it would inevitably turn against her.
Geist-Lumen amplified everything — both strength and emotions. It made her strong, but it could also become a weapon that would turn on her.
The Mentor leaned in, and she flinched, unable to withstand the cold intensity of his gaze.
“Never give yourself a weapon that can destroy you,” he said quietly, turning away and leaving Alba alone with her thoughts and her pain.
Which was only a small part physical.