Sven went to bed, setting his alarm for 9:00 AM. After eight hours of sleep, he took a quick shower and washed his face. He threw on a black tracksuit, white sneakers, and a red cap emblazoned with "DTD" before heading out.
He walked through the city—a sprawling labyrinth of gray and brown buildings smelling of damp concrete. The structures were piled atop one another, reaching for the sky, interconnected by a chaotic web of bridges and floating annexes that created a true concrete jungle. Yet, amidst this architectural density, there were elegant buildings surrounded by the silhouettes of statues.
The streets were filled with people, interspersed with the occasional three-meter-tall, gray-skinned orc. No trace of a smile or even sadness touched their faces; they simply trudged toward work with a weary gait, destined to toil like worker bees.
God, I'm still so tired, Sven thought.
He walked through half the city before finally escaping its gloom. As he traversed the long outskirts, his mind raced.
Damn it, I don't even have a real plan. All I know is how to sneak in before the Golden Dragon army arrives.
In the center of the Church of Titan Lutheri, Father Luka was deep in prayer. The sanctuary was empty until a twelve-man Lutheri strike team marched in. They wore blue leather coats rigged with numerous straps and harnesses over wide, dark trousers and tall boots. Hidden beneath their coats were guns, swords, and potions.
"So, when are we moving out?" asked Liam, the squad leader standing in the center.
"We already told you: eleven o'clock," Father Luka replied, without breaking his prayer stance.
"Then why is your ass still planted here?" Liam barked.
"Watch your language. I am praying," Luka said calmly.
"Listen, if you aren't out of here in thirty minutes, I'm going to kick your—"
Suddenly, the weakest member of the group, standing furthest in the back, dropped dead. A massive red blade of pure energy erupted from his torso, his abdomen completely torn open. A crushing pressure emanated from Luka's direction, and the very air in the room began to warp and shimmer.
"I told you... no profanity," Luka said. He was still standing in a posture of devotion to his goddess. There was nothing inherently aggressive about his movements—in fact, his pose was perfectly natural—which only made it more terrifying.
He's only one level higher than me. Is the gap really this huge? No, pull it together. If Gaku were in my place, he'd laugh right in his face, Liam thought desperately.
"But you are not Gaku Tadoshi," Luka's voice echoed directly inside Liam's head. Liam's hands began to shake.
No, I'm not even the dirt beneath their feet. They are too powerful for me to even stand near them. They are strong by the very grace of this world; they can't understand me, and I can't understand them. Weakness makes me nothing but trash, Liam thought, his body trembling—until a hand touched his shoulder. It was Leonard, his right-hand man.
"Boss? Are you okay?" Leonard asked, standing to his right.
"Huh? Me?" Liam's face was drenched in sweat, his eyes wide. The crushing pressure had vanished.
Looking around, Liam saw that everything was back to normal. His men were all alive and well, and Luka was back to his prayers as if nothing had happened. Then, Luka turned around.
"Oh! My apologies, I'm running a bit late. So sorry!" Luka chirped, running toward the strike team with a feminine gait, arms swinging wide.
But Father Luka's smile was twisted. What Liam had seen was real.
"Shall we go raid the Arctic Fox University then?" the priest asked.
In an underground base, six members of the Golden Dragon army were gathered. They sat in a windowless room of dark brick and wooden floors, illuminated by a single spotlight. A long table in the center held a map of the country, flanked by cabinets overflowing with paperwork.
Three officers, two captains, and a commander sat at the table, clad in three-layered armor. The base layer was a skin-tight material resembling a mix of latex and heavy fabric. The second layer consisted of steel plates bolted over the vitals. The final layer featured traditional medieval-style pieces: cuirasses, pauldrons, couters, codpieces, and gauntlets. Their headgear looked like pilot helmets fitted with tactical masks.
The Commander, sitting in the seat of honor, looked formidable. His skin was dark, similar to the Kim Wu Lan or Bo Wu Lan lineages; his face was etched with deep wrinkles and a scar marked his forehead. His hair was dark and cropped short.
"We can begin the raid now, provided you all know the plan," said Van Wu Lan, Commander of the Golden Dragon Clan's secret army.
Everyone in the room turned to look at a single officer. Van Wu Lan smiled, staring directly into the face of the traitor. The spy bolted from his seat to escape, but before he could take a step, he collapsed.
He hit the floor clutching his head as it burst into brilliant blue flames. The spy screamed in agony, thrashing on the ground. Van Wu Lan calmly lit a cigarette and began to smoke. The horror wasn't just the man's pain—it was the fact that every other person in the room looked away, pretending nothing was happening. The spy wailed, begging for mercy, confessing everything, but no one spared him a glance.