By evening, as the helicopter cut across the fading sky, we finally reached the Eastern Command HQ. It stood just twenty kilometers from Egnisk, and even from above, we could feel the pulse of war. The base was alive—soldiers running in every direction, trucks roaring in and out, artillery booming in the east, and the rumble of tanks shaking the ground. War was no longer distant. It was right at the doorstep.
As we stepped off the chopper, a sergeant hurried toward us. He stood tall, broad-shouldered.
"Welcome, privates," he said firmly, giving us a salute. We straightened and saluted back. "I am Sergeant Warnik. Congratulations on your success—you prevented a major disaster." His tone softened slightly. "Follow me."
We trailed him through the camp. Everywhere we looked, the base was buzzing with movement—cadets barely older than us training on the fields, seasoned soldiers cleaning their rifles, mechanics repairing armored trucks, and medics rushing stretchers inside tents. The air smelled of oil, steel, and smoke. The tension was thick, but so was the resolve.
Warnik led us to a dorm building. Inside, it looked almost like the academy—simple, compact, practical. He pointed toward a rack of folded uniforms.
"Those are yours now," he said. "Shower, change, and report to the main command office. The generals are waiting." Without another word, he left.
We each took turns in the shower, washing off the dirt, blood, and smoke that still clung to us from the battlefield. Wearing the Crescent Army uniforms afterward felt…different. Heavy, but in a good way. Like the weight of everyone who had worn them before us was pressing onto our shoulders.
We were about to leave when Ferry suddenly stopped me.
"Martin," he said, and the others turned too.
I blinked. "What?"
He stepped closer, his eyes steady. "From the academy until now, you've been the one guiding us. Every plan, every move—we wouldn't be standing here without you. Your judgment… It's sharper than mine, sharper than any of us."
I frowned. "So…?"
"So," he said with a faint smile, "you're our leader now."
It hit me like a bullet. "Wait… WHAT?"
Barnett crossed her arms. "Relax, we already talked about it before. We all agreed… It's about trust. And we trust you."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say. My stomach felt like it was twisting. I wanted to argue, but the way they were looking at me… it was already decided.
"Alright," I said finally, my voice quieter than I expected. "Thanks. I'll do my best."
"Not 'do your best,'" Barnett corrected. "Lead us."
I nodded, still trying to process it. Then we set off together toward the command office.
The path there was overwhelming. Jets roared overhead, soldiers marched in formation, tanks rolled past with their engines growling, and everywhere, medics carried the wounded. I could feel eyes on us—some curious, some skeptical. Maybe word of our mission had already spread.
We reached the office, a large building guarded by stern-looking soldiers. I knocked, and a heavy voice answered:
"Come in."
We entered. Not as academy recruits. Not as brats who had stumbled into war. But as victors… As the students of Captain Pierson.
Inside sat the top brass of the Crescent Army, their medals glinting in the lamplight. At the head of the table was the Chief Commander himself, General Yarna—the elder brother of Yornus.
"Welcome, soldiers of the Crescent Army," he said, his deep voice vibrating in my chest.
General Ralkis leaned forward. "You carried out one of the most important missions without hesitation and saved us from a crippling blow. Stand proud—you didn't just save the HQ. You saved Arkania." His applause filled the room, and others joined, except Yarna, who watched us with eyes sharp as knives.
Finally, he spoke. "Who leads you?"
The others glanced at me. My heart pounded, but I stepped forward. "I, Martin Arkila, lead this group."
"Arkila…" Yarna's voice lingered on the name. "So you are the Martin Yornus told me about."
My chest tightened. My brother's shadow stretched even here.
"When you encountered the Zerathian Knights," Yarna continued, "why did you attack immediately? Why not report to Command first?"
The weight of his gaze almost crushed me. But I forced myself to answer. "Sir, if we wasted time relaying the intel, the HQ could have already been destroyed. We had no choice."
"And what guarantee did you have of success?" His tone sharpened, cutting.
"There was none," I admitted. "War never guarantees anything. The odds are always fifty-fifty. But if we hadn't acted, the odds would've been zero."
His stare dug deeper. "So why take such a reckless risk?"
I swallowed hard but stood firm. "Because war demands risk, sir. And I took it."
For a moment, the room was silent. My pulse thudded in my ears. Then Yarna stood. The other generals rose with him and began to clap.
"I am impressed," he said at last. "Just as expected from the brother of Malkin. That same courage. That same fire."
The applause grew louder. For the first time, I felt I had truly earned my place—not because of my brother's name, but because of my own choices.
"All of you have done what even seasoned soldiers might hesitate to do," Yarna declared. "But the real war begins now. Prove yourselves in the battles ahead."
General Irgin added, "Take some rest tonight. Tomorrow you'll meet your new captain and prepare for deployment."
"Yes, sir!" we shouted in unison, saluting sharply.
As we left the office, I couldn't shake the thought. This wasn't just the beginning of a chapter. It was the beginning of our war.
Three days of rest passed quietly — three days that felt oddly like waiting at Hell's door: silence, ache, and the slow replay of what had happened.
"The wait's over, isn't it?" Ferry asked while we packed, trying to make his voice light.
"Nothing new. Same war, just louder now," I answered.
Just then, the door opened. A man filled the frame: tall, steady, the kind of person discipline sat well on. He walked in without fanfare.
"Hello," he said, surveying us like an officer does. "I'm your captain. Captain Tyrnik."
"Martin Arkila," I replied. My voice felt small against his presence.
"I'm not here to command you from a distance," he said. "I'm a soldier who will fight beside you. Think of me as a big brother on the field." He offered a short nod. "Come with me. There's something you all need to hear."
We followed him to a dim meeting room. He rolled in a board with a regional map and asked us to sit. The room smelled faintly of oil and old paper — the kind of place where plans are often made and rarely come out whole.
He tapped the map. "Our eastern front totals are: 100,678 troops. Twenty-six thousand seventy-eight at Operations HQ. Fifty-five thousand are holding Egnisk. The remaining twenty-five thousand are in the surrounding border area."
Valkin's voice squeaked out. "Isn't this the main HQ?"
"This is the top-brass post," Tyrnik answered without turning. "The main HQ is seven kilometers beyond Egnisk." He stepped back and continued, steady and direct. "We have 1,017 battle tanks divided into eight battalions. Six battalions have been deployed—four here and two in Targalia. Our air assets are engaged; because of the Dormisian and Barkilisian fleets, some air support was pulled back. Our objective in this sector: hold Egnisk. If it falls, the capital becomes vulnerable. The enemy numbers are overwhelming—well over a million—and our equipment is outdated." He let that land between us.
We should have been calm; instead, a knot formed in each of our stomachs.
Tyrnik's voice softened a little. "I'm not telling you this to frighten you. I'm telling you so you know what's at stake. You defeated the Knights — good work. But don't let that victory turn into arrogance. Pride kills faster than enemy bullets. Fight with a clear head. Fight with the knowledge that lives — our country's future — depend on what you do."
The words hit home. They weren't the hollow patriot-speeches we'd heard from some leaders; they were practical, honest, and heavy with expectation.
"Any questions?" he asked.
We stood as one. "Yes, sir!" came the reply — not just obedience, but a promise.
"Pack up. We march to the actual HQ on foot," Tyrnik ordered. "Move out in thirty."
We left the room with that weight in our steps. Calmness had returned, replaced by a new kind of readiness. We'd been given the truth — raw and unvarnished — and a captain who would be beside us when the waiting ended. That mattered.
We prepared ourselves, ate lunch, and set off. From here to the HQ, it would take us four hours. Along the way, we passed shattered houses and withered flowers. The walls were telling the story of the ones who were once humans—who were once Arkanians.
Minutes before sunset, we were standing before the HQ. From here, we could clearly hear the gunshots—tanks firing, artillery lighting up the ground. Explosions, fire… all visible from where we stood. We were at the doors of hell.
Following the Captain, we reached the office of the operations officer, Colonel Werner. The captain knocked, and we entered.
"Tyrnik! You're here, finally." The colonel sounded like he had been waiting for us for centuries. "What took you so long?"
Then his eyes went to us. "Ah, so you're the new cadets of convoy seven. Good work out there. Now do the same—or better—here." He gave us a faint smile before passing a file to the captain.
"It's your first day here, so the mission is easy. Don't think it's useless. Every mission matters."
We saluted him and left the room.
"What's in the file?" I asked the captain as we walked out.
"It contains the intel for the mission. Let's head to the armoury."
We left the main building and followed him. The armory was packed—tanks, APCs, and trucks rolling in and out, crates of ammunition being hauled every direction. It was chaos, typical of war. We went to the weapons section and began to gear up. The five of us, except me, chose MP5s and Glock-17s. I chose the SVD, and the Captain took an HK416. He also grabbed two heavy weapon cases, handing one to me. In ten minutes, we were ready.
"There are reports of an intrusion south of Egnisk. Intel says they're heading for the supply road between Egnisk and the HQ. Our mission is to observe first. If they're heavily armed, we report back and call for an airstrike. If not, we confront them."
"What are the chances we run into the main army?" Ferry asked.
"Low," the Captain replied. "The path they've taken is narrow. At most, we'll see an APC."
"What's in the cases?" I asked.
"Anti-TTC weapons," he answered.
"Anti-TTC? What's a TTC?" Alfred frowned.
"You don't know about TTCs?" The Captain looked genuinely surprised.
We shook our heads.
"I thought the academy taught you." He sighed. "Tracked Tactical Carriers, TTC for short, are the latest lightweight, fast battle tanks from the Phoenix Empire. People assume they're fragile because of their weight, but they're strong—too strong. They've been a nightmare for us. Luckily, our scientists finally came up with weapons to counter them. In my case, this—" he tapped the case—"is the BTR-204 rocket launcher. And in Martin's case, the ARK-TS1 anti-tank sniper rifle."
"Why can't we use them?" Valkin asked.
The Captain gave him a look. "Because the BTR's recoil will throw you on your back, and the ARK will either break your shoulder—or rip it clean off." He paused. "The main problem with TTCs is their speed and heat radar. They can pick up human signatures within a kilometer. The rocket launcher works outside their range. The sniper rifle, though, has a range of 2150 meters. Hitting a moving target with it is nearly impossible. Against static targets, you need insane precision."
"Can you do it?" Barnett asked.
"Well…" He shrugged. "Nothing wrong with trying. Martin, you're the sniper. Don't even think of using the ARK unless it's do-or-die."
We walked in silence after that.
"One more thing," the Captain added. "The ARK is loud enough to wake the dead. That's the real drawback."
My jaw dropped, and I stood staring at the captain. That wasn't just a drawback—it felt useless now. For the first time, I understood why he called it a do-or-die weapon.
We marched for an hour and set up three kilometers from the enemy's last known position. Just then, the captain's radio buzzed.
"Raven-01, this is HQ."
"This is Raven-01. Go ahead," the captain replied.
"Satellite images confirm the hostiles are heading your way. Two APCs, one cargo truck, and two jeeps with five soldiers each. The Major suggests an ambush from your current position."
"Copy that. Raven-01 out."
The captain scanned the terrain, then looked at me.
"Martin, the colonel put me in charge of this mission, so listen up. Barnett, Alfred, Valkin—you'll set up inside the woods and attack from there. Martin and I will snipe from the ridge. Ferry, swing around and use the kamikaze drones on the APCs."
"Yes, sir!" we answered in unison.
We took our positions and lay in wait. Every minute felt like an hour, tension heavy in the air. Dust rose on the path ahead, and my finger tightened on the trigger. But what emerged wasn't an APC.
It was a battle tank—its cannon already aimed at us.
"OH, SHIT!" the captain shouted. "It's a TANK!! MARTIN, MOVE!!"
He shoved me aside as the cannon fired, the shell slamming into the ground just meters away. We scrambled up the ridge as another shot roared past. Then—boom! Ferry's drone slammed into its tracks. Another shot missed. Then another explosion—Ferry had struck the fuel tank. Flames engulfed the beast.
"Target neutralized," Ferry reported between coughs.
"Thank God, it was an M8. Weak ones," the captain panted.
But before Ferry could finish, another explosion ripped the ground near him.
"FERRY!!" I yelled.
"I'm fine… drones are gone, regrouping with Barnett." His voice cracked with static.
"How the hell did they know?" the captain muttered.
"Sir, I've got a heat signature in the air—hostile drone!"
"Damn it, they outplayed us. HQ, this is Raven-01. Ambush compromised, going full offensive!"
"Roger. Be careful."
Gunfire erupted.
"This is Alfred—we're spotted! Engaging!"
"Three down," Barnett called out.
But the APCs thundered onto the field, their cannons pounding. Drones buzzed overhead.
"I see it," I said, spotting the pilot drone circling. I steadied my aim, fired—bang. One drone spiraled down in flames. Another shot, then another. All three were gone.
"Drone pilots neutralized," I reported, before picking off ground soldiers one by one.
Valkin's voice cracked through the comms. "I'm hit… shoulder."
"We need that launcher!" the captain growled.
I took down a machine gunner. Barnett shot the next. The captain seized the opening, grabbed the launcher, and fired—boom, one APC destroyed. Reload—boom, the second one gone.
The firefight dragged on for another ten minutes. Finally, only one enemy remained, crawling away. Ferry sprinted in, leapt, and kicked him square in the neck, knocking him out cold.
We regrouped at the bottom of the ridge.
"Are you alright?" the captain asked Valkin.
"Just a scratch. Barnett patched it up."
The captain sat heavily, drained half a bottle of water, and finally smiled.
"Well done. All of you."
HQ was informed, and ten minutes later, a jeep rolled up. We piled in, heading back to base.
The mission had changed course in seconds, and it taught us a brutal truth: in war, a single moment can flip the battlefield upside down.