So, fun fact: war rooms suck.
Like, if you ever wanna feel completely useless while people get ripped apart on a battlefield, this is the place to be.
The screen in front of us? Flickering like a damn horror movie, barely holding an image before it cuts to black. The whole room’s drowning in flashing red lights, alarms wailing every few seconds just to remind us that, yes, everything is still going to hell.
And right there, on that glitchy, piece-of-crap display, is Romeo.
He’s crouched behind a broken pillar, gun up, shouting, “Am I clear to come out?! Alexander, respond!”
No answer.
And then—yeah, that’s a Navorian, leaping up onto a rock like some kind of nightmare ballerina, spinning two double-sided blades so fast they blur. One soldier tries to backpedal. Tries. The blades hit first, carving through him like a cheap steak.
Romeo sees it. Curses in Latin. (Which, honestly, feels a bit dramatic, but hey, who am I to judge a man’s last words?)
The Navorian jumps at him.
Romeo? He doesn’t run. He doesn’t shoot. Nah. He throws his rifle to the ground, takes a deep breath, and lets his armor—my armor—do the rest.
It flares to life. The energy surge glitches the cameras for a split second before—boom. His fist slams forward, and the Navorian? The towering, monstrous twice-the-size-of-a-human Navorian?
Gone.
Not dead. Not injured. Gone.
Just a fine, red mist floating in the air like he never existed.
I blink.
Ortol taps my shoulder, grinning. Proud. Because, yeah, my suit just turned a dude into atmospheric decoration. But me? I don’t see a win here. I see a problem.
Those shelled bastards are still closing in. The Navorians behind them are moving fast. And when that whole mess reaches the soldiers?
Game over.
Not that I’m gonna tell Ortol that. No need to ruin his moment.
Instead, my attention shifts to the generals, who are arguing over a map, their voices low. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but something about the way they keep staring at the map makes me move.
I step up, glance at the display.
It shows two soldiers.
Up in a cave.
Watching the battlefield.
Wait.
"Who the hell are they?" I ask.
One of the generals turns, stiff, like I caught him stealing from the snack cabinet.
"Two from Commander Richter’s team," he says. "They’re not supposed to be here."
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
His face tightens.
"They’re supposed to be dead."
...Okay. That’s suspicious.
I glance at Ortol. He’s staring at me, wide-eyed.
And me? I feel heat crawling up my neck.
Because it clicks, right then.
The people who weren’t wearing my suits? They weren’t just unlucky. They were never meant to survive.
I look at the screen again, at the bodies left behind, at the soldiers who didn’t even get the chance to fight back. Their armor wasn’t weak. It was nonexistent.
The cherry in the pie.
Disposable.
Like their lives were just numbers on a damn war report.
My fists clench. My throat feels like something's stuck there.
I built these suits for elites—trained fighters, people who could use them. Not for a system that decides who gets to live based on rank.
I turn on Ortol, my voice low, shaking with something I can’t even name.
“You knew.”
The silence between us says more than anything he ever could.
“You knew.”
And that? That’s some absolute bullshit.
I don’t yell. I don’t need to. The weight behind my words is enough to make Ortol take half a step back.
Before he can respond, a general cuts in. “They’re making a move.”
My head snaps to the screen.
The two soldiers?
Vortex. And Min-Joon.
The display zooms in. Vortex vanishes from his position, dashing so fast the cameras struggle to track him. He reappears inside the Navorian ranks, smack in the middle of their ranged fighters.
And then?
Boom.
A fiery explosion rips through them. Every single ranged soldier? Gone.
Min-Joon, still perched up high, takes out any Navorian that even thinks about getting close.
Vortex moves through the corpses, unbothered, raises his gun, and casually puts down the one trying to crawl away.
I move. I don’t even think about it. I need to see what he’s seeing. I grab one of the display operators and shake him.
"Put me in his view. Now."
The guy hesitates. So I shake harder.
"NOW."
The screen flickers. Switches.
Suddenly, I’m seeing through Vortex’s eyes.
He’s standing over a dead Navorian, nudging one of their long rifles with his boot. He picks it up, tosses it in the air, catches it like it’s a toy.
Then he spots a shard on the ground. Bends down. Picks it up.
Tries to load it.
Fails.
He frowns, muttering, "What the fuck?" while poking the rifle like it’s a stubborn vending machine.
I don’t waste time. "Run a diagnostic on that weapon!" I yell. "NOW!"
The team scrambles. The system scans. And I already know what I’m looking at.
I lean forward, barking at the operator next to me. "Connect me to Vortex."
A second later, I’m patched in.
"Alright, genius," I say. "This ain't a normal gun. You don’t just point and click—this thing will kick your teeth in if you screw up. Listen close before you shoot your own damn shadow."
Vortex freezes. "Who the hell is this?"
"Not important. What is important is that you don’t die using that thing."
Vortex eyes the rifle. "Isn’t this just a sniper?"
I snort. "Sniper rifle? Yeah, sure, if snipers shot crystallized death at speeds that could shave Jupiter's eyebrows. This is a Shardpiercer. It doesn't fire bullets—it fires shards. And those shards? They're not just sharp, they vibrate at frequencies that turn bone to soup."
Vortex whistles. "Alright. So how do I load it?"
I grin.
"That pretty little spike? That’s your ammo. You’re gonna load it into the chamber. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. You do it sloppy and drop the shard? Boom. You are red mist, my guy."
Vortex pauses mid-motion. "...You real?"
I deadpan. "No, I made that up for fun. Yes, for real. Abyssal crystal isn't your friend. It’s angry. You handle it like you’re holding a live grenade that wants to stab you."
He stares at the shard in his hand, it sends a tingle up his arm.
"Now," I say. "don’t just shove it in like a caveman. You’re gonna flip it, align the tip with the chamber, and—"
He flicks his wrist, spinning the shard smoothly before slamming it in.
I raise a brow.
"...Alright. Maybe you do got some finesse."
Vortex smirks. "Told you. I got hands."
I chuckle. "Now point it at something ugly and pull the trigger."
He does.
Not at the battlefield.
At the shelled bastard leading the charge.
He fires.
And the entire creature—shell, flesh, and the Navorians hiding behind it—ceases to exist.
The war room erupts.
People cheering. Yelling. Clapping.
I turn to Ortol. He’s gaping. Stunned.
I grab his shoulders, force him to look at the screen. At Vortex, reloading for another shot.
"This is over," I say.
The soldiers he marked for death just changed the course of the whole damn war.
What would you do with a Shardpiercer?
