Prologue

The vast plain, once serene under the golden hues of the setting sun, was now a graveyard bathed in crimson. The warm light did little to soften the brutality of the scene—dismembered corpses lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth, their lifeless eyes staring at the darkening sky. The scent of iron hung thick in the air, mixing with the fading scent of trampled grass.

At the heart of this carnage, seven men clad in black formed a tight circle, their weapons slick with fresh blood, dripping steadily onto the ground. Swords, daggers, and chains glistened menacingly in the dying light, their edges still thirsty for more. Their breaths were slow, measured, their stances tense but confident.

In the center, a lone figure in tattered azure robes barely clung to life. A sword impaled his left leg, pinning him to the ground like a broken bird with clipped wings. A spear jutted from his stomach, dark blood pooling beneath him. Yet, even as his body trembled, his eyes burned with defiance. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, pain rippling through every fiber of his being, but he did not bow, did not beg.

The wind howled through the open plain, carrying the whispers of the fallen, their deaths still fresh in the air. The sun, now dipping below the horizon, cast long, eerie shadows of the seven executioners, stretching over their prey like the grasp of the inevitable. Silence lingered, heavy and foreboding, broken only by the distant cry of a crow—a herald of the night and an omen of death yet to come.

One of them, a tall figure with a jagged scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. His voice was cold, edged with triumph and malice.

"The glory of the Ninth Pavilion will fade with you!" he declared, his words cutting through the stillness like a blade.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a sound—low and strained at first, before swelling into something wild. Laughter. Ragged, unhinged, yet filled not with desperation, but something far more unsettling.

The man in azure robes threw his head back despite the pain wracking his broken body, his shoulders shaking as he laughed—a sound devoid of fear, full of something deeper, darker.

"Haha… Glory?" he wheezed, spitting blood onto the earth. His eyes, still burning with defiance, locked onto the warrior before him. "Those who led you to think like that are truly delusional. The Ninth Pavilion does not concern itself with glory… nor with anything that comes with it." His fingers twitched, brushing against the bloodied ground as he steadied himself. "And if you think I am its glory…" He grinned, lips splitting open as more crimson dripped down his chin. "…then you have not yet seen our dark side."

The laughter faded, and with it, the last flicker of warmth in the azure-robed man's body. As the weight of reality crashed down on him, he felt it—an emptiness, a void in his soul, as if something irreplaceable had been torn from him. This was it. The end of his path. The final moment in this wretched world where he and his brothers had been thrown, bound by fate yet doomed to be scattered like ashes in the wind.

A strange stillness overtook him, drowning out the pain, the exhaustion, the taste of blood on his tongue. His gaze sharpened.

With the last embers of his strength, his fingers clenched around the red dagger in his hand. In a single, fluid motion, he hurled it forward. The blade cut through the thick, blood-drenched air, a streak of crimson against the golden light of the setting sun.

Before the man with the jagged scar could react, the dagger buried itself deep into his right eye. A sickening crunch echoed as the steel pierced through his skull, leaving a gaping hole where his eye once was. He didn't even have time to scream—his body collapsed like a broken marionette.

The other six black-robed figures remained frozen. It had happened too fast, too suddenly. By the time their minds caught up with reality, their comrade was already dead.

The azure-robed man, having spent every last drop of his internal force, remained where he was, unmoving. His lifeless eyes stared ahead, still open, still defiant. His back was straight, held upright only by the spear impaling his stomach, as if even in death, he refused to bow. The golden light of the dying sun bathed him, turning the gruesome battlefield into something eerily beautiful—a twisted masterpiece of violence and honor.

His last thoughts were not of regret, nor pain, but a silent farewell to his brothers. Go on, live.

The six remaining black-robed men said nothing. They simply turned away and disappeared into the horizon, leaving behind the fallen warrior amidst the sea of the dead.

As time passed in silence on the battlefield where everything had happened, someone arrived. A lone figure moved through the carnage, his robes similar to those of the azure-robed man—only red instead of blue. His steps were slow, deliberate, his presence heavy with grief. He knelt, reaching out to grasp the red dagger from where it lay, its blade still glistening with the final act of its fallen wielder.

As he rose, he turned toward the still-standing corpse of the azure-robed man. A deep sigh escaped him, thick with sorrow, the kind of sorrow one could almost touch. Bowing his head, he stood there for a moment longer, as if paying silent tribute.

Then, as he turned to leave, his voice carried softly through the still air.

"Only fourteen are left, Roki. Why have you gone alone?"

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At the heart of the paramilitary base, a roaring campfire flickered, casting long shadows over the sand. Around it, forty or so battle-hardened soldiers sat in loose circles, drinking and laughing, their voices carrying into the still night. Their faces, weathered by years of fighting, were momentarily softened by the warmth of companionship.

A voice cut through the noise.

"Captain!" Luke called out as he spotted Captain Bogi approaching.

The merriment faded slightly as the men straightened, out of respect for their leader. Bogi was a figure they all admired—stern yet fair, a man who had seen more bloodshed than any of them dared to count.

Bogi stopped just short of the fire, his piercing gaze sweeping over the group. "Again with this drinking? You guys never learn." His voice carried a firm but familiar reprimand. "Get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow. We'll be meeting with Red Rose and teaming up with them."

Silence followed. The name Red Rose had a weight to it. They were known as the strongest force in this wretched desert. Tougher, deadlier. And now, allies—at least for the time being.

But then, another voice broke the quiet.

"Let them be, Bogi. We're all weary here. This accursed desert is breaking us," said Lazar, the unit's second-in-command. His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it.

Bogi exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I know that, but someone has to be the killjoy around here. You know how it is." He crossed his arms. "Tomorrow's meeting with Red Rose isn't just some formality. We've already been attacked once this week. Our base camp barely held. We can't afford to let our guard down. You all know how things go around here. Do I need to remind you every damn time?"

His words lingered in the air.

Bogi looked at the soldiers—some were fresh recruits, still adjusting to the horrors of the battlefield. Others had been with him since their training days, when they first learned how to kill the monsters that had invaded their world.

It had been a century since the first blue portals appeared—fourteen of them, scattered across the globe. What came through changed everything.

From those shimmering voids, they emerged. Humanoid in shape, yet unmistakably alien. Stronger, faster, resistant to radiation. Humanity had tried everything—bullets, missiles, even nuclear warheads. Nothing could destroy the portals. They were fused to the very earth, impervious to all human weaponry. The enemy, known as Blue Humans, built their own fortresses around these gateways, as if to mock those who sought to destroy them. And through those portals, an endless tide of them poured forth.

Now, survival wasn't just a matter of strategy—it was a war against inevitability.

As Bogi's thoughts drifted from grim memories back to the present, he found himself staring at the flickering campfire, its glow casting eerie, wavering shapes across the sand. The faces of his soldiers reflected both fatigue and silent determination. Some of them had seen too much. Others hadn't yet seen enough.

With a sharp inhale, he shook off the weight of the past and refocused on the task at hand.

"Roki! Luke! Peter!" he barked, his voice cutting through the quiet. "You're on watch duty tonight. Stay sharp."

The three soldiers nodded, their expressions instantly sobering. Watch duty in the desert was no idle task—this land was treacherous, and the enemy was always lurking, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Bogi turned his gaze to the rest of his men. "The rest of you, prepare for tomorrow. We're moving out at dawn. We'll be reinforcing Red Rose's base camp."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the ranks, some exchanging glances. The Red Rose Company had a reputation—one that inspired both admiration and unease. They were elite, brutal, and far more seasoned in fighting the Blue Humans than Bogi's own unit. But their recent struggles meant that even they needed reinforcements. That fact alone was unsettling.

Lazar, ever the second-in-command, crossed his arms. "Do we have intel on what hit them?"

Bogi exhaled, his expression darkening. "Not enough. All we know is their defenses were breached two days ago. They pushed the enemy back, but they took losses. Heavy ones. Their request for backup wasn't just protocol—it was desperation."

A heavy silence followed. They all understood what that meant.

For a hundred years, humanity had fought this war. A hundred years of blood, loss, and defiance against an enemy that never seemed to run out of numbers. And yet, here they were, still standing.

Bogi's voice hardened. "Get some rest while you can. Tomorrow, we march into the unknown again. Dismissed."

One by one, the soldiers dispersed, the sounds of armor shifting and weapons being checked replacing the earlier laughter. The fire crackled, sending embers into the cold desert night as three figures—Roki, Luke, and Peter—moved to take their positions on watch.

Not much time had passed since the camp fell into silence. The embers glowed faintly, casting soft light on the now-empty gathering spot. Bogi sat alone at a worn-out table, his calloused fingers flicking a lighter to life as he lit a cigarette. The glow briefly illuminated the lines of exhaustion on his face.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed Lazar approaching until the man pulled out a chair across from him. Lazar struck a match and lit his own cigarette, exhaling a slow stream of smoke before speaking.

"You know," he said, his voice quiet but firm, "this mission might be our last."

Bogi didn't respond immediately. He took a deep drag, the cigarette's ember flaring in the dim light. Finally, he exhaled, his gaze distant.

"I know," he replied, his tone somber. "The last few were too close. And now this… They don't stop for anything. Sooner or later, they'll kill us all."

Lazar sat in silence, staring at the desert beyond the camp's perimeter. There was nothing else to say. The truth had already been spoken. The enemy was relentless, and the weight of survival was growing heavier with each battle.

The night faded quickly into the first hints of dawn. The desert sky, once ink-black, began to shift into muted purples and deep oranges. One by one, the soldiers stirred from their makeshift beds, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. Engines roared to life as desert trucks were prepped for the journey ahead. Supplies were loaded, the camp swiftly dismantled—nothing was left behind.

Within the hour, the convoy was ready. Bogi stood at the front, watching as his men moved with practiced efficiency.

They were heading out to meet Red Rose.