The sky above the battlefield was blackened—not by clouds, but by ash.
Veil storms had torn holes in the horizon. Chunks of floating stone, remnants of shattered islands, drifted in eerie silence across the upper layers of air.
And from within that silence…
A shadow moved.
No sound. No engine hum. Just pressure.
A colossal flying warship, jet-black and lined with red sigils, glided through the sky like a ghost.
It bore no flags—just a single white emblem etched along its hull:
> Ω–17
The symbol of Kairo.
Inside, soldiers paced with cold urgency. Some wore high-tech armor, others ceremonial robes—remnants of the faction's elite forces. But none spoke loudly.
None wanted to.
Because at the center of the vessel, surrounded by reinforced glass and layers of kinetic seals…
He stood.
---
Kairo stood in front of the deployment gate, expression unreadable.
The katana at his waist hadn't moved since he arrived.
Neither had he.
Outside, through the transparent dome, the battlefield below burned.
Command's voice echoed through the chamber:
> "Target zone locked. Estimated deployment in 00:42 seconds."
"Mission protocol: Eradicate all resistance. Establish a forward zone. Zero retrieval priority."
He didn't reply.
Instead, he exhaled softly, a wisp of wind curling from his lips like mist.
The guards posted outside his chamber shifted nervously.
Not from cold.
But from pressure.
Kairo wasn't just dangerous.
> He was Veil-active even when asleep.
---
> "Gate opening. 00:05."
A siren blared. The floor beneath Kairo glowed with lines of red.
> "00:03."
The glass cracked slightly around the edges.
> "00:01."
He moved.
Not a blink wasted.
He leapt—no thrusters, no scream—just wind.
---
The warship shook as he fell.
A streak of air pressure sliced downward. Like gravity itself was afraid of being touched.
Kairo plummeted through the clouds—arms loose at his sides, eyes focused.
And below, the battlefield awaited.
---
He landed like a silent bomb.
Dust erupted.
Shockwaves cracked the ground outward in a perfect circle.
Enemies in a thirty-meter radius were thrown like leaves in a cyclone.
But Kairo?
He stood.
One knee down.
Hand on his katana.
Eyes closed.
He rose slowly, the tip of his scabbard dragging along the dirt.
> "Let's begin."
---
A dozen Veil warriors charged.
Too fast for normals.
Too eager for veterans.
But not for him.
Kairo unsheathed his katana only halfway—
Slash.
One blink later—
All twelve dropped.
> Not a drop of blood on his blade.
His technique wasn't just efficient. It was surgical.
Wind sliced where metal didn't.
Motion guided where instinct failed.
He didn't just cut enemies—
> He cut the space between them.
---
Meanwhile…