Weisswolf Castle Base.
Now.
...
Inside the neoclassical castle serving as W-ZERO headquarters, during a break from tense integration training, in the combined training grounds—
"...Now for the news. The National Defense Forty-Man Committee today responded to Britannia's victory parade in Königsberg and the strategic abandonment of the Baltic States. Though we have lost outstanding war heroes such as General Foch, countless soldiers' lives and civilians' property were preserved under Britannia's iron pincer encirclement… This was a victory, a manifestation of the spirit of the Revolution…"
"What nonsense are they spouting? Victory? The front lines are retreating! We lost troops and suffered disgrace—utter defeat."
Hearing the inane rhetoric from Paris on the local broadcast, a trio of two men and one woman sat together. The tallest man let out a derisive laugh.
His short, hard, dark-brown hair stuck up like a hedgehog. He wore the E.U. blue uniform loosely, buttons undone, his brown eyes full of wild defiance. His features looked older, hardened, almost thuggish.
One glance was enough to liken him to a delinquent, a troublemaker, a punk.
"Tch, what kind of war is fought on credit like this? Disgusting."
As he sat by the flowerbed with his two comrades, joking about Paris to kill the boredom, a shout rang out from the tennis court: "Nice shot!"
Pa—pong-pong.
The spinning tennis ball struck the fence and rolled to the ground.
E.U. regular army professional NCOs, killing time with a casual tennis match, stopped running, calling out haughtily: "Hey, you there—Eleven! Are you blind? Hurry up and fetch that ball…"
The tone was casual, the same arrogance they always showed toward Area 11 conscripts.
Only this time, they ran into a hothead.
Silence.
The silence of the three by the flowerbed made the NCO feel mocked. His tone sharpened, and he shouted angrily: "Don't you understand human speech, Eleven?!"
"Tch."
The hedgehog-haired man clicked his tongue, standing up.
Rubbing his head in mock annoyance, he said: "Hey, is this how you high-and-mighty E.U. nobles ask for help? Acting like it's your birthright? Sir, you sound no different from the Britannian scum you're always condemning."
"At least walk two steps yourself. Fetch it on your own, pampered soldier boy."
Bending down, he picked up the ball that had rolled to his feet. Extending his hand, a mocking smile spread across his face, suppressed anger flickering beneath.
Such an attitude and tone infuriated the Euro-NCO.
"Bastard! Looks like you pigs from Area 11 need a beating!"
Snarling, the man strode forward, swinging his racket as if to strike this insolent conscript.
"In such a rush?"
With a sneer, the tall, disheveled Japanese soldier grabbed the officer's right arm mid-swing, yanked him forward, and rammed his knee up in one swift motion.
"Ugh—"
The NCO's mouth gaped, his features contorting in pain, eyes bulging as he staggered back. But the Japanese soldier was faster. "To hell with your 'Eleven'! We are Japanese, you trash!!"
With a furious roar, his fist slammed into the NCO's jaw.
Thud! A dull sound rang out. The E.U. officer crumpled, head lolling, unconscious.
The sight shocked everyone on and around the court.
The Area 11 conscripts were stunned that one of their own dared strike a Euro officer. But the E.U. veterans were furious. "You Eleven trash—you're dead!"
They closed in.
"Ryo."
The black-haired woman, arms folded across her chest, her figure mature beyond her years, narrowed her eyes and instinctively dropped into an Aikido stance, glancing at her hedgehog-haired comrade.
"It's been ages since I really stretched my muscles. Nothing but boring simulations and useless lectures—my body's rusting away…"
The hedgehog-haired man, Ryo, cracked his neck and said: "Hey, Yukiya. How about we give these arrogant bastards a lesson?"
With brown hair and green eyes, medium height and slim build, Yukiya wore a glove on his left hand. His delicate features were the sort that, in certain rough circles, would mark him as easy prey.
"Of course."
At his friend's call, he closed the flip-style handheld computer he had been using to watch a contraband recording of [The Third Princess's Victory Parade at Königsberg]. His lips curled into a strange smile. A moment later, while Ryo still taunted from the front, Yukiya snatched a stone from the flowerbed and hurled it at the face of the loudest E.U. officer.
A scream.
The unlucky man fell instantly, clutching his bleeding mouth, groaning on the ground.
"Now that's a good shot!"
Excited, Ryo kicked down an oncoming E.U. soldier.
Bang! The racket bent under the blow. Even after taking a heavy strike to the shoulder and neck, his movements didn't falter. The more he was hit, the sharper his eyes grew. His body, hardened in Paris's brutal gang wars, was like iron.
The lone female member of their trio was no less fierce. With joint locks she dropped two soldiers, then retreated nimbly, ripping a wooden stake free from a vine-wrapped trellis. Wielding it with expert swordsmanship, she lashed out, leaving her would-be captors crying in pain.
The commotion swelled, drawing more spectators.
"How'd this start?"
"No idea. But… wow, that girl's hot. Is this over a love rivalry?"
"Hit harder! Yeah, go for the chest!"
Among the gathering crowd, some E.U. soldiers jeered, while the Area 11 recruits stood silently—some numb, some seething, some glaring with hate.
Finally, the officer with missing front teeth, blood running from his mouth, staggered back up. Rage twisted his face. With a snarl, he pulled out his pistol and aimed at the three Japanese.
"Enough!!"
The Weisswolf Castle security detachment had arrived.
"Major Hammel…"
The armed officer tried to explain through his bloody mouth, but his weapon was seized. A young, impeccably dressed major in full uniform cap barked: "Do not aim your gun at your comrades."
"But they're just—"
"Anything that undermines unity—don't say it."
Hammel's severe gaze silenced him.
"Sergeant, you need medical attention."
Then his eyes turned toward the battered E.U. soldiers who had brawled with the three troublemakers, all bruised and swollen.
But one man still pinned his foe and hammered down punches—the so-called ex-criminal, Ryo Sayama. Hammel's brows furrowed in distaste. "Did you not hear the order, soldier?!"
"Hah? I'm not deaf, don't need you—ugh!"
Before he could finish, the security troops struck him down with a rifle butt and forced him to the ground.
Several submachine guns, shotguns, and pistols trained instantly on the three.
Though they raised their hands, the trio's faces showed no fear. Why would they? After all, they had already joined W-ZERO, a kamikaze unit. No matter what pretty words Commander Malcal spouted, their fates were already sealed—they were cannon fodder.
"Drop your Eleven refugee attitudes!"
"Everything you've done will be reported directly to Commander Malcal."
"Hmph, can't wait… urgh!"
Ryo Sayama kept mouthing off until a boot slammed into his gut.
"No discipline, no organization. You're not fit to be soldiers!"
From above, the major spoke coldly: "You should be grateful you're in the Joint Army. Commander Malcal is merciful enough."
"The victory parade in Königsberg—you watched the recording in secret, didn't you?"
"Even the son of the last Prime Minister, Kururugi Genbu, must kneel at a Princess's feet. For gutter trash like you three, Britannia would have executed you long ago. Take them away!"
...
Commander's Office.
"Commander, those three from Area 11…"
"Major, allow me to correct you. They are not 'from Area 11'—that's Britannia's term. They are Japanese."
"Yes, Commander… Those three former Japanese refugees—Ryo Sayama, Ayano Kosaka, and Yukiya Naruse—have repeatedly violated security regulations. Is it right to keep treating them as we do?"
"Put them in solitary confinement for now."
Already under immense pressure from both Unified Headquarters and the unending stream of new Britannian equipment, Leila Malcal—who had also been exhausting herself with W-ZERO's integration training and supply management—sighed tiredly at the report.
Though she sympathized with the three and valued their talents—the smuggling of a fourth-generation Britannian Knightmare [Glasgow], the total annihilation of a rival gang in Paris's underworld, the attempted hijacking of General Smilas for intel on the E.U.'s newest mechs, their extraordinary Knightmare piloting during a government convoy raid—
Ordinarily, they would have been executed.
It was only through Leila's plea that they had been spared and reassigned to W-ZERO, to atone through service.
Until now, whenever within her authority, she had granted the "troublemaker trio" some protection.
But times had changed.
With Euro Britannia's growing momentum, W-ZERO kept expanding. Resources and manpower poured in, making it a force on par with a reinforced Britannian Knightly Order—composed of both Japanese refugees and E.U. regulars. As commander, she had to be impartial.
After a pause, the major asked: "Commander, may I ask—what makes them so special? Worth such protection from you?"
"Since arriving at Weisswolf Base, they've hacked into the network multiple times, altered ID data, built improvised explosives in the dorms, and vandalized facilities. By regulations, even with your pity, they should have been expelled—if not executed!"
"They never even aimed for citizenship. They're unfit to be soldiers of the Joint Army!"
"Even W-ZERO shouldn't take in just anyone, Commander!"
"Look at Vela Britannia's Area 11 Expeditionary Corps—every member is an Honorary Britannian, long-trained in the Far East. And us? What are we—an asylum for criminals and refugee scum?"
Undoubtedly, his words reflected much of the E.U. regulars' sentiment.
Put bluntly: when Area 11 men were used as cannon fodder, the E.U.'s looked like ruffians, while Britannia's looked like gentlemen's sons.
"Come now, Major Hammel, no need to get so worked up."
The deputy commander—a weary, melancholic-looking middle-aged colonel—hurried to smooth things over.
"After all, the Commander herself brought them here for us to use. Leave it at that. And besides, soldiers whose deaths won't cause anyone grief? You can never have too many of those."
Leila suddenly answered: "Because Akito needs comrades who can keep pace with his mind and movements."
"The neural transmission link for Akito's assault squad has been completed as planned. The brainwave states of those three are stable, with adaptability ranked AAA. According to the calculations of Dr. Sophie Landru and Dr. Jovatz, their compatibility with Akito through the BRS system reaches as high as 87%."
"With Akito—87%? Truly?"
Major Hammel's expression turned to astonishment.
The E.U.'s [Alexander] units carried a special operating system unlike Britannia's. This Brain Raid System (BRS) linked pilots' brains in parallel, synchronizing their minds.
In short, a neural connection apparatus.
Normally, anything above 50% was rare—marking an ace unit with extraordinary battlefield coordination.
Akito Hyuga.
He was the sole surviving [Alexander] pilot from the Battle of Narva. W-ZERO's true ace.
Eighty-seven percent?
Not family, not brothers—such compatibility was unbelievable.
In Narva, no one had ever achieved such synchronization with Akito.
"I understand, Commander. I'll settle the men."
"Mm. Thank you for your work," said Leila.
She returned to her paperwork—reviewing proposals from [Alexander]'s chief developer, Anna Clement, on upgrades to the new model, as well as countermeasure recommendations against Euro Britannia's advanced weaponry.
Riiing—
The phone rang, cutting off her thoughts and the ongoing discussion between the security chief and deputy commander. Picking it up with a click, Leila spoke: "This is Leila Malcal."
"Colonel Malcal, this is Special Affairs, Weisswolf Base. The Unified Army Headquarters in Paris has just delivered new operation orders. Codename [Edinburgh]. Please come in person to unseal. General Smilas sends word: be ready—and come back alive."
...
Meanwhile, Europe, Saint Petersburg, the Winter Palace.
Central courtyard, aerial garden.
The breeze through the half-open garden carried the scent of late summer.
"Your Highness, the Foreign Intelligence Bureau's Alsace-Lorraine branch reports that the traitor remnants of House Breisgau are on the move. Through 11th Area refugees infiltrated into W-ZERO, bought over under cover, we have confirmed that Weisswolf Base is preparing for combat."
"Heh, finally in motion. Understood. Don't startle the snake—business as usual."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
Clack.
Setting down the receiver, Vela exhaled faintly and flopped onto the carpet. She lifted a chilled drink from the low table, raised it, and smiled at the Ninth Knight of the Round, who sat before her in a lacy pink dress, face flushed with shame.
"To victory, Nonette."
Clink. Glasses touched.
"To victory."
Though loath to don the frilly dress, Nonette wasn't one to fuss. Fine—wear it, what of it? As long as Cornelia never saw it. If Vela wanted to keep it as a personal trophy, so be it.
Still, a complaint had to be voiced.
"If you'd shown a little restraint—maybe not pinned me down and forced me into this—I'd be grateful. I don't know what you eat to be so absurdly strong, but you tore my uniform apart. A wager's a wager, and I won't renege."
"You don't understand. This is savoring the victory. Oh, and regarding the Breisgau remnants—Nonette, I'll need your cooperation."
"No problem. But if you really want Leila von Breisgau dead, an assassination order from Intelligence would suffice. Why go to the trouble? Do you want her captured alive, to use as an example of betrayal against Britannia and Hohenzollern?"
"That is, indeed, part of it."