Here's a little thing to tide you over, a bit of a setup/interlude. I try to update when I can, and I really do appreciate my audience for enjoying my work; it feels really great to have people enjoy what I make. But this is also my hobby, and it will be prioritized accordingly. Between chapters 31 and 32, I finished this year of school and finals, moved into a new apartment and started a new job, pretty much overhauling my life. So yeah, update times can drag on as I coordinate things. Although… I also just didn't really 'feel' it for a while. Ah well, I'm back into the writing mood for now!
Today, another enters the fray…
Across the cold tundra, gunshots were heard through the storm.
Visibility was low, and the wind was high; in the midst of it stood one figure bound tightly in winter combat gear, a large sword strapped to their back, a pistol in their hand.
Snowy wind whipped and whirled all around them, and twirling through the icy blasts were small drones, robotic targets no larger than a fist, nearly as fast as the wind themselves. They danced erratically, obscured in the storm's embrace.
But one by one, they fell as the figure lined up a shot, fired, lined up a shot, fired.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
The lone figure did this and gunned down two targets in less than a second, the small drones disintegrating into messes of warped shrapnel from the direct hits. When the figure needed to reload, the magazine slid from the pistol and was replaced in a blink of an eye. Then the muzzle flashed again not long after.
The last drone lay in fragments amidst the snow, and only the wind was heard.
But all too soon, a grating noise rose in the distance. Gears squealed and the figure turned in the direction of the latest threat. Deep in the storm, they saw a growing mound, as the layer of snow on the tundra was pushed up and sloughed off of an emerging shape. A clang rang out as a huge metal box rose and settled on the surface.
Then the real cacophony began.
A muffled, angry roar echoed within the thick steel of walls of that solid cage. Great, terrible pounds and scratches emanated as the monster within struggled to escape. The metal shuddered and groaned as it was warped and crashed into by whatever beast lay within.
Then the heavy locks unlatched themselves, mechanisms springing to let an entire wall of the cage unseal and fall down.
Immediately, an immense Ursa twice the size of a truck charged out of the cage, bellowing an incredible roar that trumped even the screams of the surrounding wind. Enraged by captivity, the Grimm looked around, desperate to find something—anything—to tear apart.
Then its cruel red eyes saw the lone figure stood not fifty far away.
It roared again, then charged.
The figure quickly holstered their pistol, then reached to their back and wrapped a hand around the hilt of their sword. With a quick tug, it sprung free of the magnet attached to their back, and they swung the sword in front of them, catching hold of the handle with the other hand as well, then winding back and bending down into a ready stance from which to spring. The double-edged sword was itself almost as long as its master was tall; upright with its point on the ground, the end of the hilt would reach their tall wielder's collarbone.
The blade was a dark, vicious black; it matched in hue the skin or scale of any Grimm.
The Ursa roared violently as it charged, tongue lolling out between jagged teeth in anticipation of the taste of blood. Its red eyes glared down on the unmoving prey. When it closed in, its massive hind legs buckled, and the great thing leapt at its target.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
At the last moment, the figure dashed to the side and swung the huge blade. The Ursa crashed in, but its front right paw connected with the edge of the sword.
Its entire right forelimb was sheared in half.
It tumbled forward, unable to support its mass with its front legs anymore, and it collapsed face-first into the ground. Its pained and angry roar was muffled by its whole head smashing into the snow.
Wasting no initiative, the figure swung back and preserved their momentum, taking several long strides and bringing the sword down in a wide arc. They cleanly cut off the Ursa's back right foot.
The monster brought its head out of the snow, roaring in utter rage. It tried to stand but collapsed to the side, black blood gushing out of shredded limbs.
The warrior dashed ahead around its crippled side, sword held aloft.
The Ursa looked at them and bared its teeth, but it was unable to strike out, powerless.
With a whoosh, the figure brought their sword down one last time, straight on top of their prey's head. Connecting with its skull, the heavy, sharp and expertly propelled weapon easily cleaved the monster's face in half. A gush of blood and loose brain matter spewed out, splashing across the snow, the sword and its wielder.
But as the monster died, the body and gore immediately began to sputter, smoke and fizzle. The great monster's corpse started evaporating, and soon the only evidence of the titan's last failure would be the torn landscape—but even that would be covered over by the wind and fresh snow.
The figure remained vigilant. They kept their breathing calm, controlled, and they carefully scanned all around them, sword aloft, vision piercing through the storm.
After a minute, another figure emerged. It walked out of the distance, and when the first fighter saw this newcomer, the tension left their stance. They swung their great sword around onto their back again, where it locked into place against the magnet. Then the figure stood ramrod straight and saluted.
"Sir!"
The newcomer marched closer without responding. He wore not a combat suit but a white officer's uniform, tailored and cropped closely as all Atlas military apparel was, though a mask protected his face from the elements. Frost-coated medals were stuck to his chest, denoting the reverence he deserved.
He stopped just a few feet away from the figure.
"At ease, legionnaire," said the officer, gruff words cutting through the storm.
The figure dropped their salute, then stood standing at the ready.
"You are hereby discharged from the Atlas Foreign Legion," the officer said, voice cold and direct.
The figure did not react.
The officer reached into his pocket, then pulled out a medal. He held it out.
The figure took and inspected what was really a simple steel badge, a six-pointed star onto which the letters ASO were engraved.
The officer spoke again: "Are you ready for service—special operative?"
The figure looked down at their achievement for a few seconds. Their fingers curled around the star's edges, gripping it tightly. Finally, they looked back up and nodded.
"I am."