In the command ship above, The Obsidian observed the raging battle on the ground through a vast, holographic projection. His towering figure was silhouetted against the dim, flickering lights of the command center. The battle map displayed chaotic movements: red markers representing the grotesque abominations advancing relentlessly, and blue markers showing the dwindling positions of human forces struggling to hold the line.
"Status report," The Obsidian's voice echoed, calm but sharp as a blade.
A data interpreter, hunched over a console, replied hurriedly. "The men are barely holding, sir. We need to send in reinforcements before their defenses collapse entirely."
The Obsidian remained unmoved, his glowing eyes locked onto the map. "No. Hold them off," he commanded, his tone resolute.
"But, Sir—" the interpreter began, only to falter under The Obsidian's piercing gaze. The aura he exuded was suffocating, a mixture of authority and an almost supernatural menace.
"I said hold them off," The Obsidian repeated, his voice dropping an octave, making the entire room seem colder. "Every moment they endure weakens the enemy and strengthens our understanding of their capabilities. Reinforcements will only dilute the data we need."
The interpreter hesitated but finally nodded, swallowing hard. "Understood, Sir."
The Obsidian turned back to the projection, his metallic fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest of his command chair. The grotesque tanks lumbering through the ruins of Solspire caught his attention, their flesh-barrel turrets belching destruction as abomination soldiers swarmed around them like locusts. It was a grotesque dance of chaos and carnage, yet he studied it with a clinical detachment.
"Patch me through to the ground units," he ordered. A comms officer quickly complied, and a moment later, the static-laden sounds of battle filled the command room.
"This is The Obsidian," his voice boomed across the communication channels, cutting through the chaos like a scythe. "Hold your positions. Use the trenches and emplacements to their full potential. Adjust fire to focus on the larger abominations—they are the linchpins of the enemy advance. Show no mercy, for you will receive none."
The responses from the ground units came in bursts of static and shouts, affirmations of their grim determination. The Obsidian leaned back slightly, his glowing gaze narrowing as he watched the battlefield unfold. He wasn't just commanding; he was calculating, analyzing every movement, every weakness, every potential opportunity.
Behind him, a junior officer approached cautiously, clutching a data pad. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. "Sir, preliminary analysis of the enemy suggests... they've been mutated beyond known substances. This... may have been deliberate."
The Obsidian didn't flinch, his eyes fixed on the battle projection in front of him. His hands rested on the edge of the console, his stance unyielding. "I am aware," he said, his voice cold and measured. "Which is why we will not squander our forces recklessly."
He turned slightly, a faint smile curving his lips, though it carried no warmth. "Best use these men to hold the line while we extract the tech. Their sacrifice will be noted."
The officer hesitated, his face contorting with suppressed unease. "But, sir—"
"NO BUTS!" The Obsidian's voice thundered through the command center as he slammed his fist into the console. The force made the holographic projection flicker momentarily, and silence fell over the room.
His gaze bore into the junior officer, unrelenting. "My orders are clear. Begin the extraction of all necessary equipment and materials. Now."
The officer swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Y-yes, sir." He retreated, his movements hurried and stiff, leaving The Obsidian alone with the glowing battlefield before him.
As the officer exited, The Obsidian leaned closer to the projection, his eyes gleaming with a strange, almost predatory intensity. He muttered to himself, barely audible over the hum of the command systems. "Let them come... let them waste their lives. The knowledge we extract here will pave the path forward. And if they all burn in the process, so be it."
"HOLD THE LINE!" a soldier bellowed, his voice barely cutting through the chaos as he desperately tried to angle the heavy laser toward the incoming tanks.
BANG!
A sharp crack echoed, and the man's head was reduced to a gory mess. His body slumped lifelessly, the laser falling to the ground with a clatter.
"RECALIBRATE THE TURRETS!" another soldier shouted, panic lacing his voice. "THEY'RE FACING INTERFERENCE!"
Men scrambled in a frenzied attempt to stabilize their defenses as the Horde surged closer, grotesque forms pouring into the trenches. The grotesque corpse-soldiers unleashed sporadic but deadly fire, their mutated forms managing to wield weapons with unnerving precision.
"Harold, these fuckers are worse than the Rattlers!" Samuel shouted, dodging debris as he fired into the Horde. His voice carried a mix of frustration and grim humor. "And they can still shoot!"
Harold, crouching behind a makeshift barricade, barked out a laugh despite the chaos. "Aye, Captain! But most of 'em couldn't hit a barn door!"
The two shared a brief, grim chuckle, but their moment of levity was shattered as a shell exploded nearby, sending a shower of dirt and shrapnel raining down. Both men flinched, instinctively shielding themselves from the blast.
Samuel wiped dust from his face, his expression turning serious. "Harold," he said, motioning toward the advancing tanks. "Tell me you see what I'm seeing."
Harold turned, his gaze locking on one of the monstrous tanks rolling closer. Its grotesque form was a nightmare come to life—a hulking, walking machine whose mouth served as a gaping maw, dripping with what looked like molten metal. The tank's turret was an unholy fusion of flesh and steel, the barrel pulsating with every shot. On top of it stood a twisted parody of a tank officer, his body a half-meld of sinew and machinery. The officer's laughter rang out, maniacal and chilling, cutting through the sounds of the battlefield.
Harold's jaw tightened as he observed the abomination. "Oh boy," he muttered. "You've really got one nasty imagination, Samuel."
"Yeah, well," Samuel replied, grim determination in his voice. "Let's see if we can turn that imagination into a tactical advantage. We need to take those things out, now."
Harold grinned, a reckless glint in his eyes, before breaking into a full sprint. His boots pounded against the blood-soaked ground as he darted toward the heavy laser ordnance.
"Harold, you madman!" Samuel shouted, taking out a corpse-soldier that had gotten too close.
Harold didn't answer. His focus was razor-sharp, every step calculated. He moved with fluid precision, dodging incoming projectiles and tanking glancing shots that ricocheted off his modified armor. The enhanced plating sparked and hissed, absorbing the punishment but holding steady.
As he neared the heavy laser, Harold barked a command to his neural interface. "Activate 50 percent muscle strength."
A soft hum resonated from within his armor as the servos engaged, flooding his body with augmented power. His movements became faster, more decisive, as he reached the heavy laser ordnance.
Harold dropped to one knee beside the massive weapon, his hands gripping its controls. "Recalibrating now!" he yelled over the cacophony of the battlefield.
"Make it count, Harold!" Samuel shouted, covering him with suppressive fire.
Harold's fingers danced across the controls, bypassing the interference and realigning the targeting systems. The weapon hummed to life, its barrel glowing ominously as it charged up.
"Locked on!" Harold shouted, swiveling the heavy laser toward the nearest grotesque tank.
Here's the continuation with Harold's victorious moment:
"FIRE!" Harold roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a war cry.
WOMP!
The heavy laser unleashed its devastating payload, the beam streaking across the battlefield with blinding speed. It struck the grotesque tank squarely in its gaping, flesh-lined mouth.
For a moment, everything seemed to pause as the beam's searing energy overloaded the monstrous machine. The sickly yellow glow within the tank's pulsating core intensified, flickering erratically.
Inside the top hatch, the tank commander, who had been maniacally grinning seconds before, now showed a new emotion—pure, unbridled fear. His grotesque form quivered as he let out a garbled, panicked voice: "Ah... crap."
BOOOOOMMM!
The tank erupted in a massive explosion, sending chunks of molten metal, flesh, and smoke cascading into the air. The shockwave rippled outward, knocking down several of the advancing corpse-soldiers.
Cheers erupted from the men nearby. "Harold, you crazy bastard! You did it!" one of them shouted.
Harold grinned, wiping a streak of ash from his face. "Told you I had it under control."
Samuel, crouched behind cover, glanced at Harold with a mix of relief and irritation. "Next time, let me know before you pull off some stunt like that. I thought you'd get yourself killed!"
Harold shrugged, stepping back from the still-glowing heavy laser. "If I didn't, who would?"
But the victory was short-lived. More tanks emerged from the swirling smoke, their hulking, abominable forms charging forward. The ground trembled anew as the horde of corpse-soldiers regrouped, their guttural roars once again filling the air.
amuel!" Harold called out, ducking behind cover as another barrage of projectiles tore through the ground around him. "These suckers keep on coming!"
Samuel gritted his teeth, gripping the Havok Mk-V Mini Siege Cannon. The weight of the weapon felt reassuring in his hands, its power humming like a coiled predator waiting to be unleashed. "Then let's give them hell!" he bellowed, standing tall amidst the chaos.
BOOM!
The Havok roared to life, spitting out a blast of devastating energy. The projectile streaked across the battlefield and collided with another grotesque tank, ripping it apart in an eruption of fire, flesh, and twisted metal.
"LINE UP!" Samuel commanded, his voice cutting through the din of battle.
The squads scrambled into position with practiced precision, their training taking over. Each soldier hefted their Havok Mk-Vs or readied their rifles, forming a defensive line amidst the makeshift trenches.
"Focus your fire! Keep the pressure on!" Samuel shouted, his eyes scanning the advancing horde.
The soldiers opened fire in unison, a cacophony of laser blasts and projectile fire lighting up the battlefield. The Havoks unleashed concentrated bursts, tearing through the abominations with brutal efficiency. Rifle fire followed, picking off those that managed to push through.
One soldier yelled over the noise, "Sir, they're still pushing forward!"
"They'll break," Samuel growled, leveling his cannon at another grotesque monstrosity. He fired, and another tank exploded in a fiery cascade. "They always do!"
Despite the relentless tide of enemies, the men held their ground, the coordinated volley of firepower keeping the horde at bay. But Samuel could feel the strain mounting. For every abomination they destroyed, it seemed two more took its place.
"Captain!" Harold called, his voice sharp. "If this keeps up, we'll run out of ammo before they run out of bodies!"
Samuel's jaw tightened as he considered their options. "Then we'll make every shot count," he replied, his voice steady. "And pray reinforcements get here before we're overrun."
But as another wave of grotesque soldiers emerged from the smoke, accompanied by the thundering approach of even larger monstrosities
But as another wave of grotesque soldiers emerged from the smoke, followed by the thundering approach of even larger monstrosities, the steel giants—
"Ah, shit!"
Samuel scrambled for his coms, his hands shaking as he struggled to maintain control.
"Command, this is Captain Samuel Hatten of the Spear of Defiance—requesting immediate backup! Code name Steel Knights is on the loose! I repeat, Steel Knights are on the loose!"
He waited, staring at the static-filled screen, his breath quickening.
...No response.
His mind raced. Did command just abandon them?
"Command, THIS IS CAPTAIN SAMUEL HATTEN OF THE SPEAR OF DEFIANCE! DO YOU COPY? CODE NAME STEEL KNIGHTS IS UNLEASHED AND WE'RE UNDER HEAVY FIRE. I REPEAT, WE NEED IMMEDIATE REINFORCEMENTS! NOW!"
But there was only static, harsh and unforgiving.
The silence in his earpiece hung heavily in the air, and Samuel felt his grip on reality slip. His breath quickened, but he forced himself to focus, his eyes darting over the battlefield as the grotesque soldiers, more monstrous with every passing second, surged forward. The colossal shapes looming behind them were even more terrifying—massive, towering constructs, their metal exteriors glinting in the smoke-filled haze.
Samuel made up his mind in an instant.
He turned toward Harold and the other men, their faces a mix of determination and fear. Then, his gaze fell on the Thermus—the place said to be the key to their operation, the hub of critical technologies that could shift the tide of this battle.
His hand moved to the comms, channeling his voice to every man on the line.
"SQUAD, MOVE OUT AND REGROUP AT THE THERMUS."
The men moved as one, no time for hesitation. The battlefield around them seemed to close in with every step, the screeching of metal and the roar of monstrous engines echoing like a symphony of destruction. Samuel's heart pounded in his chest, but he kept his focus on the Thermus, the only place that might offer them a chance of survival.
As they ran, the chaos intensified. Explosions rocked the ground beneath their feet, sending tremors through the earth. Bullets whizzed past, and the grotesque soldiers seemed to multiply by the second, emerging from the shadows like nightmares made flesh.
"Keep moving!" Samuel shouted over the comms. "Don't stop, don't look back!"
He glanced over at Harold, who was leading the rear, ensuring no one was left behind. The air was thick with smoke, the scent of burning metal mingling with the acrid taste of fear. Samuel's fingers tightened around his weapon, his knuckles white, as he prepared himself for whatever horrors awaited them at the Thermus.
Ahead, the towering structure of the Thermus loomed, its once-pristine exterior now a battered shell, scarred by the ongoing conflict. But within, it still held the key to their survival—if they could reach it in time.
"Almost there!" Harold yelled, his voice barely audible over the roar of the battle. But even as he spoke, the ground shook violently again, and something much larger than the grotesque soldiers appeared in their path.
A massive steel behemoth, its body bristling with weapons, emerged from the smoke, its eyes glowing like molten fire. It was one of the Steel Knights.
Samuel's stomach twisted with dread, but he kept his voice steady.
"Everyone, RUN!"
The Steel Knight took a step forward, its heavy footfall sending cracks through the earth. Samuel's heart skipped a beat—there was no time to fight. They had to reach the Thermus.
They could hear the mechanical screech of the Steel Knight behind them, but Samuel didn't dare look back. His focus was solely on the Thermus now, the promise of refuge, the last shred of hope.