-0300 hours, JS Qion Aircraft Carrier, 2046, June 6-
The rain falls as if the sky knows what awaits us. The cold is so sharp that, even with three layers of clothing, it freezes my bones. I'm on the flight deck, staring at the moon, waiting for the order to board the transport helicopter. We are ninety-six soldiers ready to give our lives—and in doing so, give humanity a better future.
"Lieutenant, everything's ready."
I turn toward the voice—it's Sergeant Rine. I nod and return to the rest of the company.
The rotors of the Tengu begin to spin, preparing for takeoff. But between the pounding rain and the whir of the blades, a powerful voice cuts through the noise.
"Personnel! Our mission is to secure strain LX-10 and return to Japan. I don't want a single casualty from this company."
I hope it's that simple—given how complex this operation is.
In theory, it's a mission behind enemy lines: we'll recover a capsule containing the pathogen in hibernation. To accomplish this, High Command has mobilized us—the 5th Airborne Company.
Our plan is to deploy via HALO jump from over six thousand meters, infiltrate the research facility, and fight anything that stands in our way.
I head to my section and order boarding of the Tengu transport helicopter, then radio confirmation that the unit is ready for deployment. After the pilot's final check, we lift off toward Hong Kong, leaving the carrier swallowed by the night.
Seated with my rifle across my lap, watching the darkness of the night—how it's softened by moonlight and stars. I snap back to myself and check my rifle. Battery full. Magazine loaded. Spare magazines and power packs are in place, along with all the gear I'll need to complete the objective.
The rest of the section is doing the same. It's not paranoia—it's how we make sure we get home alive.
"Five minutes to target," the pilot says over the radio.
I brace myself. My hands tremble slightly. No matter how many jumps I've done, I'm never calm before zero hour.
Parachute jump logic is basic: do exactly what you drilled in jump school, and don't slam into the ground.
"One minute to target," the pilot says again. Instantly, the cabin lights turn red.
I move toward the door as it begins to open. With every step, I see my soldiers. I can't make out their faces, but their posture tells me they're ready for battle.
I reach the rear door. "Team," I say over the section radio, and instantly everyone stands. "The moment we hit the ground, we regroup and initiate the assault. Radio silence until hostile contact."
The buzzer sounds, and we leap from the helicopter two by two. The pilot's last words are: "Hurrah—for those who'll feast in Valhalla."
When I'm the last one left aboard, I thank the pilot and jump. The air hits me like a wall. To my left and right, the rest of the company has already jumped—they're in the air now, dark silhouettes against the void. I check my altimeter.
5800… 5700… 5600…
Every second counts. Parachute training isn't about technique. It's repetition until your body acts on its own. Until you stop thinking, stop doubting… or you become a fucking paste of bone and blood on impact.
2000… 1900… 180…
I deploy the chute. More instinct than decision—but with control. I descend slowly, and when I hit the ground, my feet strike first. Legs absorb the impact, hips rotate, knees flex. All in sequence. All memorized. Nothing fails.
I detach the parachute, let it drop silently, and grab my rifle. With tactical hand signals, I rally the section. We landed slightly off-target, so we move through the streets of Hong Kong—streets that once held life. Now they hold only rubble, shattered windows, rusted cars… and the echo of something long gone.
The rain masks our footsteps, but what worries me is the city's eerie calm. Calm and silence are never good—you know something's watching, waiting to strike when you least expect it.
I spot the rest of the company and we regroup, setting course for the research center, with the unmistakable feeling of eyes boring into my back…