Guren was not born a soldier.

  He was born in Aurelion, in a quiet district where the streets were clean and the buildings tall enough to block the horizon. An upper-middle class life. Warm meals. A future that was supposed to be predictable. His parents worked for the state—logistics, research, things that sounded important but distant. They used to say words like service and duty with pride.

  Guren hated those words.

  He remembered the night the war became real. Not the declaration. Not the speeches. The night his parents stood in the doorway, dressed in uniforms that didn’t quite fit yet, telling him they had been called. That it was temporary. That it was necessary.

  He had shouted at them.

  You’re choosing this over us.

  They told him to be strong. To take care of Sera. To be the man of the house.

  That was the first time Guren learned what duty really meant:

  leaving children behind and calling it noble.

  When the front finally reached Helior District—the outer city bordering the industrial belt—there were no speeches anymore. Just sirens. Fire. The sky tearing itself open with artillery.

  He ran with Sera through streets that no longer felt like streets. Asphalt cracked. Buildings burned. People screamed names that never got answered.

  Don’t look back. Don’t stop. Don’t think.

  Scherbes came like shadows that had learned to walk. Too fast. Too quiet.

  He remembered Sera’s hand slipping from his.

  The sound of metal tearing through flesh.

  The UF soldiers arriving too late—or too afraid. He remembered one of them raising his rifle. He remembered shouting. He remembered believing, for one stupid second, that they would help.

  The shot echoed.

  And then there was nothing left of Sera that looked like his sister.

  That was the day Guren decided something inside him would never kneel again.

  He hated his parents for leaving.

  He hated the army for pretending sacrifice was holy.

  He hated heroes.

  When he joined the United Front, it wasn’t because he believed.

  It was because jobs paid. Jobs gave food. Jobs let you survive.

  This is just work, he had told himself for years.

  I’m not here to save anyone. I’m here to last longer than the rest.

  That belief hardened him. Made him sharp. Made him cruel enough to survive.

  And now—

  Now Sera stood in front of him.

  Not a memory. Not a corpse.

  Walking. Smiling. Speaking his name.

  This isn’t real, his mind screamed.

  This is a trick. A weapon. A lie wearing her face.

  But his heart didn’t listen.

  He saw how she moved. How she spoke. How she knew things only she could know. How her voice slipped between warmth and distortion, like something broken trying to remember how to be human.

  And for the first time in years, Guren felt something worse than hatred.

  Responsibility.

  If I hadn’t run…

  If I had turned back…

  If I had done something—anything—

  He had told himself that soldiers were just workers. That duty was a lie invented to excuse death.

  But looking at Sera now—what she had become, what she had been turned into—he understood the truth he had been running from.

  This didn’t happen because of duty.

  This happened because no one took responsibility.

  Not his parents.

  Not the UF.

  Not him.

  And now the cost was standing right in front of him, reaching out with a hand that melted into black fluid, offering him Heaven.

  A world without war, she had said.

  A place where humanity finally succeeds.

  Guren clenched his jaw.

  If this is the price of abandoning responsibility…

  Then I was wrong.

  For the first time since Helior burned, Guren stopped seeing himself as someone waiting to die.

  He didn’t know if he could save Sera.

  He didn’t know if redemption existed.

  But he knew one thing with terrifying clarity:

  Being a soldier was never about dying for others.

  It was about standing there when it mattered—even if it broke you.

  And this time—

  He would not look away.

  Sera circled him slowly, her shoes crunching against glass and shell casings, her movements light—almost playful. She spun once, arms out, like a child twirling in a courtyard long gone.

  “You’re not the prince I remember,” she said, her voice sweet, almost disappointed. “The big brother who stood in front of me. The one who promised nothing would ever hurt me.”

  She stopped behind him.

  Her tone dipped, warped, layered with something wet and wrong.

  “Did you ever really love me?”

  The air shifted.

  Black liquid surged up her arm, rippling like oil caught in a current. In an instant, it hardened—stretching, sharpening—until a sword-like blade of liquid micromachines formed in her right hand, its edge vibrating softly, hungry.

  She lunged.

  The blade drove straight for Guren’s stomach.

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  He reacted on instinct. His hand shot forward and clamped around her wrist, fingers digging in with desperate strength. The micromachines hissed where they met his skin, writhing, resisting—but he held.

  “Stop!” Guren pleaded.

  The word cracked.

  All the authority he’d built over years—gone. His voice trembled, thin and raw, like it had when he was a boy running through fire with her hand in his.

  Sera froze.

  Her eyes widened just slightly.

  “Oh…” she said softly. “I might cry.”

  She tilted her head, lips trembling into a smile. “So you really didn’t want me after all.”

  Then she laughed.

  It echoed wrong—too loud, too layered—like multiple voices sharing the same throat.

  “But even if you don’t want your sister,” she said, her voice distorting, dipping into something inhuman, “I still love you. With all my heart.”

  The blade dissolved in his grasp, flowing backward like liquid retreating from heat.

  Before Guren could breathe—

  It reformed in her left hand.

  Longer. Thicker. Heavier.

  She twisted her torso, swinging the blade in a wide, merciless arc—aimed to cut him clean in half.

  Steel rang.

  Guren drew his sword in one fluid motion, parrying just in time. The impact screamed through his arms, rattling his bones, sparks flying where steel met living metal. He staggered back a step but held his ground, blade trembling in his grip.

  His chest heaved.

  When he spoke again, his voice was low. Broken.

  “I failed you,” he said. “As a brother. As a soldier.”

  He raised his sword, steadied his stance. His hands still shook—but his eyes didn’t.

  “But now,” his voice grew firmer, layered with resolve and grief, “I’ll try to make things right.”

  The two of them stood locked in place—steel against liquid, past against present—as the world burned around them.

  Sera moved first.

  She didn’t run—she glided, her feet barely touching the blood-soaked ground as liquid micromachines surged beneath her skin, propelling her backward in a blur. Distance opened between them in an instant.

  Guren adjusted his stance, feet planted, knees bent, his sword angled low. His left hand slid behind his back by habit, posture calm, disciplined—almost serene against the chaos tearing Ironford apart.

  Sera laughed.

  Black fluid surged from her forearms and elongated midair, hardening into long, spear-like javelins. They formed with a wet hiss and launched immediately, ripping through the air with shrill cracks.

  The first javelin screamed toward Guren’s head.

  He stepped once to the side and cut.

  Steel met liquid metal. The javelin split cleanly in two, fragments dissolving before they hit the ground.

  Another came low.

  He pivoted, cloak snapping, blade flicking downward to deflect it. A third followed from above—faster, heavier.

  Guren ducked, the projectile passing so close he felt the heat of it graze his hair.

  More formed.

  Five. Six. A storm.

  Sera danced across the battlefield, leaping atop wreckage, spinning midair as she hurled her weapons in rapid succession. Each throw was precise, cruelly calculated, forcing Guren to move but never allowing him to rush her.

  His sword became a blur.

  Steel rang again and again as he whipped javelins aside, shattered them, or let them scream past his shoulders. His breathing remained steady, measured. Every step was deliberate—no wasted motion.

  “Still standing?” Sera taunted, her voice overlapping itself, sweet and distorted. “Good. I’d hate for this to end too quickly.”

  She landed lightly, knees bending as she touched down.

  That was all Guren needed.

  He surged forward.

  The distance vanished in a heartbeat.

  Guren’s blade flashed in a tight, controlled arc, aimed for her shoulder. Sera raised an arm, micromachines surging to form a short blade that caught his strike. The impact sent a shock through both of them.

  She grinned, black pupils dilating unnaturally as she watched him—studied him.

  Guren flowed into the next motion without pause. A low slash. A rising cut. A feint that turned into a thrust.

  Each move chained into the next with brutal elegance.

  Sera countered—barely.

  Her hollow form bent in ways no human body should, spine twisting, feet skidding across the ground as she parried and deflected. Liquid blades formed and dissolved with every exchange, reshaping themselves to meet his steel.

  Sparks sprayed.

  Steel shrieked.

  Their swords collided again and again, the rhythm accelerating, the air between them humming with tension.

  Guren’s eyes narrowed.

  There.

  In the center of her blackened pupils—a faint red glow pulsed, subtle but constant. A core. A focus point.

  He shifted his stance.

  For the first time, his left hand moved.

  Sera lunged, her blade elongating suddenly, aiming straight for his heart.

  Guren stepped into the attack.

  His left hand shot up and slammed against her face, palm covering her eyes.

  She gasped—more in shock than pain.

  In that instant of blindness, Guren turned his blade and cut.

  Steel tore through her side in a clean, brutal slash.

  Black liquid erupted from the wound, splattering across the ground like oil mixed with blood. It hissed as it hit the air, writhing before pooling at their feet.

  Sera staggered back, one hand clutching the wound.

  Then she laughed.

  Low. Genuinely impressed.

  “Still protecting with one hand behind your back,” she said, straightening, micromachines already crawling to close the gash. “You really did grow up.”

  The red glow in her eyes flared brighter.

  The liquid around her surged violently, her silhouette distorting as her hollow form pushed harder—stronger, faster, more monstrous.

  “Now,” she said softly, voice splitting into echoes, “let’s see how long that skill lasts… brother.”

  She vanished forward in a blur.

  Sera closed the distance.

  No more javelins. No more games at range.

  She stepped into him—and then the world became steel and speed.

  Her hollow form moved in violent bursts, her arms a blur as liquid micromachines hardened and reshaped into short blades again and again. She spammed strikes, a relentless storm of ultra-fast slashes aimed at Guren’s throat, ribs, legs—any opening, any weakness.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  Guren parried every single one.

  His sword met hers with ruthless precision, his reactions honed by years of service, drills, and real combat. Each deflection was minimal, efficient—no wasted motion, no panic. His feet adjusted instinctively, shoulders turning just enough to bleed momentum from her attacks.

  Sera’s laughter echoed strangely, overlapping with itself as she pressed harder, faster.

  “Still keeping up?” she teased, her voice flickering between playful and broken.

  Their blades locked for a fraction of a second.

  Guren leaned in, breath steady despite the burn in his arms.

  “It’s over,” he said quietly. “This time… I’ll let you rest. Once and for all.”

  He moved.

  In a sudden shift, Guren stepped inside her guard, hooked her leg with his own, and twisted his body sharply. The maneuver was brutal and precise—a takedown born from battlefield pragmatism, not elegance.

  Sera’s balance shattered.

  She hit the ground hard.

  Before she could reform her footing, Guren followed through, dropping his weight, pinning her down. His sword came down in a straight, merciless line.

  The blade punctured her skull.

  Black liquid exploded outward, splashing across the cracked pavement, hissing softly as it pooled. For a moment, Sera went still.

  Her eyes—no longer glowing—looked up at him.

  Sad.

  Guren froze.

  In that broken gaze, he saw something painfully familiar. A faint tear slid from the corner of her eye—not red, not clear, but black liquid trembling like a corrupted memory.

  As if the real Sera was still there. Somewhere. Watching.

  “I’m… sorry,” Guren whispered, his voice stripped of command, stripped of strength.

  Her lips twitched.

  Then she laughed.

  With a sudden kick, she launched him off her body. Guren rolled, boots scraping, but he came up on his feet instantly, sword raised.

  Sera sat up.

  She was crying now—her voice distorted, fractured. “I loved you,” she sobbed. “I really did.”

  Her laughter followed immediately, sharp and hollow.

  “You betrayed me.”

  She reached up, wrapped her fingers around the sword embedded in her skull, and pulled.

  The blade slid free with a wet sound. Black liquid surged, sealing the wound as if it had never been there.

  “If you won’t come with me to Heaven,” she said lightly, standing, “then I’ll just have to go alone.”

  Guren stared, disbelief creeping into his expression.

  Before he could respond—

  A thunderous crash echoed from the distance.

  Guren turned just in time to see it.

  Far across the district, an infected soldier hurled a UF pilot’s lifeless body from a Warden cockpit. The machine staggered—then the infected climbed inside.

  The Warden’s turret turned.

  Straight toward the heart of Ironford.

  Toward the Shield Coil.

  The cannon fired.

  The shell slammed into the building’s exterior, detonating in a violent explosion that tore chunks of steel and concrete from the structure.

  “No—!” Guren shouted, turning back to Sera. “Stop this!”

  She only laughed, already stepping away.

  “I have a duty to attend to,” she said cheerfully, as if heading to an appointment.

  She crouched—and vanished.

  Her body blurred, liquid micromachines propelling her forward at impossible speed as she sprinted toward the collapsing center of Ironford.

  “Sera!” Guren yelled after her. “Why didn’t you just kill me?!”

  Her voice drifted back, distant but clear.

  “There’s no need,” she replied. “Even if you don’t follow me… you’ll become just like me anyway.”

  She was gone.

  Guren stood there, chest heaving, the weight of everything crashing down on him at once. He reached for his radio, fingers trembling as he prepared to call for extraction, to regroup, to do something.

  Then he saw it.

  Black veins.

  They snaked beneath the skin of his hand—the same hand he’d used to grab her. Pulsing. Alive.

  Guren stared.

  For a second, there was silence.

  Then he laughed.

  A broken, hollow laugh that tore out of his chest as he tilted his head back toward the smoke-choked sky.

  “So it’s my turn now,” he muttered. “Looks like I’m about to lose my mind.”

  The radio crackled to life.

  “—Captain Veyr? Captain Veyr, do you copy?!”

  Guren didn’t answer.

  He just laughed—standing alone in the chaos, infected, doomed, and finally understanding exactly what kind of war this had always been.