The battlefield had already dissolved into chaos by the time the Federation's second wave broke into the Zeon lines. Trenches burned, smoke poured across the plains, and the smell of scorched metal and charred soil hung thick in the air. Tanks erupted in fireballs, GMs waded forward with rifles blazing, and Zakus dug in stubbornly behind makeshift fortifications. What had begun at noon as an organized offensive had now become a grinding storm of fire and desperation.
Amid the smoke and fire, the duels of aces played out like legends in motion. Amuro Ray's Gundam crashed against Ramba Ral's Gouf, beam saber striking hard against a heated blade, sparks cascading like fireworks across the battered earth. Athrun Zala's Aegis shifted into mobile armor form, grappling Norris Packard's Gouf in a vicious struggle that left both machines battered but unyielding. Tanya's Zudah streaked like a silver comet, darting between Lockon Stratos' Buster Gundam's suppressive volleys, the twin mega launchers scarring the earth with every missed blast.
Farther to the west, Mila and Zhou Wei's black Doms clashed with the twin Guncannons of Kai Shiden and Hayato Kobayashi, heavy fire traded at such close range that explosions blurred the ground between them. Kai cursed loudly over the comms while Hayato's voice was steadier, desperate but disciplined. Their red armor burned bright against the dusk, pressing hard even as the Doms' bazookas and scattering fire forced them to leap back again and again.
Above it all, the Black Tri-Stars carved Federation squads apart, their coordinated jet streams and jet-black Zakus sowing terror wherever they descended. Their Jet Stream Attack broke through lines of GMs like a hot knife, then pulled back, laughing darkly over open comms before vanishing into the smoke.
Federation infantry pushed relentlessly. Trenches were taken, lost, then taken again. Soldiers screamed as flamethrowers ignited the dugouts, grenades tore through sandbags, and the clash of bayonets and rifles gave the earth its cruelest music. The second wave was supposed to break Zeon's spine. Instead, it became a contest of wills, each side bleeding themselves dry for inches of ruined earth.
Inside the Federation forward command, General Gopp stood tall above the plotting table. Reports poured in like a tide: units lost, lines broken, but Zeon's positions steadily bending. His eyes narrowed as he studied the maps. "They are stretched. Their reserves are thinning. Press them harder before nightfall. If Odessa falls today, Earth is spared weeks of blood."
His voice carried the tone of a man who had seen too many campaigns to mistake courage for recklessness. Each order was measured, deliberate, yet merciless. "No halts. No mercy. Push them until their guns burn out."
Meanwhile, in the depths of Odessa's underground command, M'quve leaned gracefully against his console, a glass of wine untouched at his side. Officers around him barked frantic updates, voices strained, faces pale, yet he remained calm, almost elegant in the chaos.
"Ramba Ral engages the Gundam. Tanya von Zehrtfeld intercepts their artillery ace. Norris leads the central defense," one shouted.
M'quve adjusted his gloves with theatrical precision and answered, "Then we are where we must be. Hold them. Spend every ounce of resolve you have left. The longer we delay, the closer our destiny shifts to Jaburo. Odessa is a stone to jump. Jaburo is the target we aim."
Outside, the war raged into late afternoon. Federation GMs surged across smoking ridges, their rifles hammering against entrenched Zakus. Zeon infantry held their ground until barrels melted, screaming and tossing grenades until the dirt ran slick with blood. Artillery fire painted the sky black as Federation Magella tanks rolled forward, only to be gutted by Dom bazookas from the flanks.
One Gaw bomber fell screaming from the heavens, its flaming carcass splitting the ground as soldiers on both sides dove for cover. The shockwave rattled the battlefield, scattering friend and foe alike. Still, neither side surrendered. Neither side could.
By late afternoon, fatigue gnawed at both armies. Federation units advanced slower, ammunition running thin, pilots exhausted, commanders tightening their jaws as reports came in of heavy losses. Zeon's lines were bent, nearly cracked, but somehow still unbroken. The Black Tri-Stars had returned again and again, buying time with each savage sortie. Tanya's Zudah still danced in the fading light, refusing to fall even as its frame bore scars of near misses. Ramba Ral and Amuro fought like warriors of myth, their duel frozen in the eyes of every soldier who dared watch.
Even as the sun began to sink, the slaughter did not stop. But Gopp knew better. War was not waged on fury alone. As dusk rolled across Odessa, he stepped back from his table, eyes grim. "Pull them back. Now. We have done enough for today. The night favors their fortifications."
The order carried across the Federation lines like a weary breath of relief. Slowly, methodically, the GMs began to withdraw, covering one another with bursts of fire. Infantry units pulled wounded comrades from the ruins, dragging them back toward the retreat. The battered Magellas limped rearward, smoke trailing from their scorched hulls. The second wave was over.
On the Zeon side, disbelief gave way to exhausted celebration. Soldiers clambered from their trenches, some weeping, some shouting, others collapsing where they stood. For them, survival itself was a victory. Ramba Ral's Gouf returned to base, its armor torn and burned but still standing. Norris Packard's machine staggered on one leg, reporting survival with iron dignity. The Black Tri-Stars landed with boastful laughter, battered but proud. Tanya limped back into her hangar, silent, eyes burning with contempt for the enemy—and for the god she still cursed in secret.
From his command chamber, M'quve raised the untouched glass of wine and let a thin smile cross his lips. "They retreat. As expected. But tomorrow… tomorrow, the earth will be redder still."
Above the scarred plains, night descended, and the fires of Odessa burned on. The Federation withdrew into the shadows, while Zeon's battered defenders stood amidst the ruins they had bled to protect. Tanya's voice broke through the base intercom, sharp and steady, rallying her exhausted soldiers.
"Today, you stood against the storm. You bled, you suffered, and yet you held. Remember this: you are the shield of Zeon. Tonight we rest, tomorrow we strike back."
Her words rippled through the weary survivors, kindling what little fire remained in their hearts. Outside, the battlefield lay in smoldering silence, broken only by the distant cries of the wounded and the endless hiss of burning steel.
The day was done. The war was not.