Chapter 142: Landing Point

The hovercraft’s massive rubber skirts hit the pulverized stone slope of Port Solis’s forward quay with a deafening roar.

Spray, silt, and gray pulverized masonry blasted outward as the lead LCAC cut its lift fans, dropping flat against the fractured dock with a heavy metallic shudder. The bow ramp fell forward, crashing down onto the wet flags and splashing red-stained mud across the steel deck.

"Move, move, move! Set perimeter!" Colonel Richter’s command crackled through every headset.

Delta operators spilled off the ramp in a low, rapid sprint. Their boots hit the soaked pavement, rifle barrels sweeping outward in overlapping arcs.

Above them, the air was dead and heavy. The smoke from hundreds of naval strikes hung like a black canopy, blotting out the noon sun. The Grand Avenue beyond the harbor wall was a wasteland of collapsed arches, overturned stone carriages, and smoldering craters.

To the right of the ramp, the forward quay was silent.

Richter stepped out behind the lead fireteam, Elenore moving tightly on his flank with her carbine raised. His boots crunched against shattered granite and spent brass.

The site of the failed parley looked like an abattoir. The charred, buckled wreckage of the downed Seahawk sat submerged in the foaming water of the harbor basin, its bent tail rotor jutting upward like a grave marker. In the center of the pier lay the desecrated remains of General Phillip and the four escort operators.

"Extraction team, recover the General and our fallen," Richter ordered, his voice tight, stripped of emotion. "Treat them with honor. Secure every piece of gear."

Two operators immediately broke off, unfurling heavy composite transfer cases and moving toward Phillip’s body.

Richter turned his gaze fifteen yards to the left.

Lying in the mud and rubble, near the overturned crane, were the three unconscious heroes: Ayanokoji, Kenji, and Miyuki.

None of them moved.

Miyuki lay face down, her breathing faint, shallow gasps that barely stirred the fine gray dust beneath her lips. Her shattered wooden staff lay splintered beside her blistered hands. Kenji was slumped against the wall of a collapsed warehouse, his right arm bent unnaturally, his chest rising and falling in weak, rattling heaves. Ayanokoji lay five paces away, flat on his side, his left leg broken and swollen, his hand still loosely curled near where his black spear had fallen.

"Medics on the targets," Richter barked. "Disarm and bind. Do not take chances."

A six-man tactical containment team moved in instantly.

Two operators pinned Ayanokoji’s shoulders, while a combat engineer stepped forward with heavy, tungsten-alloy cuffs ready.

As the engineer reached for Ayanokoji’s left arm, he halted, gesturing to Richter.

The black Torment Band around the boy’s forearm had already shattered on its own. When Goddess Viona severed her divine connection and fled through the spatial corridor, the violent magical feedback coupled with the secondary naval concussions had completely overloaded the cursed artifacts. The black metal had cracked down the center, its parasitic thorns brittle and calcified, crumbling away into dark, harmless ash against the wet cobblestones.

The crimson gemstone that had once driven thorns into the boy’s bone was burned out, reduced to a hollow, blackened cinder. The same was true for Kenji and Miyuki; their wrists bore jagged, bleeding puncture wounds from where the thorns had ripped free during the collapse, but the bands themselves were already destroyed, leaving behind only dead soot.

"The cursed bands burned out on their own, Colonel," the engineer reported. "No traces detected on the artifacts."

"Don’t get complacent," Richter replied coldly. "They are still S-rank combatants. Put the suppression cuffs on them anyway."

The engineer slapped the heavy tungsten suppression cuffs around Ayanokoji’s wrists, locking the heavy pins in place before applying a field tourniquet to his broken shin.

"Target One secured. Vitals critical but stable. He’s completely under," the medic reported.

Ten feet away, another team secured Kenji. The Holy Sword Master let out a low, involuntary groan as the medics applied compression bandages over his punctured lung, locked his wrists behind his back in matching suppression cuffs, and strapped him onto a folding tactical litter.

Miyuki was treated with the same cold, methodical efficiency. Her limp arms were bound with suppression cuffs before an intravenous line of saline and stabilizing coagulants was run into her neck.

"All three primary targets secured," Elenore said into her comms unit, watching the litters being carried toward the rear of the LCAC. "No resistance. Bands confirmed neutralized and destroyed. Targets unconscious."

Five miles out at sea, John Smith stood on the bridge wing of the USS Gerald R. Ford, hands resting on the cold railing, watching the live tactical feed relayed directly from Richter’s helmet camera onto a portable tablet held by an aide.

John’s expression was an unreadable mask.

"Commander," Rear Admiral Donovan said, standing two paces behind him. "The beachhead is established. Delta has secured the VIPs and recovered General Phillip. The main amphibious wave is crossing the seawall."

John did not take his eyes off the screen. "Tell Richter to advance to the inner gates. Sweep every district. Disarm every imperial combatant. If anyone raises an arm, fire. If they throw down their weapons, round them up."

"Understood, sir," Donovan replied, turning to the comms officer.

Back on the shore, the ground trembled.

Four more LCACs hit the stony beachhead simultaneously. The heavy bow ramps slammed down, and the deep, throbbing whine of turbine engines split the silence as M1A2 Abrams battle tanks rolled out onto the shattered streets, their tracks grinding granite and debris into powder.

Behind the tanks came hundreds of combat-ready Marines in full tactical armor, moving in rigid, sweeping formations, rifles leveled at high ready.

The consolidation of Port Solis had begun.

Every squad moved forward with practiced lethal discipline, their boots splashing through puddles of briny tide and fuel runoff. Tactical combat engineers quickly planted orange warning flags along cleared pathways to demarcate safe transit corridors through the minefields of shattered stone and unexploded naval shrapnel. Overhead, the low rumble of gunships created a constant, vibrating ceiling of sound that smothered whatever remained of the coastal wind. No imperial banners waved; no horn sounded across the ruined sea wall. The landing was an industrial engine grinding relentlessly across the shore, converting an ancient mythical harbor into a hardened military beachhead one yard at a time.