CHAPTER 13

The Clash in the Open Field

The wind howled across the battlefield, carrying the bitter scent of scorched metal and ash. Dust swirled through the air, whispering stories of war long before this one. A lone figure stood firm, his tattered cloak whipping against the storm as he locked eyes with the armored giant before him.

A slow smirk crept across the dark-robed figure's lips. His voice was sharp as steel.

"Well, well," he murmured, almost amused. "The Metal Monster from the East. I never thought I'd see you here." He tilted his head, studying his opponent. "Steve… Third Commander of the American Metal Forces. If you're standing guard, that must mean there's something valuable here." His eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "But I'll give you a choice—walk away now, and I won't add your name to my list of the fallen."

Steve's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"You're arrogant." He lifted his arm, and with a metallic hiss, a jagged blade slid out from his suit, catching the dimming light. "Looks like I'll be earning some rewards today… by taking down a traitor."

Before another word could be spoken, the robed figure struck. A black, mechanized hand shot from beneath his cloak, a lethal extension of his armor. It screamed through the air—fast, deadly. But Steve was faster. Sparks flew as he deflected the attack, metal grinding against metal.

The figure's eyes darkened, glowing with an eerie, unnatural light. He let out a quiet chuckle.

"Still relying on your old tricks, I see."

With a single movement, the battlefield itself seemed to respond. Scrap metal, broken weapons, spent bullet casings—all of it trembled, lifted into the air as if drawn by an unseen force. The debris swirled into a chaotic storm before collapsing into a singular form: a jagged silver blade, forged from the very remnants of war. At his command, two metallic duplicates emerged from the dust, perfect echoes of their master.

The Brutality Unleashed

Then, the battle began.

Steve struck first, his blows thunderous, shaking the very ground beneath them. The impact of his fists shattered rocks miles away. The heat of their attacks burned the battlefield, searing deep scars into the earth. His blade found its mark, slicing through one of the metallic clones, but the second was faster—coming at him from his blind spot.

Every hit landed like the crack of breaking bone. Steve's armor buckled under the relentless assault. The robed figure, too, was bleeding beneath his tattered cloak, the flesh beneath burned raw from the battle's fury.

The scent of molten metal and blood hung thick in the air.

Steve fought like a beast cornered, his instincts taking over. No strategy, no hesitation—only survival. He caught one of the clones mid-air, gripping its metallic frame with sheer brute force and crushing it in his bare hands. The clone exploded into shards, but the victory came at a cost. A jagged spike lodged deep into his shoulder, sending another shower of sparks and blood into the air.

Pain seared through him. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.

His sword became an extension of himself, cutting through the chaos with a desperate, unwavering resolve. Until—

Cold. Sudden.

A metallic spike drove through his back, piercing straight through him. His body went rigid, the pain sharp and unforgiving. Blood seeped through his armor as the iron burned into his flesh. His knees buckled. His vision blurred.

He gasped, each breath shuddering, ragged.

"Finish it…" he wheezed. His voice, though weak, carried a quiet defiance. He lifted his head, meeting the dark-robed figure's gaze. "Do it."

The Unmasking & The Wound Beyond Flesh

But the figure hesitated.

Slowly, she lifted a hand to her hood and pulled it down.

Steve's world shattered.

The battlefield faded. The pain disappeared. All that remained was her face—a face he knew too well. A face that struck deeper than any blade.

His breath hitched.

"You…" he choked, disbelief thick in his voice.

She stepped closer, her expression unreadable—regret and determination warring in her eyes. She raised her dagger, pressing it against his chest. Right over his heart. But she didn't strike.

Instead, she leaned in and kissed him.

Not a kiss of love. Not passion.

A goodbye.

Heavy with sorrow.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "You've always been wrong…"

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away. The dust and wind swallowed her figure until she was nothing more than a shadow.

The Fallout

Steve collapsed to his knees.

His sword clattered uselessly beside him. His once-imposing armor now felt like a cage, heavy and suffocating. Blood pooled at his feet, mixing with the scorched earth.

But the wound that hurt the most wasn't the one in his flesh.

It was the one in his heart.

His voice was barely more than a breath. "Why…?"

Silence. Only the wind answered him.

He had stood as a warrior. A soldier. A force of iron and will.

Now, he was just a man—left alone in an empty battlefield, drowning in his grief.

Yet beneath the agony, beneath the loss, something else flickered in his eyes.

Not hatred.

Not vengeance.

Something far more dangerous.

Resolve.