The journey back across the undulating grasslands of Falmart felt interminable, a slow-motion bleeding of adrenaline into exhaustion.
In the lead truck, the rhythmic clatter of the diesel engine served as a monotonous metronome against the vast, indifferent silence of the afternoon. The sun, heavy and amber-tinted, hung low over the jagged crown of the western mountain range, casting long, bruised shadows across the dirt track. Dust billowed behind the three-vehicle convoy, hanging suspended in the still air like a ghostly shroud long after they had passed.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was suffocatingly dense. Nobody spoke.
Normally, First Lieutenant Youji Itami would have spent the transit slumped against the passenger door, half-asleep or lazily ribbing Kurata about his driving habits, waiting for the moment they could drop their gear and grab a cold drink. Today, however, Itami sat bolt upright, his gaze fixed on the endless horizon, his mind caught in a relentless loop of cognitive dissonance.
He replayed the encounter frame by frame, searching for a flaw in his own memory, a trick of the light, an hallucination born of fatigue and smoke.
The Flame Dragon—a titanic, scaled nightmare that had shrugged off high-caliber machine gun fire as though it were stinging rain.
The Roman legionaries—men in polished plate and crimson wool who moved with terrifying, clockwork discipline.
The griffins—beasts of myth wheeling through the cloudless sky with riders armed with spears that detonated with the force of high explosives.
And, towering above it all, the Emperor.
Maximus Messala. A man who spoke fluent, unaccented modern Japanese, wielded a blade that could cleave a mythological leviathan, and commanded a civilization that possessed both iron-age aesthetics and arcane-industrial supremacy.
Itami exhaled slowly, the breath rattling softly in his throat.
"You've been chewing the inside of your cheek for twenty minutes, Lieutenant," Kurata said, his voice cutting through the hum of the dashboard.
Itami blinked, tearing his eyes away from the window to look at his subordinate. "Have I?"
"Yeah. You're gonna draw blood if you keep it up."
"Sorry," Itami muttered, rubbing the back of his neck where dried sweat and soot crusted his skin.
From the truck bed behind them, Sergeant Major Tomita shifted his weight, the heavy metal frame of his Type 89 rifle clinking against his combat harness. "Let him be, Kurata. The man's got a lot on his mind. We all do."
Tomita looked as weathered as the landscape—his uniform stained with grey dust, a scorched, charred streak running along his left sleeve where the dragon's near-miss had superheated the air.
"Those guys," Tomita continued quietly, his eyes fixed on the floorboards between his boots, "they aren't just locals, sir. That wasn't a bunch of tribal militia or some feudal lord's private guard."
"I know," Itami said.
"They're a state," Tomita added. "A real one. With logistics, command structure, and... whatever the hell else they're hiding."
Itami didn't disagree. In his military career, he had studied doctrine, insurgency, conventional warfare, and international friction. He understood how modern nations clashed. But the paradigm they had just stepped into defied every manual in the Defense Ministry's library.
The Romans had presented themselves with an unsettling duality. Their first impression was one of historical reenactment—gladius, scutum, scale armor, and standard-bearers. But the second layer was industrial and arcane. Paved roads beneath crude wheels, engineered fortifications that rivaled modern concrete bunkers in design efficiency, and magical enchantments that acted as force multipliers far beyond conventional gunpowder.
Itami rubbed his forehead, massaging a dull, persistent throbbing behind his eyes. "I keep wondering what the hell we're supposed to put in the official brief. The colonel's going to read it and think we've all gone completely native and started huffing swamp gas."
Kurata snorted, a sharp, humorless sound. "Just tell 'em the truth, Lieutenant. We went out to map a valley, found a giant lizard, got saved by ancient history with a magic upgrade, and had a nice chat with an emperor who knows how to order sushi."
Despite the gravity of the situation, a dry chuckle escaped Tomita's lips.
Slowly, the heavy, claustrophobic tension inside the cabin began to fracture. The absurdity of their existence—stuck in a fantasy world fighting mythical beasts while wearing camouflage and carrying assault rifles—offered a grim, gallows humor.
Then, the tactical radio on the dashboard hissed to life, cutting the laughter short.
"First Lieutenant Itami. Come in."
Itami instantly reached for the handset, his posture snapping back to attention. "This is Itami."
"You are entering the outer perimeter," the base communications officer reported, his voice crisp and professional through the static. "Command has been tracking your transponder. The base is on standby. The colonel is currently reviewing the initial telemetry and is waiting for your return."
Itami winced slightly. "Already?"
"Affirmative, sir. Several automated surveillance posts picked up the seismic and thermal signatures of the engagement an hour ago. HQ knows you engaged a target."
Kurata shot Itami a sidelong glance, a thin smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Looks like you're the star of the show today, sir."
"I'd rather face the dragon again," Itami muttered.
"Don't say that," Kurata warned.
"Why?"
"Because this world keeps listening."
Itami looked back out the window as the first concrete markers of the Japanese forward operating base hovered into view. He couldn't argue the point. In Falmart, words—and thoughts—seemed to carry an unfortunate weight.
…
The forward operating base had transformed dramatically since the initial days of the expeditionary force's deployment.
What had begun as a fragile footprint of green tents and hastily leveled earth was now solidifying into a sprawling, heavily fortified military township. As the three vehicles cleared the outer barbed-wire gates, guarded by mechanized infantry and reinforced pillboxes, Itami could feel the electric tension humming through the camp.
Armed patrols moved with brisk urgency between supply depots. Engineers hurried past carrying diagnostic gear, while heavy transport helicopters squatted silently on their concrete landing pads like resting dragonflies.
Yet, as the convoy rumbled toward the central motor pool, Itami noticed that the usual efficiency of the base had ground to a subtle halt.
Mechanics dropped their wrenches. Sentries turned their heads to track the incoming trucks. Communications technicians peered out from the open doors of prefab command modules.
The rumor mill had already beaten them back.
Word of an unauthorized engagement, missing communications windows, and an inexplicable return escorted by an unknown, winged cavalry had rippled through the ranks like wildfire. In an isolated forward base at the edge of an alternate dimension, news was currency, and this particular story was valued in gold.
Itami climbed out of the lead vehicle, his joints popping stiffly from the long, jarring ride.
A young captain, his uniform impeccably pressed despite the pervasive dust, was already waiting for him by the steps of the command module.
"Lieutenant Itami," the captain saluted sharply.
Itami returned the salute, his expression flat and tired. "Captain. I take it HQ is aware we're back?"
"The colonel has been tracking your approach on radar for twenty minutes, sir," the captain replied, his eyes darting past Itami to inspect the scarred, soot-stained flank of the truck. "He wants you in the briefing room immediately. Along with your section leads."
"Understood." Itami turned back to issue instructions. "Tomita, Kurata, get the ordnance logs ready. Every round expended, every weapon failure, every scrap of data we managed to pull from the Roman position. I want it on a flash drive before we walk into that room."
"Already on it, sir," Tomita said, swinging down from the truck bed with practiced ease.
The captain took a half-step closer, lowering his voice. "Lieutenant... word is spreading through the enlisted quarters. People are saying you ran into a hostile army out there. And... something else."
Itami gave him a long, weary look. "Tell the men to keep working and stop listening to ghost stories." He paused, adjusting his cap. "Though, for once, the ghost stories happen to be underselling it."
Without waiting for a response, Itami turned on his heel and strode toward the command bunker.
…
The main briefing room was packed to the point of suffocation.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh, clinical glare over a massive topographical map of the region spread across a heavy oak table. Senior officers—majors, lieutenant colonels, and intelligence chiefs—stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their murmurous discussions dying the moment the heavy steel door swung open and Itami stepped inside.
At the head of the table sat Colonel Takeo Koike, his face carved from weathered stone, his eyes sharp and analytical behind wire-rimmed glasses.
"First Lieutenant Youji Itami," Koike announced, his voice flat and carrying the weight of command. "Reporting as ordered, sir," Itami said, executing a crisp salute.
"At ease, Lieutenant. Sit down. You and your men."
Itami took a seat near the center of the table, flanked by Kurata and Tomita, who remained standing at attention behind him.
Koike leaned forward, resting his forearms on the map. "We have received your initial telemetry and the automated dash-cam logs from your vehicles. However, the automated feeds cut out during the height of the engagement near Castrum Ianus. I want a comprehensive, verbal debrief, starting from the moment you encountered the target."
Itami took a deep breath, marshaling his thoughts. He knew that every word he spoke would be transcribed, analyzed, and sent via secure burst-transmission back to Tokyo, where a dozen committees would pick it apart line by line.
"Sir," Itami began, his voice steady. "Our reconnaissance patrol was operating approximately thirty kilometers southwest of our current perimeter, conducting standard terrain mapping, when we were intercepted by an apex-class Flame Dragon."
An intelligence officer down the table adjusted his glasses, his pen poised over a yellow legal pad. "Specify size and behavioral patterns."
"Massive," Itami replied. "Wingspan comparable to a wide-body commercial airliner. Scales exhibited hyper-dense keratinization or calcification. Standard small arms fire, including the M2 .50 caliber heavy machine guns mounted on our scout vehicles, proved entirely ineffective. The rounds failed to penetrate the primary dermis; they merely chipped the exterior plates."
A murmur rippled through the room. A major near the corner frowned. "Did you attempt anti-armor munitions?"
"Yes, sir," Itami continued, nodding toward Tomita. "Sergeant Major Tomita deployed a Panzerfaust 3 anti-tank weapon. The shaped charge achieved localized penetration, causing internal trauma to the creature, but it was insufficient to cause an immediate kill. It only provoked it further."
"And the tactical response?" Koike asked, his eyes narrow.
"We were forced into a running withdrawal," Itami said, feeling a slight flush of professional pride mixed with humiliation. "The terrain limited our mobility. The dragon closed the distance rapidly, utilizing aerial fire-breathing attacks of extreme thermal intensity. We would have been eradicated within two minutes if external intervention had not occurred."
The room went entirely still.
"Intervention?" Koike repeated. "Explain."
"Roman forces, sir."
The intelligence officer stopped writing, his pen hovering an inch above the paper. "Roman forces? The indigenous empire?"
"No, sir. Not the Saderan Empire," Itami corrected sharply. "An entirely separate Roman military expedition. Commanded by a state entity styling itself the Roman Empire, operating out of a heavily fortified installation they refer to as Castrum Ianus."
"Scale?" Koike demanded.
"Approximately two thousand regular infantry, supported by an elite auxiliary corps," Itami said. "And aerial cavalry."
Silence descended upon the bunker. A heavy, suffocating silence.
"Define aerial cavalry," a colonel from logistics requested quietly.
"Griffins," Itami said. "Biological quadrupeds with avian forequarters and leonine hindquarters. Over a hundred of them, operating in coordinated squadrons. They engaged the dragon from the air, diverting its attention and shielding our withdrawal."
One of the senior officers let out a dry, disbelieving laugh, but stopped immediately when he saw the dead seriousness in Itami's eyes.
"Griffins," Koike echoed, tasting the word as if it were poison. "You are confirming combat-capable mythical beasts deployed as military assets?"
"I watched them rip the dragon's wings from its flanks, sir," Itami said flatly. "I have the footage on the data cards."
Koike stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Continue."
"The Roman infantry formed a coordinated phalanx around the beast," Itami explained, standing up to point at a rough sector on the map. "Their discipline was absolute. But what caught our attention wasn't their shields or their swords. It was their ordnance."
"Ordnance?"
"Enchanted weaponry," Itami corrected himself, though the distinction felt increasingly blurred. "Their standard javelins—or pila, as they call them—did not rely purely on kinetic force. Upon impact with the dragon's hide, they detonated. Hundreds of them. The concussive and thermal output was sufficient to fracture the creature's skeletal structure."
The intelligence officer's pen scratched furiously across the paper. "Explosive melee and thrown weapons. Chemical agents? Magical runes?"
"I don't know the underlying physics," Itami said. "They didn't use visible spellcasting circles or verbal incantations like we've documented in prior encounters with local mages. Their soldiers utilized what appeared to be conditioned physical techniques, channeled through standardized, mass-produced armaments."
Koike leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. "And the dragon?"
Itami swallowed. "It was killed."
"By the Roman infantry?"
"No, sir." Itami paused, feeling the weight of the room press down upon him. "By their head of state."
The silence in the briefing room deepened until the hum of the fluorescent lights sounded like a swarm of angry hornets.
"Clarify," Koike commanded softly.
"The Roman Emperor participated in the engagement personally," Itami said. "Maximus Messala. He approached the beast during the height of the melee, utilized an advanced combat maneuver, and delivered a single, decisive strike with a blade."
"A sword killed a dragon?" a major blurted out, unable to contain his skepticism.
"It wasn't just a sword, sir," Kurata interjected from behind Itami, his voice low and firm. "I watched it through high-magnification optics. Whatever energy or technique he channeled through that weapon... it turned the dragon's internal organs to ash in a fraction of a second. The creature dropped like a stone."
Koike looked from Kurata back to Itami. Neither man was smiling. Neither man looked like they were joking.
"An emperor who fights on the front lines," Koike murmured, more to himself than to the room. "A monarch with direct martial supremacy over an apex predator." He looked up. "What else?"
"They control a second Gate," Itami said, dropping the final piece of the puzzle onto the table.
The room erupted.
Officers stood up, papers rustled, and multiple voices began speaking at once until Koike raised a single hand, cutting off the noise instantly.
"Explain the Gate," Koike ordered.
"According to Emperor Maximus," Itami reported, "their Gate manifested in their home territory seventeen days prior to our contact. They have secured it, established a garrison, and initiated cross-dimensional reconnaissance. They are fully aware that another civilization—us—controls a separate portal into this world."
"And the Saderan Empire?" an intelligence chief asked. "Do the Romans recognize Saderan authority?"
"They are actively at war with them, or on the brink of it," Itami said. "I observed extensive defensive preparations at Castrum Ianus. Their commander, Marcus, confirmed that Saderan forces have already tested their perimeter."
Koike stood up, walking slowly to the large wall map, staring at the markers representing the Japanese Gate, the Saderan capital, and now, the mysterious Roman fortification.
The strategic landscape had shifted beneath their feet in less than forty-eight hours.
They were no longer an expeditionary force exploring a primitive, medieval fantasy world.
They were an isolated outpost sitting squarely between two massive, competing imperial powers—one hostile and backward, the other ancient, disciplined, and technologically terrifying.
…
The formal debriefing dragged on for another two hours, dissecting ammunition counts, terrain elevations, vehicle damage, and diplomatic nuances. By the time Itami was finally dismissed, the sun had dipped below the horizon, plunging the forward base into a cool, star-drenched night.
Itami walked out of the command bunker into the crisp air, pulling his field jacket tighter around his shoulders.
Kurata and Tomita were waiting for him by the steps, smoking in silence.
"Well," Kurata said, exhaling a thin stream of white vapor into the night. "That went well. Nobody had a stroke, at least."
"Give it time," Itami sighed, pulling a cigarette from his pack and lighting it. "The analysts in Tokyo are going to have collective aneurysms once the encrypted packet reaches the Ministry of Defense."
"Can you blame them?" Tomita asked, leaning against a concrete barrier. "We went out looking for hill tribes and bandits, and we stumbled into the Roman Empire crossed with a high-fantasy superpower."
Itami took a slow drag, letting the nicotine settle his nerves. His eyes drifted upward, tracking the Milky Way cutting a brilliant, diamond-encrusted scar across the black sky of Falmart. There were more stars here than visible from Tokyo—brighter, sharper, indifferent to the geopolitical chess match playing out beneath them.
"You're still thinking about him," Kurata observed quietly.
Itami didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Yeah."
"Emperor Maximus."
"The man speaks Japanese, Kurata," Itami said, his voice dropping an octave. "Not accented Japanese. Not broken phrases pieced together from a glossary. Perfect, natural, modern Japanese. He understood military logistics, tactical nomenclature, and the implications of industrial statecraft."
"Translation magic?" Tomita suggested, though he didn't sound convinced by his own theory.
"Maybe," Itami replied. "Or maybe he's read our books. Or maybe he's spent time on our side of the Gate before we even knew it existed."
That thought hung in the chilly night air, heavy and unresolved.
"What do you think he's going to do?" Kurata asked.
Itami stared down at his burning cigarette ash. "I think he's going to play us. And I think he's going to win unless Tokyo wakes up and realizes we're playing a game we don't know the rules to."
Across the camp, the rumor mill had evolved past simple speculation.
In the mess hall, soldiers huddled over plastic trays, trading exaggerated accounts of the patrol's return.
"I'm telling you, it was a biological weapon," one private insisted, stabbing a fork into his ration stew. "A genetically engineered lizard from a lost civilization."
"Nah," another soldier scoffed. "My cousin in logistics says they found an entire roman legion riding fire-breathing dragons with lasers."
"Lasers? You're an idiot. It was magic."
"Magic doesn't leave scorch marks like a shaped charge, dumbass."
Amidst the noise and debate, the command staff remained sealed behind closed doors. The initial operational report had been compiled, encrypted, and beamed through the Gate to the mainland, but the answers wouldn't return until morning.
In the meantime, Itami was instructed to draft a personal, subjective addendum.
Sitting at a cramped metal desk inside his quarters, illuminated by the harsh glow of a single desk lamp, Itami stared at a blank electronic document.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Personal Assessment: First Lieutenant Youji Itami.
Subject: Emperor Maximus Messala.
He typed slowly, choosing his words with uncharacteristic care.
Emperor Maximus Messala does not appear to be a reckless autocrat. Unlike the leadership of the Saderan Empire, who rely on hubris and numerical superiority, Maximus is highly calculating. He evaluates military capabilities rapidly and appears to grasp the strategic implications of technological disparity almost instantly.
He paused, deleting a sentence, then rewriting it.
He demonstrated tactical pragmatism by providing food, shelter, medical support, and logistical assistance following the dragon attack. However, this hospitality was paired with an explicit, unmistakable display of force designed to establish a baseline of deterrence.
Itami leaned back, his eyes burning with fatigue.
He does not desire immediate conflict with Japan. He recognizes that an open war between two technologically advanced trans-dimensional states would be mutually catastrophic. However, this should not be interpreted as friendliness.
He added a final concluding paragraph, underlining the text mentally as he wrote it.
If diplomatic relations with Rome are to be pursued, they must be approached as negotiations between peer superpowers, not as a contact mission with an indigenous regional power. The Roman Empire possesses capabilities—both conventional and arcane—that exceed any local force encountered thus far. They are watching us. And they are measuring us.
Itami hit save, rubbed his tired eyes, and muttered, "Good enough for government work."
…
Just past midnight, the secure communications room of the forward base shattered the nocturnal quiet.
The duty radio operator nearly knocked his coffee cup off the console as the speaker hissed to life with a sharp, piercing whine.
"Sir!" the operator called out, his voice cracking slightly.
The duty officer, a lieutenant colonel who had been half-asleep over a cup of instant coffee, bolted upright. "What is it? Did Tokyo reply?"
"No, sir! It's an incoming broadcast!"
"From where? Another patrol?"
The operator stared at his frequency analyzer, his fingers flying across the board. "Negative, sir. It's... it's an external transmission. On an open military band."
The lieutenant colonel frowned, stepping behind the console. "Identify the source."
"We can't pinpoint the exact coordinates, sir, but the signal strength indicates it's originating from the south. Near Castrum Ianus."
"The Romans?"
"Affirmative."
The officer stared at the speaker grill. "Put it on speaker. Let the base commander know."
Static crackled across the room, filling the cramped space with a harsh, rhythmic hiss. Then, out of the noise, a voice emerged.
It was calm, cultured, and spoken in flawless, unaccented Japanese.
"Japanese military command."
The few officers present froze, staring at the small black speaker as if it were a venomous snake.
"This message is transmitted under the personal authority of Emperor Maximus Messala of the Roman Empire."
Itami, who had been walking down the corridor toward his quarters, heard the voice echoing from the open doorway of the comms room. He stopped dead in his tracks, turning sharply and stepping inside.
The voice continued, steady and authoritative.
"We acknowledge the safe return of Lieutenant Itami and his detachment. We believe the circumstances of yesterday's engagement have established a sufficient foundation for mutual understanding."
Several officers turned to look at Itami, who stood near the back of the room, his expression locked in intense concentration.
"The Roman Empire has no desire to interfere with Japan's operations against the Saderan Empire," Maximus's voice rang through the room, crystal clear despite the inter-dimensional distance. "Provided that Japan respects Roman territorial sovereignty and commercial interests in this region."
A brief pause in the transmission, just long enough for the gravity of the words to sink in.
"The Empire proposes formal diplomatic channels between our respective governments. We are prepared to exchange geographical data, establish standardized protocols concerning military movement around our respective Gates, and explore bilateral trade."
The lieutenant colonel swallowed hard, looking toward the open door where the base commander had just hurried in.
Maximus's voice softened slightly, carrying a strange, personal resonance.
"Lieutenant Itami."
Itami stepped closer to the console.
"You served with distinction yesterday. Your men demonstrated courage and discipline under extraordinary duress."
Itami blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
"We remember such conduct," the Emperor continued. "We await your formal response through your government channels. Farewell."
With a sharp click, the transmission cut off.
The static vanished.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Nobody spoke for ten full seconds.
Then, a young intelligence officer let out a nervous breath. "What... what the hell are we supposed to do with that?"
Itami stared at the silent speaker grill. A slow, incredulous smile began to pull at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping his throat.
"Well," Itami said, looking around the room at the stunned faces of his superior officers. "For once... I think the ball is in our court."
…
Far away, across the silent, moonlit plains of Falmart, inside the high stone battlements of Castrum Ianus, a Roman communications officer lowered his hand from an intricate, crystal-studded brass apparatus that hummed with residual blue light.
General Marcus stood beside the console, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the Emperor.
"Did they receive it, Your Majesty?" Marcus asked.
Maximus Messala stood a few paces away, staring out of a tall arched window toward the northern horizon where the invisible presence of the Japanese Gate lay hidden in the distance.
"They received it," Maximus replied evenly.
"And their response?"
"They won't reply tonight," Maximus said without turning around. "A military command of that scale requires authorization from a civilian government across a portal. Bureaucracy moves slowly, even when armed with assault rifles."
Marcus chuckled softly. "You seem remarkably confident that they'll accept."
"I would be deeply concerned if they accepted immediately," Maximus said, his voice carrying the cold, analytical edge of a man who had spent a lifetime studying power dynamics. "Any military command that instantly trusts an unknown trans-dimensional empire is either desperate or incompetent."
"And Japan is neither?"
"Japan is a modern industrial state with a technologically dominant military," Maximus said, turning away from the window to face his general. "They are cautious. They are rational. And they are aware that we pose an existential threat if pushed."
Marcus stepped closer, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. "And your true objective, Sire? Beyond trade and diplomacy?"
Maximus's expression hardened, his eyes glinting in the torchlight.
"I need to know what kind of world they left behind," Maximus said quietly. "I need to know if the Earth they came from is the same Earth I lost. And, most importantly, I need to know if their country can be an ally—or if they must eventually be absorbed."
Marcus nodded slowly, the gravity of the Emperor's ambition settling over the room like an iron cloak.
"And if they choose war?"
Maximus smiled—a thin, predatory expression that lacked any warmth.
"Then they will find that Rome has learned a few new tricks since the fall of the old world."
He turned toward the heavy oak doors of the chamber.
"Prepare the formal trade delegation, Marcus. Let the Japanese see that we are civilized before they learn how dangerous we truly can be."
"At once, Sire," Marcus saluted sharply.
…
Back at the Japanese base, the night grew deep and still.
Itami finally made it back to his quarters, stripped off his dusty combat gear, and dropped onto his cot with a heavy thud. He stared up at the corrugated metal ceiling of the prefab unit, listening to the distant hum of the generators and the faint crunch of gravel as the perimeter guards rotated their shifts.
For the first time in days, there were no alarms, no screeching monsters, no explosions echoing across the valleys.
Just the quiet breathing of a camp on the edge of history.
Kurata was already snoring softly in the next room. Tomita was still finishing his equipment logs.
Itami closed his eyes, trying to force his mind to drift toward familiar things—convenience store bento boxes, crowded Tokyo subway stations, the neon blur of Akihabara, the quiet hum of a PC fan late at night.
But every time he blinked, the image returned.
An enormous stone fortress under a strange alien sky.
A Roman Emperor standing among griffin riders with the weight of two worlds on his shoulders.
And a voice speaking perfect, flawless Japanese over an encrypted radio frequency.
Itami opened his eyes, staring into the dark.
"Another world," he whispered into the empty room, a tired smile touching his lips. "What a magnificent headache."
Outside, beyond the triple-layered razor wire and the blinking warning lights of the perimeter, the Gate stood silently in the dark, its event horizon shimmering like liquid obsidian beneath the cold starlight.
Somewhere on the other side of it was Tokyo.
Somewhere across the plains was Sadera.
And somewhere out in the dark was Rome.
The universe had suddenly become infinitely larger, louder, and more dangerous than anyone in Japan had ever dared to imagine.
And as First Lieutenant Youji Itami finally drifted off to sleep, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
The door had been opened.
And there was no closing it now.