The

  groaned as its tracks chewed through a particularly dense thicket of phosphorescent, violet-hued fungi. Inside, the squad's world was reduced to the constant, low thrum of the anti-gravity assist, the squeal of tortured suspension, and the syncopated rhythm of acidic drips hitting the Adamantine hull.

  Feldwebel Alina Ludwig stared at the tactical plot, a pale green ghost in the dim cockpit light. They were navigating by dead reckoning and Flora’s best guesses; the canopy above was a solid sheet of mutated biomass, blocking all but the most fragmented satellite pings.

  A new sound began to bleed through the constant, low thrum of the engine and the syncopated drip of acid rain. It was faint at first, a mere tremor in the background noise. But it persisted, solidifying into a series of deep, percussive that seeped through the Adamantine fuselage. Distant, muffled by the endless, dripping woods, but unmistakable.

  .

  It was not the staccato crack of laser cannon fire or the sharp report of mass accelerators. This was slower, heavier, a methodical demolition.

  Flora was the one who broke the silence.

  “Update,” Her synthesized voice cut through the ambient noise over the internal comm. “Acoustic analysis of the distant detonations. Bearing 029. Estimated range, 22 kilometers.

  Chen Feng, who had been running a radiation diagnostic on his and Alina’s power armors, spoke without turning. “Pattern?”

  A beat of silence, filled only by the ambient noise of the swamp and the distant , answered him before Flora's synthesized voice cut in. “Irregular, Obergefreiter. It does not match the profile of standard artillery barrages, missile interceptions, or demolition charges. It does not match known profiles for Republican, Avalonite, or Syndicate tactical engagements either. The rhythm suggests structural secondaries or… SYDET of civilian infrastructure; the structures themselves are the explosive receptors.”

  “This does not bode well,” Chen mused, his eyes shifting to Alina’s immobile form. “Feldwebel. Do you wish us to investigate?”

  Alina didn’t reply. She didn’t even turn her head. She simply reached out and tapped her console, marking the bearing of the sound on the navigational map.

  “Order received, alter course to investigate,” Flora replies. The turns, sliding though the primordial gloom.

  Five Hours Earlier

  The air in the sector tasted of rust and ionized rain, a metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat. The forest didn't just drip; it trembled. Not from the ever-present, acidic drizzle, but from the deliberate, earth-shaking advance of the . An -pattern MBT, its hull slick with grime and adorned with the snarling visage of the tenth avatar of Vishnu, led the vanguard, crushing ancient asphalt and mutated saplings alike under its broad tracks.

  Corp-Major Vikas Rajan stood in his command cupola, the ornate filigree of his gold-trimmed armor a blasphemy against the grime-caked steel of his tank. The air itself seemed to recoil from his presence. He watched the sensor feeds, and a small light reconnaissance vehicle returned from the direction the formation was heading to.

  It was a six-wheeled skimmer, screeched to a halt beside the behemoth. A junior analyst, his face pale beneath his helmet, looked up and offered a hasty salute.

  “Sir, solid tracking confirmed. We have particulate residue consistent with what we were looking for. They passed through this sector no more than six hours ago. We can have them by nightfall.” The officer reported, his stance tense and nervous.

  A thin, predatory smile touched Vikas’s lips. The gnats that had evaded his would finally be swatted. The karma of proactive purification was within his grasp.

  “Excellent. Communication, signal the formation to—”

  “Corp-Major!” his communications officer interrupted him instead. His voice buzzing from Vikas’ headset. “Priority flash-traffic from Syndicate High Command. Authentication Zulu-Mike-Seven.”

  Vikas’s smile vanished. He snatched the offered datapad, eyes scanning the encrypted text. His jaw tightened.

  For a moment, he did not speak, only letting himself brood over the new revelation.

  “… another liquidation mission. It appears… that is what they want to do.” Vikas “Karma” Rajan frowned deeply.

  One of his lieutenants craned his neck to see the datapad, added, “It appears so, Master Rajan. Evidently, they want one of their best punitive regiments to spend time on killing the untouchables. We are Kshatriyas. Are they even aware?”

  Vikas said, "I believe they are. Anish, you confirmed HQ received our manhunt status report?"

  Anish, that communication officer who he addressed earlier, replied, “I did, Sir! Message sent at 0511 today. Comms validation suggests that they had already received it.”

  Vikas: “Then the HQ believes the liquidation of these assets is more important than hunting that communist recon squad.”

  The lieutenant added: “Yes, Master. What is your new command, then?”

  Vikas let out a short, sharp sigh of pure, professional disappointment.

  "Command update," he said, his voice flat. He tossed the datapad back. "All units, alter course. Grid Lambda-Nine. The communist reconnaissance squad will have to wait. The Company's immediate ROI requires our attention elsewhere. "

  The lead war machine of shuddered as its tracks reversed, then bit into the mud, turning its wrath toward a new, more immediate target.

  The village wasn't on any corporate map. It was a scab of desperation built within the skeletal remains of a pre-collapse town, a collection of shanties cobbled together from rusted sheet metal and splintered plastek. Now, it was a funeral pyre.

  The air was thick with the stench of ionized plasma, burning synth-wood, and something darker, more organic.

  The imposingly surrounding the central clearing—what had once been a town square.

  Corp-Major Vikas Rajan stood in the cupola of his , one hand resting on the cold metal of the main gun, the other absently stroking the segmented, cybernetic skull of his war-hound. The animal’s optic sensors glowed a steady, pitiless red, its synthetic muscles coiled and silent.

  Before him, his soldiers had rounded up the survivors in the village’s central clearing—a patch of broken pavement now stained with soot and fear. They were a pitiful lot: men and women in tattered corporate-issue coveralls, their faces hollowed by a life of hard labor and now, final despair.

  Some already lay dead. When the arrived, some of these scavengers even had a few pieces of… . Improvised firearm would be the military terminology for them, but Vikas's mind refused to register them as weapons. These bodies were the results of their futile resistance.

  “Is it all of them?” Vikas asked. He silently measured the number of the “untouchables.”

  , Vikas thought, not with anger, but with a sort of professional disappointment.

  “That will be all!” Vikas’ recon officer reported, “We secured a 4-klick standard perimeter and searched for human life signatures. That would be the last of them. It matches their profile as well: 44 unlawful stakeholders in breach of ‘Syndicate TOS L-9817, Section 8, Article 99: Exclusive Syndicate Sponsorship Duty.’ All IDs have been logged and cross-referenced with the Asset Registry.”

  “State the penalty clause.” Vikas demands. He already knew the answer, but it was satisfying every time to have the commandments of the Market Vedas spoken aloud before an execution.

  “Human capital liquidation.” Vikas’ lieutenant speaks up, “We will ready the firing squad, Master Rajan.”

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  A young soldier, his armor still looking new, approached Vikas. His voice, barely broken, was hesitant. “Corp-Major… sir? The operational brief stated this settlement was pacified for accepting unauthorized aid—I mean, the competitor products. Is… is this depletion necessary? They’re just… people.”

  Vikas looked down. The young trooper flinched out of instinct. However, Vikas's expression was not one of anger, but of approval, almost .

  “Soldier," Vikas said, his voice a calm, analytical hum. "Your file from the Syndicate’s child-school showed high marks in Security Logistics and loyalty training. I appreciate your willingness to learn, but you must comprehend the deeper calculus. Let me explain to all of you. "

  He raised his voice, addressing the troopers forming the firing detail. “Listen! This young man seeks to understand the higher logic! He has not yet shed the sentimental baggage of the obsolete natural laws of the old.”

  He stepped down from the tank, his gaze sweeping over the terrified faces of the captives before moving back to the frozen trooper.

  “These assets,” he declared, his voice cutting through the crackle of flames, “contractual consumers, Syndicate stakeholders. They have broken the sacred Tenets of Deva Hayek by contractual violation, knowingly accepted a competitor’s product—the so-called ‘humanitarian aid’ of the PRNT—at a price point of zero. They consumed the rations, used the medicine. They integrated a foreign, subversive product into their local ecosystem without a licensing agreement. This is not merely disloyalty; it is a catastrophic devaluation of the corporate covenant that grants their lives structure!”

  He turned his back to the huddled villagers, facing his soldiers, his face a mask of fervent conviction.

  “Some might doubt: but the corporation and our upbringings always endorse love and empathy? Yes, I know. Love, empathy, . These are elements that constitute our basic, programmed love. But, to place your love to mere humans, above your love to our company!”

  He pointed at the kneeling mass in the mud, then back at his troopers.

  “To love your family, your child, your friend… that is a simple, biological affection. It is a common, low-yield bond.”

  Vikas then placed a hand over the corporate insignia on his chest plate.

  “But to love the Company? To uphold its policies, to purify its holdings of defective elements? That is a conscious investment in a stable future, in the sanctity of our ultimate ! It is the ultimate virtue. It is the greatest, the most noble form of love. It transcends the selfish karma of feeble humanity.”

  “And for , the of , we must know: the Corporations gave us life, education, and status above the common masses. Our only valid repayment is the unconditional execution of its will—this is the greater Karma, and the highest form of love.”

  "But, Sir... these people were just hungry."

  "Hunger is not a valid reason for default," Vikas replies, the warmth vanishing from his voice. "The Corporation feeds us not because we are 'hungry,' but because we have 'earned it.' We pay our bills through loyalty and service. They chose 'free.' They chose betrayal. And the interest rate on betrayal is death."

  He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to the sergeant of the firing squad.

  “Liquidate them.”

  He did not turn around. He simply stood, petting his cyber-hound, as the synchronized crack of mass accelerators echoed through the burning ruins, a final, brutal audit on the balance sheets of lives that had dared to cost the Company nothing.

  The had become a tomb on a rooftop.

  Alina had given the order to scale the skeletal remains of a pre-collapse administrative building. The IFV’s anti-gravity engine whined in protest, lifting the multi-ton vehicle with a surreal, silent grace up the sheer, vine-choked face until it settled on the flat, cracked roof. They had gained a vantage point overlooking the square, only to witness a scene in the square below unfolded with horrific, crystalline clarity

  The sterile high-definition of the cockpit screens offered no mercy, magnifying the scene in the square below with cruel clarity. They saw the huddled mass of survivors, the pitiless stance of the Dharma Troopers. They saw Vikas Rajan, his back turned, a hand casually stroking his cyber-hound.

  Then came the synchronized movement of the rifles being leveled.

  A shouted order, swallowed by the distance and their own armored hull.

  The crack of mass accelerators—a sound both sharp and final.

  On the screen, the bodies fell.

  The squad was forced into silent spectators to the final act: Vikas Rajan's sermon, his back turned to the villagers. And before they realized what was happening, the soldiers .

  On the main display, the image was frozen—a still frame of Corp-Major Vikas Rajan, back turned, petting his hound as his soldiers lowered their weapons to a pit of bodies.

  For a long moment, nobody moved.

  Then, Flora’s hands danced across her console with a swift, precise fury. A soft

  echoed in the cabin.

  “Evidence log initiated. Tagging keywords: Crime against Humanity; violation of the New Terran Accords on Conduct, Article I; Delhi Syndicate corporation group. New keywords registered: ‘Kalki’s Wrath’, ‘Dharma Troopers’. Visual, audio, and biometric data recorded for submission to a future Republican military tribunal.”

  Her voice was, as ever, flat. But the speed of her actions betrayed a cold, rational rage. “This is one of seven thousand, four hundred and twelve logged incidents of comparable scale since the Pan-Delhi campaign began. Its designated name is evidence file 7-Gamma-441. There are, my comrades—" She inhaled deeply.

  "—there are files.” Warrant Officer Flora Rosenkrantz put an emphasis on “too many.”

  Chen Feng’s first instinct was a primal rejection. He wrenched his gaze away from the main screen when the bodies fell. He’d stared at the grimy deck plates before his fixed back on the frozen horror on the screen. He branded this memory next to the video logs of his long-dead family. Another ghost to carry.

  For a long moment, the only sound in the cabin was the hum of electronics and Flora's soft of evidence logging. Alina was utterly still, a statue of armored fury. Then, a tremor ran through her frame. Her gauntleted fist, which had been resting on her console, slowly clenched. The servos in her arm whined faintly with the strain.

  She drove her fist forward.

  A deafening

  shattered the silence. Alina had driven her armored fist into a secondary control panel, leaving a dent in the hardened plasteel. Sparks fizzled for a second before dying.

  “Damn it all!” She screamed, “ Damn Meyer, damn the Brigadegeneral! Damn the Legion command. They have no humanity. None! You two hear me? NONE!”

  Friedrich Krieg Meyer was their Legion Master, the “” of the 7th

  Legion "Sirius Vanguard." Chen Feng wasn’t sure which Brigadegeneral was Alina referring to. Alina snarled, her voice raw through the vox-grille, stripped of all dogma and reverberating with pure, undiluted loathing. She delivered her next lines with dripping venom.

  “ is what happens when the Legion withdraws. This is the vacuum we left! They have no humanity. None! And our government: the Republic’s Department of War, they let. This. Happen. They abandoned these people, calling everyone to run and hoping we don’t have to see the atrocity. They abandoned our itself. They abandoned their own ideals to save a few soldiers! They are complicit in .” The last word was a whisper of utter betrayal.

  “We were too late,” Chen’s voice cut through her rage, quiet but absolute. He finally turned from the screen; his expression was a carefully neutral mask. “There was nothing we could have done for them. We arrived too late to do anything.”

  “Why are you so calm, Obergefreiter?” Alina, still bowed towards the dent she made, demanded with a hiss.

  "…History has no shortage of atrocities. The sooner you accept it, the better." Chen's words were deliberately flat, a feigned calm against the horror, bordering on apathetic. "They killed a few dozen people; their system keeps running. Wars have killed tens of millions, and Earth kept spinning around Sol. It happens. It has always happened."

  He reached down to his thigh pocket, took out a small canister, and ingested a pill, hiding the action from Alina as she was still banging her head against a bulkhead.

  “Is it a metaphorical expression, Chen?” Flora inquired, “What was you trying to say, exactly?”

  “I am trying to say: their deaths are not relevant to the macro-scheme of things,” Chen clarifying. Alina Ludwig’s chest heaved as he continues, “Also, we need to leave. This area is in the process of Syndicate re-taking. Soon their occupying force will be back to establish control. Suggestion is we bail before the window closes.”

  “… I am red-flagging your behavior pattern. No observable emotional spike during an atrocity event is a command-level concern. You will submit to possible psych-eval when our mission is over.” Said Flora Rosenkrantz, “Did you really ‘feel fine’ after the termination of your cryostasis?”

  "I do not feel fine. I've felt fine." Chen's voice took on a venomous edge. "My entire family is dead. I am the last relic of a society that turned to dust three and half centuries ago. So how, , am I supposed to feel? And are we withdrawing, or not?"

  Alina didn’t argue, didn’t say a thing. She just knocked again on the control panel in front of her before sitting down, head between her own arms.

  The cabin was deathly silent, save for the low hum of the electronic equipment and Alina's heavy breathing.

  "The Feldwebel isnt... responsive," Flora's fingertips tapped lightly back and forth on the control panel, as if keeping time for herself. Then she switched to a private channel between her and Chen Feng, her voice hushed, almost a whisper:

  "Feldwebel Ludwig is not in a position to give orders right now." A brief pause, like a death sentence for those words.

  "I'm even less suitable."

  She took a deep breath, her tone suddenly becoming unusually crisp, as if reciting a regulation she herself found repulsive:

  "According to Article 44, Section 9 of the Wartime Regulations of the People’s Liberation Army, the highest command authority of this crew belongs to the highest-ranking officer, namely the Warrant Officer, W-1 level, which I am currently exercising."

  Then, her voice abruptly cut to plain language as she disengaged her AI speech-assistant. She now carrying the cold, crisp sarcasm unique to a 19-year-old girl—who she really is:

  "—Bullshit. Chen Feng, this is yours. You can stay or leave as you please. I only handle drones and maintenance; I wouldn’t overstep for the command chain—nor can I."

  She paused for half a second, adding an almost self-deprecating summary:

  "Anyway, if we really go to a military court, it'll be 'fast-track warrant officers' like me who get executed, so it's a bargain for you two."

  With that, she directly pushed the vehicle’s commanding priority authority to Chen Feng in the system. A line of light green text popped up in the upper right corner of the screen:

  [Temporary Command Transfer: Obergefreiter Chen Feng (Confirmed)]

  Chen Feng looked at the text, remained silent for two seconds, and replied with only a word:

  "Received."

  As he tapped the received button, Flora spoke again.

  “If that is the case… I have a proposition: A tactical delay. I can deploy the 'Rabe' stealth reconnaissance drone. Passive sensors only. Gathering signature data on the 'Kalki's Wrath' could provide a critical strategic advantage for future engagement or avoidance. As acting squad lead, your order, Obergefreiter?”

  “Do it,” Chen said. “But make it fast. We’re on borrowed time.”