GM- Foreign politics [1]

[Hogun POV]

The sun hadn't even hit its zenith, and already the Central Office sounded like an auction house for doomsday devices.

[Red]: —Told you! The Dark Peninsula is mine! Has been since the Second Server Age! It's the sacred territory of the Hoard!

[Queen]: You haven't even touched it in five years! You've got over a million square kilometers to yourself, and I'm asking for ten! Ten! That's like a backyard!

[Red]: It's not the size—it's the principle! You can't just annex Hoard territory because you want beachfront property for your pirate spas!

Their voices echoed off the marble pillars. I watched as Red's dragon-riding berserkers squared up with Queen's sea-sorcerer bridesmaids across the central plaza. One side glowed red with bloodlust, the other shimmered with hydromancy and sarcasm.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. My to-do list was already a war crime in paper form. At this rate, the amount of territorial arbitration forms, declaration-of-conflict addendums, and "Please stop attacking each other during peacetime" official warnings would be—

BOOM.

Page 1 exploded.

Right on cue.

I turned my head slightly, just hoping—just this once—that the day wouldn't get worse.

It did.

There they were.

Standing perfectly in line like bridesmaids at a mafia wedding.

Exusiai. Mostima. Texas. Sora. Ch'en.

All dressed in tuxedos.

Shiny. Fitted. Polished. Coordinated.

Exusiai even had a red rose pinned to her chest. Mostima adjusted her cufflinks like she was about to negotiate world peace with an eldritch horror. Ch'en looked like she was seconds away from arresting someone at a high-end gala, complete with sword sheath subtly strapped under the jacket.

[Exusiai]: General~ How do we look now? Handsome enough to escort you to the apocalypse?

[Texas]: We figured the bridal look didn't land. So we're switching sides.

[Mostima]: You'll fall in love eventually. We're playing the long game.

[Sora]: Also, we brought pudding again. Chocolate this time.

[Ch'en]: I told them this was ridiculous. But... if we're doing it, we might as well look good.

Behind me, Red and Queen stopped arguing. I turned just in time to see them both staring.

[Queen]: Are your subordinates always like this?

[Red]: …I should've brought my anime girls too.

I took a deep breath, stared at the ceiling like it might open up and drop another headache on me, and muttered under my breath:

[Hogun]: I need more bricks.

Then, louder:

[Hogun]: I hired them to help us reach Siracusa. The families there extended a trade proposal, private deals, too. And after that, we're heading to Laterano to meet the Pope.

[Red/Queen]: What?! Why?!

[Hogun]: Because I was the one who cleared your lands of zombies and bandits while you two were off living your isekai dreams. I took care of your people, maintained your borders, even fed some of your old war dogs. You're coming with me as representatives, and to show your NPCs you're actually alive and capable of leading again.

There was a pause.

Red scoffed, muttering something about never trusting a family that eats cannoli while plotting assassinations.

Then I added,

[Hogun]: Oh—and Queen. Where's your ship?

She stiffened.

For the first time that day, the Pirate Queen's confident aura cracked just a little.

[Queen]: …She exploded.

[Hogun]: …What?

[Queen]: Right after I landed in this world. Gravity was off. The air didn't flow right. One miscalculation in the arc drive, and—boom. My girl's scattered somewhere over the Searing Reaches.

Even Red's smug grin faltered into a solemn nod.

[Red]: Damn. She was a masterpiece. A black-iron warship with crimson sails… and a personal hatred for every boat that dared float nearby.

[Queen]: She was my pride. My fury made manifest. And now she's scrap metal in a crater.

[Hogun]: …So why haven't you spawned her back with a toolgun?

[Red]: We don't have our toolguns, remember?

[Hogun]: But I have mine.

Red froze, then spun on me and grabbed my shoulders like a starving man who just saw a full buffet in the middle of a wasteland.

[Red]: You have your toolgun!? Since WHEN!?

[Queen]: You mean we've been sleeping on rocks, bathing in waterfalls, building huts with sticks—and you've had admin-tier access this whole time?!

[Hogun]: Technically, yes. But it's not like before. This world's system is unstable. The toolgun works... weirdly. It can only spawn simple objects. No NPCs, no complicated AI behavior. No anime girls, Red.

[Red]: So no Saber. No Ryōshū…

[Queen]: Can it at least make boats?

[Hogun]: Small ones, maybe. But nothing like your crimson juggernaut. I tried spawning a bicycle last week and got half a tank and a mailbox glued together.

[Red]: ...Still better than walking.

[Queen]: Maybe I can salvage the engine core… fuse it with this world's tech…

[Hogun]: Look. I'll lend you the tool gun. Under supervision. And I'll help you restore your bases—one building at a time. But we need to get to Siracusa and Laterano first. If we do this right, we'll secure allies, resources, and stable zones for your followers.

[Red]: Fine. But if I see even one assassin nun at that Pope meeting, I'm out.

[Queen]: And if they try to baptize me, I'm setting the font on fire.

[Hogun]: Great. So glad I'm bringing two diplomats with the subtlety of a grenade in a teacup.

[En Route to Siracusa – Day One]

Sunlight rising over the war-torn hills like a torch lighting up an old stage. I had hoped this would be a straightforward trip: roll in, shake hands, secure trade, and roll out.

But I made the mistake of asking Red to "keep things fun."

[Red]: Fun? Ha! Leave it to me.

He tried. He really did.

He painted the truck with anime decals—half of which flickered like they were haunted. He set up a karaoke mic in the back that only worked when no one touched it. And he summoned a mechanical duck that screamed "Omae wa mou shindeiru" on loop.

It broke five minutes in.

By the tenth minute of the drive, Red had thrown his headset out the window, muttering full German fury under his breath like a stormcloud in a hoodie.

[Red]: Schießdreck! Wer hat diesen verdammten Entensimulator gebaut—eine verdammte Kartoffel?! Ich schwöre bei allen Servergöttern—

Queen was laughing so hard she was wheezing

[Queen]: You've killed him, Hogun. He's gone full Bavarian.

At least I came prepared.

We rolled through the cracked marble gates of the old Siracusan highway in an armored personnel carrier—custom-made, flame-resistant, bombproof, with luxury seats and reactive shielding. Mounted insignia of the Dawn and Hammers blazed on the sides.

Mastiff led the front on foot. Seven feet of unmovable war spirit. His reinforced armor growled with each step. A pair of massive hammers was strapped across his back—each etched with their names in burn marks:

"Tax Evasion"

"Emotional Damage"

The only sounds from him were the low hiss of his blue gas mask and the distant echo of his footsteps turning gravel into regret.

Ch'en, Exusiai, Mostima, and the others were crammed into the back with me, mostly to avoid Mastiff's "no-chatter zone" of ten meters. The girls, of course, were being themselves.

[Exusiai]: Hey, General~ want me to feed you a snack? Say 'ahhh~'.

[Mostima]: You're unusually quiet, Hogun. Planning battle strategies or just trying not to blush?

[Ch'en]: This is highly unprofessional.

[Hogun]: So is riding into diplomacy in tuxedos.

The mood was turning chaotic, so I did what any battle-scarred commander with a sliver of sanity would do.

I turned on the radio.

The hum of power, then the pulsing drop of "Lost Control" by Alan Walker, filled the cabin. The beat settled over the group like a spell. Heads nodded. Even Ch'en's foot tapped slightly before she caught herself.

Mastiff didn't say a word, but I saw one armored finger tap to the rhythm on the side of "Emotional Damage."

I thought, for a moment, I had stabilized the situation.

I was wrong.

Exusiai hugged me from the back.

[Exusiai]: Ohhh, this song makes me wanna slow dance.

Mostima was smiling dangerously at me.

[Mostima]: Or maybe pull Hogun into my lap while we vibe.

Ch'en was blushing but hiding it with her arms crossed tightly.

[Ch'en]: Focus on the mission, not your fantasies.

[Red]: General, they're gonna eat you alive.

Queen snapped a holo-photo of me.

[Queen]: Smile for the archives, Loverboy.

I tried to become one with the chair.

[Hogun]: Mastiff, please tell me Siracusa is close.

Mastiff's voice rumbled through the internal comms like a war drum.

[Mastiff]: …Ten minutes, Commander.

I could survive ten minutes.

Probably.

The truck rumbled down the cracked old world highway, its armor-plated shell humming with the bass of the radio as the scenery of post-fantasy plains and shattered highways rolled by outside.

[Sora]: Let us all sing together~!

And like an orchestrated ambush, they did.

Red threw his fist into the air, roaring lyrics with all the pride of a battle-hardened bard. Queen leaned out the window, harmonizing surprisingly well for someone who usually shouted naval curses. Even Ch'en, composed and cool, was nodding along and mouthing the words while adjusting her scabbard like a mic stand.

The worst part?

Even Mastiff joined in.

His deep, gravelly voice boomed through the comms, rumbling with barely-contained fury and perfect rhythm.

[Mastiff]: 🎶 I'm falling, I'm fading, I've lost it all—control! 🎶

He even slammed his hammers together like cymbals on the beat, sending tremors through the truck.

And me?

I became one with the chair again, arms folded, hood up, staring out the window like the brooding protagonist of a romantic drama I did not audition for.

[Hogun]: I need more bricks.

[Red]: What? I can't hear you over the sound of our FAMILY BONDING!

[Queen]: Smile, loverboy!

She snaps another holo-shot. 

[Queen]: The album's gonna be great!

[Hogun]: {internally screaming}.

Ten minutes to Siracusa.

Please let them have espresso. Or a cannon. Preferably both.

[Extra: EX Mechanical Angel – Full Mode]

The dark steel skyline of The City blurred past as Light, his mechanical wings flaring with blue-light thrusters, rocketed through the Backstreets, weaving between neon signs, rusted beams, and collapsing structures. On his back, clutching tightly, were Hast and Roland, both jostled by the sudden barrel roll as another volley of projectiles screamed through the air.

[Light]: Hast… This is your fault. If you hadn't touched that damn Singularity, the Head wouldn't be placing bounty posters of me on every Wing's server!

Hast, red-faced and barely able to keep her glasses on, shouted over the wind:

[Hast]: In my defense, it looked like a coffee machine!

[Roland]: WHY would you touch anything in a workshop labeled 'EGO Instability Lab?!' I've lost fingers for less!

[Light]: And now I've got Fixers, W Corp drones, and even an Arbiter with five eyeballs trying to mount my head on a plaque. This is officially the worst Tuesday.

Another strange object whipped past—a fleshy abomination that looked suspiciously like it was breathing.

[Light]: I don't even want to know what that was. Hang on!

He spiraled through the remnants of an old Nest rail line, energy wings crackling, the friction shaking the bolts in his chassis. Then, suddenly, a sharp turn—his tail-thrusters burst outward into a flare, allowing him to bank between two enormous skyscrapers shaped like spinal columns.

[Light]: We're almost at a safe drop zone. I'm handing you both a return ticket.

From his internal compartments, a click sounded, and two glowing white tickets popped into his hand. He shoved them at Hast and Roland.

[Light]: These are one-use Return Protocols—get back to the Library and let Angela know I'll be late.

[Roland]: What?! We're just going to leave you with an entire platoon of Hana Association kill squads on your tail?!

[Light]: Yes. Because I need you both to tell Angela… that if she doesn't back up my save file again, I swear on Lobotomy Corp's grave, I'll defect to J Corp and run logistics.

[Hast]: That's—That's evil.

[Light]: So is dying here.

He turned sharply again as a glowing Arbiter blade slashed through the air where his head had been seconds ago.

The tickets activated with a blinding flash, tearing a hole in the air as the Library's recall system yanked Hast and Roland away, back through the dimensions. Light flared his thrusters one last time, ascending into the chaos of the higher Backstreets, chased by a barrage of impossible weapons and inhuman howls.

[Light]: Just another day in The City…

As the barrage from R Corp rained down—bullets splitting air, shock rounds shattering the concrete sky—Light hovered above the wreckage, wings flared wide. His usually white radiant frame flickered, glitched… then darkened.

His wings, once silver and holy, warped into jagged obsidian metal. His robe retracted and folded into reinforced combat plating, humming with stored energy. A helmet clamped into place over his head, visor glowing blood-red like a furious god's eye.

Then… he froze.

From deep within him, a voice—not entirely his own—boomed out, layered with ancient steel and something far older:

[Light]: I am Light Angel Mechanical, King of Sky City… Defender of Whiteveil. Death shall greet your souls like old friends.

And then all hell broke loose.

He moved like a storm given shape—silent, inevitable. R Corp's squads barely had time to scream. His wings became blades, his steps shattered bone, and his hands fired precise beams that melted armor like paper.

Fixers tried to reposition. They vanished in sprays of red and sparks.

One tried to retreat. A wing-claw tore through steel walls and dragged him back into the slaughter.

For five full minutes, Light was not a person.

He was war.

But then—a whisper in the back of his mind, soft but sharp:

[System Voice]: Warning. Core temperature is critical. Overclock limit approaching. Disengage.

His body paused mid-strike. The red visor flickered. The helmet slowly retracted, wings folding back to their dormant form, leaving only silence and broken metal in his wake.

With a weary breath, Light pulled out a golden ticket from a hidden compartment.

[Light]: Tch… Tell the others I'll be late.

A rift opened, pulsing like a library's page turning—and he vanished.

All of this was witnessed by many people who controlled parts of the city, and one of them was smiling. She smiled with bloodlust and killing intent.

[Chapter End]

[Check out my other story {I will become the ice jellyfish queen with the Chat Group}]