Chapter 36: Who Are These People?

Inside the roaring cabin of the lead MH-60M Black Hawk, John Smith sat strapped into the jump seat, holding a ruggedized tactical tablet in his gloved hands.

On the screen was the live, high-definition infrared targeting feed from the orbiting AC-130J Ghostrider.

A high-contrast thermal box tracked the fleeing figure of Sato as he sprinted desperately through the burning ruins of the Beastkin settlement. The otherworlder was frantically spamming his shadow skills, dissolving into clouds of dark purple mana and reappearing fifty feet ahead in short, erratic bursts.

"Look at him run," John murmured coldly, his thumb lightly resting against the side of the digital tablet.

To an army equipped with swords, bows, and standard magic, Sato’s teleportation and stealth abilities would make him a ghost. But to a modern military gunship equipped with advanced multi-spectral thermal optics and automated predictive tracking algorithms, the sudden heat bloom of his mana spikes lit up like a flare in the dark.

Every time Sato phased through the shadows, the AC-130’s sensor pod smoothly tracked his trajectory, instantly re-locking crosshairs onto his coordinates the microsecond his boots touched the ground.

"Eagle Actual, this is Spooky Zero-One," the fire control officer reported calmly over the secure comms link. "We have positive optical and thermal lock on Hostile High-Value Target. Target is moving northeast toward the tree line at roughly twenty-five miles per hour. Weapon systems are hot and slaved to laser designator."

John zoomed in on the tablet.

On the screen, Sato stumbled over a fallen wooden beam, looking up at the sky in pure, hysterical terror. The arrogant smirk and vulgar entitlement he had shown while tormenting the local tribe were completely gone, replaced by the pathetic panic of a cornered coward who finally realized his borrowed cheat codes were utterly useless against a real military force.

"Spooky Zero-One, this is Eagle Actual," John commanded into his headset, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Paint the target. AGM-114 Hellfire. Splash him."

"Spooky Zero-One, Rifle."

Fifteen thousand feet in the sky, well beyond the reach of human hearing or sight, the Ghostrider’s left wing rail flashed.

WHOOOOOOSH!

An AGM-114 Hellfire missile dropped from the pylon, its solid-fuel rocket motor igniting with a brilliant streak of white flame. Flying at Mach 1.3, the laser-guided missile pitched downward in a near-vertical terminal dive, tracking the invisible laser spot dancing squarely on the center of Sato’s back.

Down on the ground, Sato was panting heavily, his lungs burning as he pushed past the flaming wreckage of a shattered workshop. He glanced back over his shoulder toward the beach, seeing the smoke rising from the destroyed Solarian fleet.

"I can make it to the forest... If I reach the trees, I can hide in the deep shadows..." Sato wheezed to himself, clutching his obsidian dagger with trembling, sweaty fingers. "I’m a hero! I’m a summoned B-Class Assassin! I’m not supposed to die in a dump like this—"

A high-pitched, supersonic shriek ripped through the air directly above his head.

Sato’s eyes widened in horror. He snapped his head upward just in time to see a sleek, dark missile breaking through the low smoke clouds, plummeting straight toward his face.

"Wait—no, no, no—!"

[Shadow Step: Ph—]

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The high-explosive anti-tank warhead detonated on impact.

A blinding sphere of orange fire and concussive shockwave instantly consumed the entire street. The massive kinetic overpressure vaporized Sato’s shadow barrier in a fraction of a millisecond, blowing his body, his obsidian dagger, and the surrounding stone walls into pulverized ash and flying shrapnel. A ten-foot-wide smoking crater was left in the scorched dirt where the assassin had stood just seconds before.

Inside the Black Hawk, John watched the thermal screen as the red target marker dissolved into scattered debris.

A notification banner did not appear.

John’s brow furrowed. He leaned in closer, his thumb zooming the thermal optic feed directly into the smoking crater.

Through the clearing dust, a faint, flickering thermal signature was still pulsing in the dirt.

At the very last microsecond before detonation, Sato’s cheat skill had automatically triggered an emergency phase-shift. It hadn’t saved him from the blast wave, but it had prevented him from being completely vaporized.

The scene on the high-resolution screen was gruesome.

Sato was lying half-buried in the blackened rubble, gasping in choked, pathetic wheezes. Both of his legs were completely blown off at the thighs, his left arm was mangled into a twisted mess of charred bone and shredded flesh, and his entire torso was severely burned. His obsidian dagger lay shattered in the dirt several yards away.

He was technically alive, but with his body destroyed.

"Target survived the blast, but he’s combat-ineffective and bleeding out fast," the fire control officer reported through the comms. "Do you want another pass with the thirty-millimeter to confirm the kill, Eagle Actual?"

"Negative," John replied coldly, locking his eyes on the rest of the tactical map. "He’s not going anywhere. Shift fire immediately. I want Spooky and the Apaches to suppress the remaining hostile warships trying to escape the bay and break the retreating infantry, we need the high value targets alive."

"Copy that, Eagle Actual. Shifting ordnance to secondary naval targets and beachhead stragglers."

Up in the sky, the AC-130 and the pair of AH-64E Apaches wheeled around with chilling precision.

BRRRRRRR-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

The 30mm chain guns and 40mm grenade launchers methodically ripped into the remaining Solarian transport barges and fleeing spearmen. Every attempted rally by the imperial officers was met with immediate, pinpoint devastation from above, systematically breaking the invaders’ will to resist.

Down on the blood-stained sand of the main square, Lyra lay motionless beside the cooling body of her fallen husband.

Her elegant black and purple gown was torn and covered in soot, and her slender hands were trembling violently. When the monstrous human assassin had overpowered her, she had braced herself for the absolute worst, praying to the Moon-Mother for a swift death rather than endless degradation under the empire’s chains.

Then, out of nowhere, the heavens had torn open.

With wide, disbelieving amber eyes, Lyra watched the horrific spectacle unfold across the beach.

The proud, untouchable army of the Holy Solarian Empire—the very conquerors who had butchered her clan’s warriors, smashed their defenses with black powder, and mocked their lives as mere animals—were being completely eradicated.

Who were these people?

Was this another human empire with powers beyond comprehension, or something far worse?

Before she could process the chaos, the heavy, rhythmic beat of rotor blades descended directly over the square.

WHIRRRRRRRR—CHOP-CHOP-CHOP-CHOP!

A massive black war machine touched down amidst the swirling smoke, its powerful draft whipping her long hair across her face. From its open doors, disciplined warriors clad in strange, patterned black armor and dark helmets poured out.

One of them walked towards her and then offered his hand.

"My name is John Smith, United States Special Forces, we’re here to help you ma’am."