Vrrrmmm—!
The noise of these unfamiliar new craft immediately drew the attention of everyone around Bridgehead Base's airfield.
In the corridors, footsteps slowed. Workers on the runway also gathered curiously, moving closer, even pressing together for a better look.
"Check out those beasts of steel—so damn beautiful! Woohoo—! I can't wait to kick those blue-skinned monkeys' asses!"
"With you? The guy who pisses his pants every time he sees a Na'vi? These new toys aren't for the likes of you…"
"Oh, Frit, didn't your mother ever tell you your mouth stinks worse than John's horse's ass? Shut that damn hole!"
They couldn't identify the exact models of the mounted beam cannons, battleship guns, or dual-linked plasma turrets, but looking at the array of weapons bristling across those heavy gunships, the sharp-edged hulls, and the thick armor plating…
Compared to their current rides—the SA-2 "Samson" transport helicopters and the AT-99 "Scorpion" gunships, both of which were constantly getting shot down by Na'vi arrows—these were on another level.
The cockpit glass on those things was far too fragile. Flying them meant living in constant fear that an arrow would come out of nowhere from the trees—and then it was game over.
But inside these new armored gunships, behind thick plating? The difference was night and day. The sense of security surged instantly.
"Boss, these new gunships are the real deal. Think we can try putting in a request…?"
Behind Colonel Miles Quaritch, seven or eight Avatar soldiers with blue skin and lean frames had also arrived to check out the scene. One of them, wearing a camo cap, spoke with shining eyes.
"There'll be a chance."
Unlike his men, who only saw the benefits of better gear, Quaritch—once a Marine Corps colonel—considered deeper implications.
The ungainly aerodynamic shape paired with such heavy armor, yet still capable of pulling near-Mach-2 maneuvers? A true "brick that flies."
Could ordinary humans inside the cabin even withstand the g-forces?
Either there'd been breakthroughs in shock absorption and pressure resistance technology—or these machines were designed specifically for human Avatars.
After all, the Na'vi might look skinny as sticks, but their strength was deceptive—roughly four times that of a human.
Their unique calcified structure, combined with keratin fiber bundles layered like reinforced concrete, made their bones incredibly tough and resistant to fractures.
And his Avatar body, though a human-Na'vi genetic hybrid grown through engineering, shared nearly all those advantages—except for having five fingers instead of four.
New equipment, eh? Hmph. Jake Sully… the human traitor. The day of vengeance wouldn't be far off.
At the thought, Colonel Miles Quaritch bared his teeth in a cruel grin.
The roaring heavy gunships began slowing down, landing in batches of three at a time. Under the guidance of ground crew, they touched down in flawless formation—first wave, second wave, third wave… The thunderous wash of their engines drowned out every other sound.
When they finally landed, the sheer weight of their armor was undeniable—no less massive than the C-21 "Dragon" assault craft, their weapon calibers equally astonishing.
Their hulls were painted gray-white, with streaks of sky blue along the wing edges. The gleaming emblem of a double-headed eagle spread its wings across their sides. On the swept-back wings, one insignia bore a gear with outstretched wings, while the others displayed the crest of a black wolf swallowing the moon.
"Two different emblems… what does that mean?"
Miles Quaritch wracked his memory, but nothing from his Marine Corps days matched these insignias. A new unit?
Then, as silence fell, the gunship hatches opened simultaneously with a sharp hiss—!
Quaritch's yellow, catlike eyes widened. In that instant, he realized—he was wrong. Completely wrong. These machines weren't meant for him or his Avatar squad.
They wouldn't be needed at all.
Because—thud, thud, thud—!
With thunderous steps came a procession of armored giants, each over 2.7 meters tall.
Their march was perfectly synchronized. Every suit of armor gleamed, painted gray-white with black trim, massive shoulder pauldrons, and across the chest, a golden lightning-winged eagle. One pauldron bore the Roman numeral "XVI," the other the black wolf-and-moon emblem.
Scarlet glows lit within their visors, sweeping over the crowd. Instinctively, people cleared a path.
These towering white-armored warriors held unknown large-caliber firearms, massive chainswords, or jagged-bladed axes, disembarking from dozens of gunships in twin columns.
At their head were several even larger figures, clad in more ornate armor, their helmets distinct—Roman-style crests marking them as centurions.
Over a hundred Luna Wolves of the Black Legion marched past the onlookers, forming ranks. The crowd fell silent, struck dumb by their imposing presence and awe-inspiring discipline.
Of course, since they were clearly human allies, the onlookers didn't panic. After all—Roman numerals, double-headed eagles? What alien would have such symbols? Clearly Earth-born, most likely European units.
So Earth had finally decided to claim Pandora once and for all.
"Greetings, Colonel Miles Quaritch."
A sudden, melodious female voice reached Quaritch's ears. The sound was like finding fresh water in a desert—refreshing, soothing.
Clack—clack—! The armored giants stepped aside, forming a path. A golden-haired, striking female officer strode naturally down from a C-3 Thunderhawk heavy assault craft, extending her fist toward the towering blue-skinned figure before her, calling him by name.
"Memory genes transferred, personal insignias reborn, over a decade of indoctrination, consciousness awakened again—how well does this Avatar body suit you?"
Her neatly tied ponytail shimmered in the light. Dressed in the black uniform of the Immortal Blades, with sash and aiguillette, gold-trimmed epaulettes and collar insignia—on anyone else it would look standard issue, but on her it radiated a presence entirely different.
Her features were so flawless it was as if she had stepped straight out of a painting, her golden hair tied neatly into a ponytail that glistened like strands of sunlight. She radiated both martial vigor and undeniable feminine beauty.
Anyone who could so easily access Quaritch's records, arrive with such formidable force, and enjoy this level of protection had to be someone of significant standing—either a child of RDA's upper echelon or of the United Government's ruling families.
For ordinary people, rising to such rank at such a young age was impossible. But for the privileged heirs of power, becoming a general in their twenties was hardly surprising.
"No problem at all. Ready for combat anytime!"
Meeting those clear, sky-blue eyes, Quaritch saluted, then lightly bumped fists with the blonde officer before withdrawing. "Ma'am, you are…?"
"Bianka Durandal Ataegina."
It was Durandal herself. Wearing a standard air filtration mask for appearances' sake, she adjusted her cap slightly and smiled. "You may call me Durandal."
"New reinforcements? Authorized by headquarters? Then why wasn't I informed of this beforehand?"
At that moment, the sound of commotion rose. Durandal turned to see a middle-aged woman in jungle camouflage approaching quickly. She moved with the aid of a simple four-limbed exoskeleton—more like powered stilts than a proper bipedal mech.
The four stars on her cap identified her at once: this was General Ardmore, the highest-ranking human commander on Pandora, responsible for Bridgehead Outpost and beyond.
"General Ardmore."
This was the one she had to save. Save her, and she would save all the humans on Pandora.
Durandal repeated it silently. Even so, her honest nature made her feel a pang of guilt at this tactical deception.
If it were Selene in her place… guilt? What was that?
To avoid any mistakes, Durandal had borrowed someone from Artoria's Round Table Knights—the one most suited for this role.
"General Ardmore, this is a direct order from headquarters. Do you have any objections?"
It was not Durandal who spoke. A deep, magnetic male voice rang out from behind her. From the looming shadow of the Luna Wolves stepped a middle-aged officer with slicked-back black hair, his attire and bearing immaculate.
"Jake Sully, the traitor, remains at large after more than a year. General, your inefficiency is unacceptable. This criminal has repeatedly led Na'vi insurgents to attack our personnel, destroy our supplies, and sabotage our operations—seriously delaying Pandora's development."
The man's pale face, sharply defined features, high cheekbones, narrow eyes, and thin lips exuded severity. From beginning to end, his expression remained joyless and grim.
"Headquarters is losing patience. You understand what that means, don't you, General?"
"You…" Ardmore was rattled by the man's rapid-fire accusations. That was the intent. Murmurs spread among her subordinates at once, whispers of doubt growing louder.
Even Quaritch's Avatar unit looked taken aback. So this was an inquisition.
"Sir—what is your mission, then?" Ardmore finally forced the words out.
"My mission is to clean up after your failures. Consider it assistance—but don't bother thanking me…"
True to his reputation, this was none other than Agravain of the Iron, the Round Table's cold, uncompromising secretary. Ruthless, rigid, and utterly indifferent to sentiment, he embodied a merciless devotion to duty.
Agravain—son of Morgan le Fay, Arthur's witch-queen sister, and the only child she could truly trust.
His temperament made him widely disliked among the Round Table, many seeing him as the cause of its decline. Yet in truth, the Round Table only began to collapse after his death.
Watching Agravain steadily press General Ardmore into a corner, gaining the upper hand, Durandal recalled Selene's earlier judgment of the Round Table Knights:
Agravain was the most indispensable member of them all—perhaps even more so than Merlin, that old scoundrel who never took anything seriously.
'Thank you, Sir Agravain.'
'Duty demands it.'
At Durandal's silent thanks, Agravain's eyes flickered imperceptibly before he unleashed another barrage upon Ardmore, activating the mass-produced spirit-control wristband in his hand.
Durandal simply wasn't capable of lying. Her innate honesty and knightly spirit reminded Agravain of the king he once served. She would fumble this kind of deception. So he did it for her, gladly taking on the dirty work and the blame.
Back in Camelot… this was nothing new for him.
'Kiana, Artoria—those RDA ships in near orbit, are they under control?'
At that moment, in low orbit above Pandora.
Every ISV Venture Star-class ship—over 1,600 meters long, 330 meters wide, 218.5 meters high—was forcibly seized. Bright with the Imperial Navy's double-headed eagle insignia, assault boats and breaching torpedoes clamped to their hulls.
Inside, molten-cut openings linked the ships directly to Imperial boarding craft. Squads of Astartes stormed through, while auxiliary troops corralled captured RDA personnel, locking them in sealed fields that blocked all outgoing signals.
In one command chamber, Artoria stood before the ship's core systems, stunned by the data: Miles Quaritch resurrected through DNA memory transfer, his mind uploaded to Earth, then reborn in a hybrid Avatar body.
"This will be useful. Package the data and send it to the Imperial Science Bureau. Perhaps one day such technology could serve our own fallen soldiers."
Meanwhile, Kiana injected a Honkai virus into the ship's systems. "Durandal is doing her utmost to achieve a peaceful integration of the humans on Pandora—we can't lag behind."
"Once she has gathered all personnel into the RDA outposts, that will be our signal to strike."
These words she directed to the Luna Wolf officer beside her, his armor crafted like Roman legionnaire plate with a crested helm.
"Very well. I will await General Durandal's signal."
Though he longed to say what he truly thought: Durandal was too young, too soft-hearted. A handful of stragglers in the field? If they died, so what. Efficiency first. As long as they didn't bomb the RDA's bases, a few casualties among non-Imperials were meaningless. Ants—kill them, and they were simply dead.
By his measure, a direct assault was the most cost-effective method.
But Durandal had firmly vetoed the Wolves' rough plan of attack.
If it could be avoided, then every unnecessary casualty should be prevented.
The chosen few sent from Earth to open new worlds—their miners, machine operators, engineers, doctors, geologists, soldiers—were all elites. Properly reorganized, they could swiftly become assets for the Empire's own conquests.
The Wolves didn't argue further. Fine. She was the supreme Imperial commander of Alpha Centauri. If she wanted to waste effort, so be it. Best not to cross one of the Empress' favored rising stars over a trivial matter.
...
Bridgehead Base.
"What? Abandon all gains outside the outpost? Withdraw all personnel and equipment?" At Durandal's order, even General Ardmore did not object, but the entire command staff froze.
"Yes. Large-scale orbital bombardment is imminent. Our comms are not synchronized, our IFF protocols mismatched. This is the best way to prevent friendly fire."
After explaining, Durandal added sternly: "Transmit the order. Immediate evacuation. How long will it take?"
At the words "orbital bombardment," no one argued further. Operators rushed to relay the command.
"Report: personnel along the maglev line are already pulling back. Estimated time for full withdrawal… General, at least two hours."
"Then three hours from now, the bombardment begins."
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