Gate: The Last Chance

by Mr.Kromer20

With the release of an interdimensional entity and a worldwide rebellion, the Combine begins to exhaust its patience towards humanity. Amidst the upheaval, an interdimensional portal emerges in a park in City 17, leading to an attack by the Empire on the city. Unbeknownst to them, this action has resulted in them gifting their own planet to a multiversal empire.

8. Chapter 7: Earth's preparations

Translation Disclaimer: This translation was handled with the help of AI, but the script and story remain entirely my own creation.

Author's Note: Good morning, Fanfiction readers! After a few weeks of inactivity on my end, I'm thrilled to finally bring you a new chapter. I've managed not only to translate but also to enhance and expand several scenes for clarity. Although I've described this chapter as somewhat of a filler, it serves a crucial purpose by explaining key decisions that Overwatch's forces will make moving forward. Just like in the previous chapter, I'll include a note at the end discussing some of the choices made here.

Alright, before diving into the chapter, let's take a moment to go over some standout reader comments left on earlier chapters.

Response to Angel Lara451: Before the battle starts, it's when the uncertainty kicks in.

Response to Mad Android: First off, thanks for your positive comments. It's great to hear you've noticed that all of this is the result of my work and not something AI-generated. The spread of these tools has left some readers skeptical, but I want to clarify: AI can't capture the essence or maintain the narrative coherence required to mix two franchises. Heck, it can't even properly handle just one franchise's story, let alone two fused together. On top of that, platforms built to detect AI-generated text are unreliable; they only care about text spelling.

Now about Half-Life, I completely agree: it's a gem that's been largely unexplored in crossover topics. The vast cosmology of Half Life and Portal helps in making massive crossovers, though in my opinion, it's always a good idea to merge the rules of the verses. Example of Gate, the theme that each planet with mortals, has its own gods...

Regarding the Antlions, I won't spoil anything, but let's just say the final part of this chapter will touch on whether these creatures and other Xen wildlife pop up on Falmart.

As for the Resistance, yes, they're still around, but barely holding on after their uprising went south. Plus, they've got Eli stuck in deep depression following Alyx disappearing five years ago at the hands of a certain bureaucratic Entity. I'll explore this further in a Resistance-centered chapter. That's where I'll dive into why Alyx was taken by Him, despite the events of Half-Life 2 not playing out as you'd expect. This divergence wipes out EP1 and EP2, consequently, the events of Half Life Alyx also.

The Vortigaunts, their situation is... complicated. The only way they have to cross to Falmart without the portal is with their enhanced forms, and well, their power level in that state makes things difficult. They won't be appearing for now, but they will later, and I'll come up with an excuse for that.

Lastly, don't worry: Headcrabs will get their time to shine. There's a chapter titled "Biological Weapons," where they'll play a key role in the plot. Leaving them out would be an unforgivable mistake on my part.

Response to Super Heavy Weapons Guy: Let's hope my story continues to keep you hooked.

Response to AlphaDeltaCompany: No matter the rambling, we're quite alike in that regard. I also write mini essays when I get excited. Now, onto your comment, you've nailed a lot of details about the Consul, except that his methods won't be entirely implemented on Earth but rather in Falmart. As for the Advisors and the Consul, they need to be introduced first. In canon, only Breen and the soldiers guarding them know about the Advisors' existence and their spot in the Citadel. Also, Breen isn't dying anytime soon. I've got big plans to show his torment as Earth's administrator under constant scrutiny from the Advisors.

Responses to Eschaton: I assume this comment mostly ties back to Chapter 1. The reason some parts feel summarized is because Chapter 1 and the prologue were originally one single chapter, which resulted in an overly long text. That's why some scenes weren't given detailed descriptions and were instead abbreviated. However, after splitting them into separate parts as I did, I'm planning to expand a few scenes in the coming days to get rid of that vibe that some short bits feel AI-written. Also, I realized the error you pointed out about "Universal Alliance" a little too late.

For some odd reason, both the AI and the translator have a tendency to mix up "Alliance" and "Universal Union" if they're in the same paragraph. As for the gorgons' skin, it's a specific variant unique to their race, designed to make them more familiar with the traditional image of mythological gorgons. Also, thanks for your kind comments! Regarding the Empire, its fall will be slow and chaotic, a spectacle for the Consul to fully enjoy. The lack of intelligence in Falmart isn't really shocking, especially considering how the 12 gods have deliberately kept them ignorant to avoid being overthrown.

Response to Ojil: I get your point, but I think the emotions and actions of characters are a fundamental part of storytelling, especially in a written medium like this. In formats like manga or anime, you have visual aids to lean on, but in texts, it's crucial to communicate these elements differently. Personally, if I didn't include these aspects, I'd just imagine them in a T-pose with blank faces, in an empty white void. XD.

Response to For'sleep 3rd: I suppose you're welcome, lol. About what you mentioned, it's a shame that the franchise's portrayals don't dive deeper into what the Japanese high command's real plans are for the Special Region. The author of Gate seems more focused on painting the JSDF as some kind of 'holy doves' who never cross any lines, even though they could literally do whatever they wanted on that planet without Earth ever finding out how they're actually treating the natives of Falmart.

As for the 'gods' of Falmart, Wareharun will be the first to be indirectly affected at first. This won't be easy, because filling in the religious narrative gaps left by Gate's author is going to be a challenge. From what we already know, the 12 gods are frankly laughably pathetic in every way. There's really no comparison when you stack them up against the entities from Half-Life, not even in terms of age.

Well, now that we've finished the section of answering comments, I'll let you read chapter 7. Thanks for your comments, it's fun to read them.

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Location: On Earth, in City 17, inside the Citadel.

Two months had passed since the Consul took on the weight of the position as planetary defense minister, a title that bore more responsibilities than any sane man could endure. During this time, City 17, along with other cities under the yoke of the Alliance, plunged into a frantic process of reconstruction. Debris from battles during the uprising was being refurbished, maintaining an appearance of control and progress under the watchful eyes of the transhuman forces, who remained on the streets to keep order, aided by Civil Protection, which lent a hand in restoring social order.

The Citadel still loomed majestic and menacing in the heart of the city, a colossus made of ultra-reinforced metal and alien technology beyond human understanding. At its core, a giant sphere of dark energy pulsed with a hypnotic rhythm, as though the heart of the tower itself possessed its own life. The mass seemed to hold impossible secrets, trapped in an electromagnetic cage that extracted minimal fragments of its essence to power the structure's systems. Small energy spheres moved like obedient fireflies, following perfect trajectories toward various internal installations.

On the upper levels, away from the mechanical hum of the core, was the Consul's office. A spacious area with armored windows that allowed him to admire both the chaos and order of the city in constant reconstruction. Holographic screens covered the walls, spilling data and videos about the effectiveness of new weapons developed through the collaboration between crumbs of Alliance technology and human terrestrial technology.

With a posture made rigid by years in the military, the Consul watched without hurry but with intent. Transhuman soldiers paraded in perfect formation in the videos while new transhuman classes showcased adaptations that bordered on inhumanity. There was something chilling about the brutal efficiency he witnessed. A slight sigh escaped his lips as he turned his gaze to a more chaotic corner of his office.

There, a growing pile of rejected blueprints represented accumulated frustration. Each project was meticulously reviewed by Breen before being sent to his superiors, those benefactors unknown to him whose approval meant everything. Some designs had been returned with dry notes lacking explanation; others had simply been discarded without consideration.

For the Consul, however, this was routine. He had long since learned that rejection was merely a step toward refinement. Among the documents lay one particularly intriguing design: a synthetic robot conceived by Breen himself. Though imperfect, its sketches and calculations revealed an unexpected talent on the part of the planetary administrator. ("Not bad for his first direct foray into this area,") he thought while reviewing it, mentally adjusting evident errors.

The silence of the office was interrupted only by the low and constant hum of the life-support system integrated into the walls. Outside that serene but suffocating space, City 17 moved to the rhythm dictated by the Alliance, a ballet of reconstruction and subjugation that never really ended.

By day's end, any progress was a small victory in disguise; humanity played by rules it hadn't written and was watched over by "investors" it barely understood. And yet, there stood the Consul: cold, pragmatic, and determined to shape this board in favor of his species… or at least what remained of it.

From the corner of his eye, the Consul observed the screen with the cold intensity of a predator evaluating its prey. His dark, calculating eyes followed every movement of the new transhuman soldier moving through the training room with agility that seemed to defy the laws of physics. Each step left behind a metallic echo, almost as if the floor of the room rejected its existence, as if it knew it belonged neither to the human world nor to the alien one but was a bastardization between both, a creature so uncanny it earned rebels' nickname of "Alien Assassins" upon their initial deployment against remaining rebel bases.

The creature, with taut muscles beneath yellow-green synthetic skin that simulated humanity, moved in a zigzag that turned its figure into an ungraspable blur. Its movements were pure calculation and biomechanical perfection, as if every fiber of its body had been designed to dance around danger. Quadriceps contracted like springs tightened to their limit while hamstrings responded with an almost poetic synchronization. The breath of its human enemies was palpable, filling the room with a mixture of fear and sweat.

A few meters away, three rebels found themselves trapped in that living nightmare. They gripped their SMG weapons with trembling hands, their sights shaking over a target they could never hit. One of them, a young man with a face smeared in dirt and desperation, screamed in a tone that pierced through the air: "It can't be this fast! This is impossible!" Bullets whistled erratically, striking walls and metal columns without even grazing the transhuman soldier who seemed to mock their attempts with every elegant dodge.

Another rebel, a woman with short hair and a frantic gaze, shouted between shots she could barely control: "Aim for its legs! The legs, dammit!" But her voice was just a drop in an ocean of chaos; her companions were already too consumed by panic to listen.

The third man, older than the other two and bearing scars marking both his face and spirit, gritted his teeth while firing in frantic bursts. "For God's sake, we need more firepower!" he roared, knowing deep down that no army or arsenal could save them from the inevitable. His broken voice carried with it resistance against inevitable defeat.

The Consul permitted himself an almost imperceptible smile as he watched from his comfortable vantage point in his office. Those faces contorted by panic were a spectacle worth his attention. ("Watch them scurry like trapped rats.") His thoughts were cold and distant, almost clinical. ("That's how you break souls: first give them hope; then rip it away.") His fingers drummed slowly against his metallic desk as he savored the show.

Despite the reigning chaos in the testing room, the transhuman soldier never attacked. It didn't need to; everything was designed to demonstrate one thing: absolute superiority. As it dodged bullets as if they were toys thrown by children, its vaguely insectoid figure became a macabre dance where grotesque and sublime intertwined. It was a moving declaration: "No matter how much you fight or scream; your resistance is futile."

Location: On Earth, ?, Garrison Force Testing Chambers.

Inside the room, the sadistic test continued to unfold like a macabre dance between the human and the monstrous. The voice of the rebel leader rang out above the din of gunfire, soaked in fear: "Katya, flank left! Georgiy, cover my high angle!" His throat was so tight with panic that the words emerged almost as a hoarse bark, while his trembling hands squeezed the trigger, sending an erratic burst toward the greenish blur that was their opponent.

But that infernal entity was no ordinary adversary; it was a precision machine engineered for absolute domination. In a movement that seemed to defy not only the laws of physics but also any human logic, the transhuman vanished from the rebel leader's line of sight in the blink of an eye. Before he could even blink, the servomotors hidden beneath the monster's synthetic skin activated with an almost imperceptible mechanical hum, propelling it into a prodigious leap. The creature twisted in mid-air like a predatory feline enjoying the art of stalking, and with cold calculation launched one of its energy-bladed knives.

The weapon sliced through the air with a sharp hum that felt almost prophetic, as if the blade itself was announcing its destiny. The impact was brutal: the blade pierced cleanly through the rebel leader's sternum, tearing flesh and bone until it stopped with a dull thud in his chest. His weapon slipped from his hands instantly as a jet of blood erupted from the point of entry, splattering onto the metallic floor. Before he could even scream, his eyes locked onto those of the transhuman, who was already in front of him thanks to an incomprehensible superhuman speed.

"Pi... pity..." he managed to stammer, his voice fractured and drowning in the bubbling blood rising from his throat. His words died in the air as he felt a mechanical claw, cold as ice and stronger than any human hand, clamp down around his head. The desperation in his eyes quickly faded as the transhuman lifted him as if he weighed no more than a ragdoll.

The next movement was ruthless. With a knee driven upward with lethal force, the transhuman smashed its metallic plate directly into the rebel's abdomen, crushing his lower ribs and producing a grotesque sound of bones breaking. The rebel leader vomited a dark torrent of blood as his companions stood frozen in horror. But it didn't end there; the knife embedded in his chest was unceremoniously ripped out, pulling chunks of flesh and bone fragments with it, before being plunged back in with chilling precision into his skull.

The silence that followed was chilling. The remaining rebels couldn't move, their hands rigid like claws on their weapons as their hope collapsed before their eyes. It seemed even time had paused, forcing them to absorb every detail of that merciless execution: the blood slowly dripping from the energy blade, the final spasms of their leader's lifeless body hanging limp, and the cold, inhuman gaze of the transhuman as it turned toward them, already anticipating their next moves.

"Vittorio!" The woman's voice cracked like a whip, a heart-wrenching scream laced with both fury and despair.

Her eyes, wide open to their fullest extent, didn't blink for an instant as she pivoted clumsily but quickly, twisting her torso toward the threat with a mix of adrenaline and pure terror. The veins at her temples bulged visibly under the sudden pressure of her racing heart, pumping blood like uncontrollable torrents throughout her body.

Her clenched jaw seemed to hold back a barely murmured prayer through gritted teeth: "I can't die... not like this."

Her hands trembled as they adjusted their grip on her rifle, her fingers almost involuntarily scrambling to firmly find the trigger. Bullets began to erupt from the barrel with a deafening roar; empty casings clattered against the metal walls as though marking a macabre countdown to her final fate.

And yet, it was futile. Her opponent had vanished faster than a whisper amidst a piercing scream, leaving behind only a chilling void, as though death itself were stalking her in silence.

In the next fraction of a second came that dry, mechanical sound echoing just behind her ears, like Pandora's box being opened. The transhuman lunged at her with movements so flawless, so calculated, they seemed more like a perfect equation than a physical attack.

Its razor-sharp claws, extensions of its fingers glinting under the dim light of the testing chamber, extended like blades eager to tear through flesh and bone. Every motion carried surgical precision that left no room for error or improvisation: it was the cold and pragmatic essence of biomechanical design made into personified destruction.

The woman, driven by primal survival instincts stronger than any logic, raised her weapon in one desperate defensive action. Her entire body quaked as she lifted her arms with every muscle fiber screaming in an attempt to stave off her inevitable end.

But when those metallic claws collided with her rifle, it was like trying to stop an avalanche with a shard of glass. A deafening crunch echoed through the space as the steel weapon shattered in two and the claws advanced mercilessly toward their target.

The impact came with brutal swiftness. The distal phalanx of the transhuman embedded itself directly into the left side of the woman's skull, piercing with devastating force through her temporal bone. A nauseating sound accompanied the rupture: first dull as it tore through the resistance of bone.

Then wet as flesh yielded to the relentless penetration. Her eyes, those human eyes that once reflected fear and anger, instantly lost their focus, glazing over as a chaotic trail of blood started sliding down her temple like a crimson serpent seeking escape.

But the punishment didn't end there. With her reflexes anesthetized by the stunning venom invading her brain, the woman's body sagged faintly backward from the initial impact. However, she was incapable of reacting when the muscular legs of the transhuman tensed like coiled springs before it delivered a deliberate and calculated kick to her solar plexus.

Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion for the remaining rebel who stood frozen, watching: first the lethal embrace of taut metal as every ligament extended to its fullest capacity; then the brutal parabolic arc carved by that murderous leg before it struck its prey with devastating force.

The sound was visceral and raw; deep within her torso, some internal structure gave way as her lower ribs collapsed catastrophically under the crushing pressure of the transhuman's metallic foot. That kick didn't merely destroy physical structures; it annihilated any remaining hope encapsulated within the body now weakly groaning as it crumpled like a broken puppet onto its knees.

The woman wanted to breathe, oh, how she desired it, but all she managed was to cough up a thick and viscous torrent of darkness from deep within her throat, each drop a mute witness to the absolute collapse of her internal systems. Her liver and lungs had burst from the impact, leaving behind a painful and irremediable void that sapped even the strength from her most basic thoughts.

Writhing on the floor stained with crimson once vibrant and now dull, her eyes finally closed with an ironic slowness... as if even at that final moment she herself tried to delay the inevitable when nothing really mattered anymore.

The transhuman turned slowly toward the last rebel alive. Its cold artificial monotone emerged from the muzzle covering its wolf-like jaw, each word reverberating with an unnatural and impersonal void: "Two targets neutralized." Its soulless eyes scanned what remained of the bodies, assessing them like discarded scraps before proceeding to dispose of them. "Proceeding to eliminate the final threat."

The third and final rebel, whose mind was already collapsing under the sheer chaos and horror, was no longer anything but a body trapped between the will to survive and the certainty of death. With a scream that was far closer to an emotional release than any kind of strategy, his boots reverberated against the metallic floor as he launched himself toward his foe in a suicidal sprint.

He clutched his rifle with trembling hands; tendons bulged from his wrists as he squeezed the weapon with such force that his knuckle skin turned paper-white. His jittery fingers pressed insistently against the trigger, unleashing a hailstorm of bullets that howled against the emptiness before finding nothing but misplaced air; his target had already vanished.

The death machine seemed less like a tangible enemy and closer to a specter, spinning upon itself with an unnatural grace that defied time and gravity. Every muscle in its biomechanical torso contracted with chilling efficiency as it executed evasive maneuvers. Its abdomen, etched with sections of serrated metal and synthetic tissue, flexed to absorb its mid-air rotation, its crystalline center of gravity aligning perfectly like the axis of a gyroscope. The deadly rain of ammunition passed above it like hail shattering in a world where nothing could truly touch it.

With a sharp and nearly taunting snap, its mechanical phalanges extended into precise angles as it wielded its energy knife. The synthetic tendons reinforced by hydraulic compressors seemed to roar as they powered the movement to launch the lethal weapon forward. With a slicing and clean sound akin to tearing through the very fabric of existence itself, the knife cut through the improvised battlefield.

The projectile gleamed briefly before burying itself into the rebel's left shoulder with surgical precision. The impact rang out with a dull thud against bone, followed by a nauseating crunch as the blade's vibrating energy partially cauterized the wound while obliterating muscle and severing tendons with savage ease.

"AAARGGHHHH!" The man's guttural scream filled the chamber as a crimson flood furiously poured from the entry point. His rifle dropped like a shattered toy onto the metallic floor as his now-useless arm dangled limply, its nerves completely severed.

The transhuman granted Georgiy no time to recover. With unerring and nearly theatrical precision, its biomechanical legs activated concealed boosters embedded in its calves and ankles. The leap propelled it forward on an impeccable trajectory, landing astride the fallen rebel with twin dry impacts that reverberated like funeral chimes within the testing chamber. Retractable claws on its feet lightly embedded themselves into the metallic floor to secure its stance before executing its final motion.

The final human barely had a moment to partially straighten before a fist plated with reinforced metal descended toward his face in a brutal arc. Carrying the accumulated force of centuries of strategic thought distilled into pure physical calculation, the impact landed like a hammer smashing into glass. The left side of the rebel's face collapsed under the force of the blow: orbital bones shattered into fragments that collided with boiling blood while jagged bone shards punctured internal tissues. His left eye immediately swelled shut as streaks of red tears streaked down his cheeks.

The shockwave of the hit sent him hurtling backward; his fractured skull collided heavily against the steel-coated floor. The resulting sound was dull but resonant, a cruel finale to any remaining chance at survival. His body convulsed violently with spasms as residual electrical signals triggered dying nerves before falling utterly still.

"Simulation complete," declared Overwatch, its flat and emotionless intonation fracturing the gravity of the moment like a distant bell announcing the inevitable through the room's hidden speakers. "Three hostile targets: neutralization confirmed. Unit shadowstalker Four-Five standing by for additional orders."

The transhuman stood tall amidst the crushed bodies, its silhouette bathed in the oscillating shadows cast by the ceiling lights. The optical tubes connected to its pale visage vibrated subtly as internal systems recalibrated from its recent burst of motion. Traces of human blood still dripped faintly from its claws, insignificant remnants, inconsequential smudges on the immaculate machinery of the absolute dominator.

Location: The Earth, in City-17, inside The Citadel.

The Consul shifted his focus away from the screen, his lips curving into a barely perceptible smile of satisfaction. The performance of the new transhuman soldier had been nothing short of extraordinary, far surpassing even his initial expectations once again. His calculating eyes fell onto the design schematics sprawled across his desk, studying with keen interest the anatomical details of this new shadowstalker unit. His attention roved over its slender but powerful frame, pausing on every distinctive feature.

The triangular design of the shadowstalker's skull evoked imagery of ancient predators, its sharp angles and spherical eyes glowing with a hypnotic green luminescence that seemed to pierce beyond mere physicality. Those armored steel ocular spheres weren't just visual receptors, they were beacons of an icy and calculating awareness connected to sensory tubes sprouting from their sockets like roots seeking knowledge beyond human comprehension. ("A perfect predator,") mused the Consul as he leaned closer to examine the detailed patterns etched onto the schematic.

His scrutiny lingered on the creature's pronounced jawline encased by that rust-colored muzzle, an apparatus resembling a gas mask. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of teeth or fangs might lay hidden beneath that structure, no doubt engineered to tear and crush prey. It was even clearer considering that this particular shadowstalker, a Volraden, had been among those captured during operations at Nova Prospekt.

The Consul's military strategist instincts were particularly drawn to the creature's limbs. Those sleek arms and legs housed dense musculature and finely tuned ligaments working in unison to produce astonishing strength and agility. Its hands ended in razor-sharp three-digit claws, natural weapons capable of slicing through flesh, bone, and even metal with terrifying ease. He vividly recalled how those talons had pierced skulls and torsos during the current simulation and countless prior tests.

Then there was its arsenal. The energy-bladed knives capable of cutting through nearly any known material were an impressive addition. Enhanced by magnetic retrieval systems that returned them to their wielder's grasp, they functioned as versatile and lethal tools on the battlefield. Complemented by grenades and submachine guns, the shadowstalker wielded considerable firepower designed for engaging multiple enemies simultaneously. The Consul could easily visualize how these weapons would be employed with surgical precision by the transhuman soldier, fully capitalizing on its speed and agility, not to mention its invisibility cloak inherited from Black Ops units.

In addition to its weaponry, the transhuman donned attire befitting its role: classic military-designed pants paired with a sleek black protective vest that balanced mobility with defense. Practical as it was, this outfit also reinforced the hybrid nature of the shadowstalker, neither fully human nor entirely machine.

The automatic doors to the Consul's office slid open with a smooth whirr, concealed servomotors gliding metal panels effortlessly apart. Light from the hallway spilled inside, casting Wallace Breen's elongated shadow across the carpeted floor.

Earth's administrator entered with measured steps, his face carved into an expression of stern focus. His piercing gray eyes first fixed themselves on the screens dominating one wall, scrutinizing images of newly deployed shadowstalkers in action, some human variants, others elven, saderans, volradens, and beyond.

These transhuman creations moved with supernatural agility; their sleek forms merged seamlessly with shadows as they neutralized opponents with lethal precision. Watching them was like witnessing a macabre ballet, terrifying and beautiful in equal measure.

After a few seconds of silent observation, Breen shifted his calm and calculating eyes toward the man seated behind the expansive mahogany desk. The Consul, an old childhood friend whose face now bore the hardened lines of military service, was reclined back in his ergonomic chair, his broad shoulders relaxed, though his presence exuded command.

"How's everything going, Erwin?" Breen's measured and clinical tones filled the room with an unsettling tranquility. Yet, there was a faint glimmer of genuine curiosity behind his otherwise guarded expression as he awaited his colleague's response.

The Consul adjusted himself upright in his seat with deliberate poise. His naturally imposing stature straightened further as he squared his shoulders, indicating satisfaction with the unfolding events. A controlled smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a fleeting display of emotion reserved for moments of assured success.

"Progress is on track, Wallace," Erwin replied, his deep and authoritative timbre reverberating throughout the office. "I've meticulously reviewed the latest combat simulation recordings of our new arsenal. Both the Shadowstalkers and our other units have demonstrated exceptional performance, far exceeding expectations during engagements with regular troops."

He paused strategically, his jet-black eyes glimmering with a calculated light that betrayed the relentless strategist beneath. "Their lethality during simulated battle scenarios has surpassed even our most optimistic projections. Make no mistake, they will prove invaluable when the invasion begins."

Breen's approving nod was subtle but noticeable. Without any wasted motion, he took one of the chairs stationed before the Consul's desk and sat gracefully. Crossing one leg over the other with a natural elegance that radiated composure and control, he leaned comfortably into his seat.

"I'm glad to hear that, Erwin." The faintest trace of a smile curved Breen's lips; it was as much an acknowledgment as it was a prelude to his next inquiry. "Tell me then, how has my robot design performed on the battlefield? I trust it has risen to the occasion."

The Consul let out a short exhale that was somewhere between amusement and restrained laughter. With an effortless motion of his gloved hand, he manipulated controls embedded into his desk's surface, triggering a shift on the large central monitor. Instantly, the screen displayed footage from a resistance base under heavy siege. The merciless precision of the transhuman soldiers stood out as they tore through cobbled-together defenses that barely slowed their advance. Towering amid the carnage were Breen's robotic creations, massive constructs of steel and circuitry dominating the fray like titans on a battlefield.

"On that note," Erwin said with a rare tinge of genuine admiration threading through his stoic demeanor, "let me extend my congratulations, Wallace. Your design has proven extraordinarily effective in its role as an assault tank for enclosed spaces. Those machines plow through houses and apartments as effortlessly as a hot knife slicing through butter."

Leaning back into his seat again, Erwin intertwined his fingers contemplatively over his lap. The gears of war clearly churned behind his piercing eyes as he envisioned the tactical applications. "Given the progress we've achieved thanks to these assets, I have no doubt that by tomorrow we'll be fully prepared to launch the invasion and establish a foothold in that new world."

Breen tilted forward ever so subtly, resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair while focusing intently on the footage playing before him. On-screen, one of his synthetic war machines, a S.W.E.E.P.E.R. unit (Synthetic Warfare Eradicator and Elimination Patrol Enforcer Robot), weathered an onslaught of gunfire from desperate defenders. Even when two RPG rockets struck its rust-colored armor in succession, the towering construct barely staggered before resuming its inexorable advance.

"It's true that we couldn't equip its cannons with the same destructive capabilities as the Striders' secondary weapons," Breen acknowledged thoughtfully, his analytical tones cutting cleanly through their dialogue. "But I must admit I'm thoroughly impressed by how closely it replicates that devastating power nonetheless."

As if responding to its creator's remark from within the recorded chaos, the colossal S.W.E.E.P.E.R. raised its imposing hand-cannons in unison. Plasma bolts erupted from its energy conduits with a searing brilliance that filled the screen. The scorching barrage obliterated concrete walls and effortlessly disintegrated any rebels unfortunate enough to be caught within its fiery wake.

The harrowing cacophony of destruction engulfed the rebel stronghold as S.W.E.E.P.E.R. pressed its relentless assault through narrow corridors littered with debris and bodies alike. A discordant symphony of impacts and mechanical whirs filled every space as tracer rounds ricocheted harmlessly off its reinforced alloy exoskeleton.

Behind makeshift barricades assembled from shattered furniture and loose rubble, resistance fighters emptied their magazines desperately against the advancing synthetic behemoth. Sweat-slicked faces streaked with soot peered out from cover with panicked expressions as trembling hands yanked repeatedly at their triggers.

"More fire! Concentrate everything on that bloody Combine Super Soldier!" one fighter bellowed hoarsely, a middle-aged man whose scarred cheek glistened under dim emergency lights. His pulse rifle spat incandescent rounds toward their advancing doom; each projectile ricocheted uselessly off S.W.E.E.P.E.R.'s impervious frame like raindrops striking an unyielding tank.

The desperate efforts of the rebels were nothing short of a futile cacophony against the unyielding might of the S.W.E.E.P.E.R. unit. Their weapons, no matter how ferociously fired or valiantly aimed, could do no better than scratch the surface of the robot's rust-colored armor. The marks left behind were laughable at best, mere mosquito bites on the hide of an indomitable elephant.

With an eerily smooth precision befitting a predatory machine, the S.W.E.E.P.E.R. raised its cannon-like fingers. The metallic appendages pulsed with a glowing blue energy that escalated quickly from a faint light to an eye-searing luminescence. The ominous whine of building energy grew sharper and louder with each second until the sound became a near-deafening screech, one that made even the most stalwart of the rebels wince and cover their ears.

The release was no less devastating. Blazing plasma bolts erupted from the machine's fingertips in rapid volleys, flooding the corridor with blinding azure fire. Each shot tore through the makeshift barricades as if they were constructed from nothing sturdier than paper. Wood splintered and stone crumbled, reduced to showers of debris that were hurled violently through the confined space. Bodies caught in that unforgiving hail did not fare any better, flesh and bone disintegrated in a spray of atoms before any scream or plea for mercy could escape their lips.

"Take cover!" bellowed one of the survivors above the chaos, his panic-stricken cry barely audible over the roaring plasma bolts. He hurled himself behind a nearby pillar just as another round vaporized the wall where he had been a heartbeat earlier. Sweat mingled freely with streaks of helpless tears as he hastily crossed himself with trembling hands. "That thing is fucking unstoppable!"

"Goddammit! It looks like one of those Strider bastards!" shouted another rebel crouched close by. His hands fumbled feverishly to reload his rifle as his face contorted with a desperate scowl. "But smaller...and twice as deadly!"

Unperturbed by the carnage it wreaked around itself, the S.W.E.E.P.E.R. pressed forward with deliberate and methodical steps that made the floor shatteringly tremble under its bulk. The muted whir of its servomotors harmonized with each booming stride, a relentless march that heralded doom for all trapped within range.

Suddenly, two figures darted into the corridor from an adjacent doorway, their forms clutching RPG launchers with white-knuckled grips. Their sunken faces were masks of raw hatred and reckless determination as they leveled their weapons at their behemoth adversary.

"Fire!" roared one through a throat hoarse from sheer exhaustion and fury. Twin rockets erupted from their launchers with searing trails of white smoke, streaking like vengeful comets toward the advancing colossus.

The missiles struck squarely against the S.W.E.E.P.E.R.'s torso with deafening explosions that consumed the entire corridor in blinding orange fire and choking black smoke. The walls shaked violently as concrete dust and debris filled every crevice.

For a fleeting moment, hope fluttered weakly among the battered survivors watching from behind shattered barricades. Guns fell silent as every pair of eyes fixated on the smoke-cloaked battlefield. Maybe, just perhaps, the beast had fallen.

That hope was short-lived.

As the smoke finally thinned and cleared, what emerged was a vision of despair incarnate: The S.W.E.E.P.E.R., still standing tall amidst scattered rubble, its hulking frame now scorched and faintly smoking but otherwise untouched. Its only reaction to the blasts had been to stagger back two steps before steadying itself with a bone-chilling metallic groan, a sound akin to an otherworldly growl.

The rebels barely had time to register their horror before retaliation came swift and merciless. The machine lifted its cannon-equipped arms once again and unleashed a concentrated barrage of plasma fire aimed directly at its attackers. The two RPG-wielders vanished in an instant, blotted out of existence by the unrelenting plasma torrents before their agonized screams could fully form.

Further down the corridor, where another cluster of defiant rebels had entrenched themselves behind piles of debris and broken furniture, desperation reached its peak. They fired relentlessly, rifles at maximum capacity until barrels glowed red-hot and spat acrid smoke into their faces, but even their combined efforts were futile against a foe so impervious.

By some stroke of blind luck or defiance of probability, one particularly frenzied burst found its mark. Bullets ricocheted across the mechanical titan's shoulder joint before one managed to wedge itself into a minuscule gap between its plates. Sparks erupted alongside shards of fragmented metal as tendrils of smoke hissed from within.

But any exhilaration was short-lived. The damage inflicted was cosmetic at best, a minor irritation for an entity engineered without weakness for anything so trivial.

The S.W.E.E.P.E.R., unaffected by the futile resistance before it, advanced with the steady inevitability of a steamroller. Its glowing optical sensors remained fixed on the terrified rebels like smoldering coals, showing no mercy or hesitation. The sharp whine intensified as it raised its plasma cannons once again, the atmosphere around its metallic body warping and distorting under the immense buildup of energy.

In an instant, searing plasma erupted from its cannons, cascading forth in a deadly cone that obliterated everything in its path. The makeshift barricades shielding the rebels disintegrated into clouds of pulverized debris and splintered wood. Those unfortunate enough to be caught directly in the firing line were vaporized before they had the chance to scream, their bodies reduced to nothing but a haze of atoms dissipating into the churning smoke-filled corridor.

The few survivors were thrown brutally backward by the shockwave that followed, their bodies hitting the walls and floor with heavy thuds. They landed amidst the smoldering wreckage, dazed and barely clinging to consciousness. Thick columns of black smoke coiled upward from scorched craters left behind by the plasma blasts. The acrid stench of ozone and burning flesh choked the corridor, a pungent declaration of total annihilation.

A profound and grim silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the faint crackling of flames licking at the walls and the rhythmic whirring of the S.W.E.E.P.E.R.'s servomotors. The ground was littered with charred remains, some little better than ash heaps while others still writhed faintly with what little life remained in their mortally wounded forms. Pools of blood mingled with molten metal and pulverized cement to create a sickening slurry beneath the robot's unrelenting tread.

The machine pressed on without pause, its heavy steps crushing through the brittle remains of bones left charred and fragmented by its onslaught. Cries of pain and despair arose weakly from the rebels who had not been granted the mercy of vaporization. Their shattered forms were strewn across the corridor like forgotten remnants of a failed cause. They could only whimper helplessly as their metallic executioner passed by.

A young rebel, his face smeared with soot and blood that spilled from a gash across his temple, managed to push himself halfway up against a soot-stained wall. His trembling hands fumbled for his rifle, a useless, battered weapon whose barrel was warped beyond repair by earlier explosions. Yet he raised it defiantly toward the looming specter of death before him.

"D-damn monster...!" he spat between ragged gasps for air, blood trickling down from his cracked lips as his body shook with a toxic cocktail of terror and agony. "Go to hell!"

His fingers convulsed over the trigger, pulling it repeatedly in desperation. But nothing answered his defiance save for the hollow clicks of an empty chamber. The rifle had run dry during the chaos, leaving him defenseless and exposed.

The S.W.E.E.P.E.R. paused briefly at this futile display. Its glowing optics pivoted downward to lock onto its defiant adversary. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though there was a glimmer of cruel amusement within those unfeeling lenses, or perhaps it was merely the reflection of flames licking at its reflective surface.

Without hesitation or ceremony, the machine raised one of its plasma cannons and fired. The rebel's chest erupted into an incandescent cloud as he dissolved instantly under the sheer power of the energy bolt. What remained of him was a grotesque silhouette scorched into the blackened wall behind him, a macabre imprint of his final stand.

The S.W.E.E.P.E.R. did not linger on its handiwork. It resumed its inexorable march deeper into the smoldering ruins of what had once been a proud rebel stronghold. Destruction and death trailed behind it like an indelible signature marking its passage through what had now become a tomb.

The few remaining rebels clung desperately to life as they crawled and stumbled among the wreckage. Their pained groans were little match for the cold efficiency of their opponent. One by one, they were extinguished with methodical precision, each plasma shot finding its mark with unerring accuracy until there was nothing left but silence. No screams, no cries for help. Only flames crackling gently amid ruin and despair.

That silence was soon interrupted by another sound: the measured rhythm of many footsteps growing louder from adjoining tunnels. The S.W.E.E.P.E.R.'s motion sensors quickly registered multiple life signatures converging on its position. The vibrations of boots against cracked cement reverberated through the dilapidated walls.

But these were not reinforcements for the rebels. A quick IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) scan identified them as an Overwatch squad completing their sweep of softer targets within other sections of the base. Now they were moving toward cohesion with their mechanical counterpart.

With practiced efficiency born of flawless programming, the S.W.E.E.P.E.R. transmitted an encrypted signal to its allies: "Sector neutralized and secured." It then adjusted its bearings and prepared to move further into the labyrinthine structure to seek out new objectives within what remained of the once-defiant stronghold.

As it advanced deeper into enemy territory, dozens of transhuman soldiers emerged from side corridors equipped with rifles primed for any lurking threats. Their augmented senses scanned every shadowy nook and crevice for signs of resistance while their boots crunched over broken stone and brittle remains.

Some paused briefly to eliminate any wounded still clinging to life with mercy shots that rang sharply through the stillness like small artillery blasts. Others marched onward without so much as a glance downward at their fallen adversaries, their minds dulled to empathy by invasive cybernetic modifications that left no room for hesitation or doubt.

In mere minutes, the rebel base had been completely overwhelmed, its defenders exterminated to the last man. What was once a bastion of defiance against the Combine's unrelenting yoke was now nothing but a smoldering tomb, a grim monument to the invaders' ruthless efficiency.

And amidst the devastation, the S.W.E.E.P.E.R. stood tall, its battered and scorched armor a silent testament to its undeniable superiority. After one final sweep of its sensors to confirm no enemies remained alive, the machine prepared to move toward its next objective, leaving behind a trail of ash and charred bones.

The rebel base had fallen... and with it, the last hope of the Resistance in that region of Germany.

"It seems they're doing an exceptional job of eradicating Resistance strongholds as well," Wallace Breen remarked, his gaze fixed on the feed displaying the relentless progress of the S.W.E.E.P.E.R. unit carving through the rebel base's tunnels. There was a faint trace of satisfaction in his voice as he observed the grim spectacle unfold.

Erwin, the Consul, nodded subtly. The corners of his lips curled into a dry, almost imperceptible smirk, a gesture that, for him, bordered on pure delight. "To be completely honest with you, Wallace, in the past month alone, we've obliterated no fewer than twenty-four rebel bases."

The military strategist's dark eyes gleamed momentarily with a flicker of pride as he declared the next figure. "And we've permanently eliminated over sixteen thousand and thirty-five insurgents. Not an insignificant number, if I may say so."

A gravelly yet genuine chuckle escaped Wallace Breen's throat, resonating within the expansive office. "To think only a month ago you were hesitant about accepting the position of Defense Minister..." The administrator shook his head faintly, his expression tinged with a mixture of amusement and fraternal affection. "I distinctly recall your reluctance to replace your predecessor. But I told you then that you were the most suited for the role. It seems I wasn't mistaken, my friend."

For a moment, their decades-long camaraderie seemed to shine between the two men, a bond forged in the early years of their lives as young boys in kindergarten. The Consul allowed himself a low chuckle, an uncharacteristic gesture for his typically reserved demeanor.

"You've always had an uncanny ability to assess character and capabilities, Wallace," Erwin acknowledged with a tone laced with both gratitude and respect. "Your support at that time was pivotal in my decision to accept the challenge. And I must admit, I'm thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to apply every ounce of my military strategy and knowledge."

"I expected nothing less from you, Erwin," Breen replied with an approving smile. "I have no doubt that under your leadership, our forces will achieve unprecedented levels of efficiency and lethality. Soon enough, the rebels will be nothing more than an unpleasant memory, and we can focus all our efforts on the imminent campaign to conquer the other world."

The Consul Erwin nodded solemnly at Wallace Breen's words. His face, weathered by years of military experience and hard decisions, quickly returned to the stoic mask he wore when addressing matters of critical strategic importance.

Other pressing matters required discussion and analysis, time was not a luxury they could afford in these pivotal moments. With a faint clearing of his throat, Erwin interlaced his fingers atop the mahogany surface of his desk, his distant gaze reflecting the complex simulations and calculations undoubtedly running through his analytical mind.

"I must inform you, Wallace," the Consul's deep voice resonated in the office with a measured yet resolute tone. "Unfortunately, some of the creatures captured from the world beyond the portal have proven to be little more than resources of extremely limited utility for our military purposes."

Erwin paused briefly, as though carefully weighing his next words. His steely eyes scrutinized his old friend's expression before continuing with his assessments.

"Wyverns, orcs, goblins, ogres... The viability of integrating such beings as effective combat units on modern battlefields is practically nonexistent. Their physiology and mindset are far too primitive, entirely unsuited for the standards of a cutting-edge military force like ours, even with attempts at brainwashing. An exception might be minotaurs; their intelligence aligns surprisingly well with how they are depicted in Greek myths."

The stark evaluation caused Wallace Breen's brow to furrow slightly in intrigue. "I had thought that once adequately tamed and equipped, those creatures could serve as valuable assets for our invading forces," he countered.

"Regrettably, that's not the case," Erwin replied with a shake of his head, his expression grave. "Turning them into effective soldiers would be an inefficient waste of our resources and time. Their nature is far too... primitive and ill-suited for the rigors of modern warfare, no matter how much training we provide them or what technology we apply. In fact, there's no role they can feasibly fulfill within our garrison forces. Even when modified, wyverns come nowhere close to achieving the effectiveness of Gunships."

A faint pause followed those words, interrupted only by the gentle hum of Erwin's main computer. Finally, the military strategist gave a barely perceptible shrug.

"Although perhaps the high command of Civil Protection might find some marginal utility for them within their shock troop ranks," the Consul conceded. "The wyverns, for instance, could be utilized for auxiliary aerial reconnaissance or as intimidating mounts for metropolitan officers. Something akin to how horses were used in ancient times."

Breen nodded slowly as he processed his colleague's remarks, his expression becoming contemplative. His fingers drummed a light rhythm against the armrest of his chair as he mused aloud.

"If no practical use is found for them, it would indeed be a tragedy for the true value of those flying beasts to be limited merely to harvesting raw materials, like their scales, to manufacture sturdier protective gear for our assault troops lacking motorized vests."

"At least we managed to capture enough specimens of wyverns of both sexes to establish a self-sustaining population," Erwin noted pragmatically. "Although unfortunately, that only applies to the wyverns. Regarding orcs, trolls, boar-men, and ogres, we only managed to capture male specimens. Not a single female was obtained during the invasion."

The Consul squinted his eyes, their steely coldness reflecting his approach to the next point. "And attempting to crossbreed those races with the captured demi-human women, such as warrior rabbits, elves, cat-girls, or gorgons, would be a completely futile effort, not to mention utterly disgusting from my perspective."

Erwin let those words linger in the air with veiled meaning and mild disgust. It was an ironic statement considering he would readily use living subjects as guinea pigs to test new types of soldiers. Yet, he found acts of sexual violation to be revolting and cowardly, even for his own sadistic moral compass. Moreover, both he and Breen were well aware of the underlying reason for such futility: the Suppression Field imposed on Earth two decades ago by their alien overlords. Breen noticed his friend's expression but remained silent, harboring a subtle internal relief knowing the Consul still had limits.

"The Suppression Field affects them as thoroughly as it affects us humans," the Consul continued after a moment. "So any hope of establishing self-sustaining populations with the captured demi-human races is entirely out of the question."

"Fortunately," a faintly satisfied smile curved Erwin's lips, "the Suppression Field doesn't seem to affect wyverns at all. This will allow us to maintain a steady supply of scales and other resources without having to depend entirely on future incursions beyond the portal."

Breen nodded with a reflective gesture, his dark eyes glimmering with an analytical light as he evaluated the strategic implications of what his friend had just revealed. Finally, after a few moments, the administrator parted his lips to pick up the thread of the conversation.

"Certainly, that foresight will save us many logistical headaches in the future," Breen agreed with an approving nod. "But perhaps we're underestimating the potential of some of these creatures..."

The Consul raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his friend's comment. "What do you mean, Wallace? Do you have an idea in mind?"

The administrator leaned forward in his seat, his eyes gleaming with a shrewd brilliance. "I was thinking... Orcs and the rest of these humanoid beasts could be useful as slave labor. Similar to the stalkers we already employ in critical facilities."

Erwin frowned thoughtfully, considering the proposal with renewed interest. "Go on. How exactly would we use them?"

"With proper lobotomization and some cybernetic modifications, we could turn them into tireless and obedient workers," Breen explained with mild enthusiasm. "Imagine how much we could accelerate the construction of our bases and fortifications on the beachhead we establish beyond the portal. These primitives would be a far more resilient and adaptable labor force than our current stalkers."

"You're right, Wallace..." Erwin nodded decisively, his fingers already typing deftly on his computer keyboard. The rhythmic tapping of his fingertips against the keys sent an urgent message to the facilities at Nova Prospekt and other research complexes. "I'll immediately issue the necessary instructions to begin the conversion process for these specimens. There's no time to lose."

Breen observed his friend at work with a gleam of admiration in his astute eyes. The Consul had always been a man of action, capable of making critical decisions within seconds and executing them with relentless efficiency. It was one of the many qualities that made him an exceptional military leader.

After finishing the message, Erwin reclined in his chair with a faint sigh. His fingers drummed briefly against the polished mahogany surface of his desk as he reflected aloud. "You know, Wallace, despite some of the military projects we proposed for the invasion being rejected by your superiors, the good news is they've given us the green light to employ them here on Earth." A sly smirk spread across the strategist's lips. "Many of those designs could prove tremendously useful in our struggle against the Xenian flora still infesting certain regions of the planet. The Cremator, for example, has shown itself to be an exceptionally viable option for addressing this challenge."

Breen arched an eyebrow with renewed interest, leaning forward in his seat. "Are you referring to that biological containment unit you presented two weeks ago? I recall reading very promising reports about its effectiveness in field tests."

"Exactly." The Consul confirmed with a slight nod. "And not just in tests, my friend. The Cremators have already proven their worth in real-life scenarios within Nova Prospekt. Their mere presence is enough to keep the most problematic prisoners in line. No one dares to defy those imposing custodians after witnessing what they're capable of." As he spoke, Erwin rummaged through the meticulously organized stack of documents on his desk. His fingers skimmed precisely over various files until he found the one he was searching for: the Cremator's design blueprint.

With a fluid gesture, the Consul handed the folder to Breen, who accepted it with an expression of complete concentration. The administrator's eyes scanned the diagrams and technical notes, absorbing every detail with an almost scientific eagerness. The creature that unfolded before his analytical gaze was a disquieting sight, even for someone accustomed to the horrors of Combine domination. A human being modified to grotesque extremes, its appearance resembling a skeletal scarecrow far more than a person.

The Cremator's head, disproportionately large compared to its slender body, was constructed entirely of metal. An ominous mechanical skull with hollow sockets that seemed like bottomless pits. The face lacked any recognizable features, consisting only of a mask of cold steel designed to instill fear.

The creature's limbs were little more than bones covered by pale, ashen skin. Its atrophied muscles had been replaced with synthetic fibers and mechanical actuators. Those skeletal arms and legs moved with an unnatural precision, each gesture dictated by the relentless will of Combine programming.

One feature that particularly captured Breen's attention was the peculiar device embedded in the Cremator's abdomen. A grayish sphere roughly the size of a tennis ball, pulsating with a faint glow that seemed to beat like an artificial heart.

The Cremator's attire was as distinctive as it was sinister. Its full-body suit, colored dark green in its beta version and purple according to the diagram of the current phase, was clearly designed to withstand extreme conditions and high temperatures. Breen assumed the fireproof garment was essential for the creature to operate in highly flammable environments without sustaining damage.

And then there was the Cremator's primary weapon, the centerpiece of its fearsome arsenal. A compact flamethrower known as the "Immolation Device," capable of projecting devastating blasts of incandescent "fire." But this wasn't ordinary fire; it was a variant of greenish plasma-like energy. A plasma flame capable of disintegrating organic matter with terrifying efficiency, reducing it to dispersed atoms within seconds.

Breen nodded slowly as he studied the specifications of the Immolation Device, his lips curving into a faint smirk of approval. He could vividly imagine how that weapon would become the bane of Xenian lifeforms still plaguing Earth. No plant or animal from that multidimensional macroverse could withstand the unleashed fury of such corrosive plasma.

After meticulously examining every detail of the blueprints, the administrator raised his gaze to meet the expectant eyes of his friend. A shared smile of camaraderie formed on the lips of both men, a smile they had exchanged countless times over the years whenever they glimpsed a strategic opportunity.

"I must admit, Erwin. The Cremators are truly impressive," Breen confessed with a tone imbued with respect for his colleague's tactical vision. "I've personally reviewed the recordings from Nova Prospekt, and they certainly instill fear even in the Imperials."

Breen nodded in agreement with the Consul's plans but shifted his gaze to his old friend with a calculating glint in his eyes. He cleared his throat before addressing a matter of vital importance. "Erwin, you must have already received the recordings and photographs taken by our scanners and spies on the other side of the portal. About a kilometer from the gate, there are enemy camps with a greater number of Imperials than during their initial failed attack on City-17."

The Consul frowned slightly as he processed this information. With a fluid motion of his gloved hand, he manipulated his computer's controls and projected one of the recordings onto the main screen. The video displayed the interior of a dense forest, its twenty-meter-high treetops swaying in a nocturnal breeze. Erwin narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing every detail as the camera panned slowly, capturing the vast expanse of that wooded territory known as Vorshant, with its few dirt paths.

"I've seen them, Wallace, but not with such clarity regarding the surroundings of Livia Wa Orientalis," the Consul admitted with a slight furrow of his brow. His gaze locked onto his friend's with an inquisitive look demanding further details. "Tell me everything new you know about that snow-covered mountain range. Every new detail could be crucial for our invasion plans, no matter if you mention something I already know."

Breen nodded solemnly, understanding the importance of providing a thorough explanation:

"According to memories extracted from the Saderan prisoners, that mountain range is known as Livia Wa Orientalis, or simply Orientalis for short," the administrator paused, his gaze distant as he carefully organized his thoughts. "The name was given in honor of one of the wives of an ancestor of the current Emperor of Sadera."

Erwin pursed his lips, processing this information. "And what else do we know about that region? What kind of terrain and new obstacles have been discovered?"

"Nothing new beyond the old information our scanners determined about Livia Orientalis being a snow-capped mountain range of considerable altitude," Breen continued, narrowing his eyes to better recall the details. "The portal itself is situated on one flank of the main mountain at a height of sixty-four meters, while the mountain rises approximately two hundred and twenty meters above the base level. An ideal situation for our troops since they'll be able to repel enemy attacks without significant difficulty, considering the enemy will have to approach from the surrounding wooded areas and ascend uphill."

The Consul nodded slowly, his mind already visualizing the tactical maneuvers and ideal formations for a coordinated advance. "And what about those forests you mentioned? Do they pose any new potential threats to our invading forces?"

"Not at the moment, except for the enemy camps." Breen shook his head before turning to face his friend again. "According to the collected data, those forests are of a primordial nature. A vast expanse of dense trees and lush plant life, but with no significant threats apart from the local fauna."

A faint smile curved the corners of the administrator's lips as he uttered those final words. "Nothing our forces can't easily handle. A couple of Strider squads and eight battalions of soldiers would be enough to carve a path and secure a beachhead."

Erwin nodded in approval, his strategic mind already drafting plans for advancement and contingencies. "Good, that simplifies things to some extent. But there's still a factor that isn't as critical but must be considered for the local populations..."

The Consul paused deliberately, his expression growing darker as he evaluated the implications of the information he was about to reveal.

"According to the data obtained from prisoners, that snow-capped mountain range is considered sacred territory..." A faint tone of skepticism escaped the lips of the planetary defense minister with his agnostic beliefs. "Territory of the deity they call Wareharun, the 'goddess of Forests and Trees.'"

Breen raised an eyebrow skeptically despite already knowing this fact, though he remained respectfully silent as he noticed his friend had more to say on the matter.

"While our files classify Wareharun and the other eleven 'deities' of Falmart as 'Nonexistent' or 'Low Existence' due to a lack of solid evidence of their presence, my plan remains unchanged. However, it will likely cause complications when dealing with the local population..." The Consul clasped his hands on the desk as he spoke, seeing no obstacles for the attack plan he had already devised. For now, he focused on reviewing footage of the spines they had planted in enemy territory. The issue of the local population surrounding the area destined to be the main stage of the show could wait.

A notable difference between the worlds of Falmart and Earth lay in their divergent time zones. This was plainly visible in the live feed projected before the eyes of the Consul and the administrator. While Earth's golden daylight still prevailed, night had already fallen on the vast continent of Falmart on the other side of the mysterious interdimensional portal connecting the two planes of existence.

Through another holographic window dominating the screens of the office, a recording, slightly distorted by the constant movement of the camera, revealed that an Overwatch spy squad was currently infiltrating enemy territory. The video, captured from the perspective of a camera integrated into one of the agents' helmets, displayed their rapid movements through what appeared to be a dense primordial forest.

Blurred and immaculate figures could be seen leaping between the branches of massive trees, their movements executed with supernatural synchronization and elegance, as though they were ethereal specters fused with the shadows of the night. The night vision camera clearly captured one of the spies perched on a thin branch, her silhouette outlined against the starry canopy filtering through the surrounding foliage.

These soldiers resembled members of elite Overwatch forces, though they were slimmer and unmistakably female. However, there were certain distinctive details that set them apart from being mere counterparts of the male elite transhumans.

Despite wearing the same intensely red ocular visors and smooth, armored helmets, some of the spies had two appendages protruding from their helmets, elongated features reminiscent of furry rabbit ears. At the rear of their snug white uniforms, a fluffy ball resembling a tuft of cotton swayed gently with the wind, while their feet were slightly elongated and seemed to emulate the paws of a leporid.

Spread across the Consul's desk was a design blueprint that detailed the appearance of these enigmatic transhuman spies. Although the rapid and erratic movements of the portable camera made it difficult to view, as the agents darted from tree to tree at supernatural speeds, the technical diagram revealed their key specifications and capabilities.

This design identified them as "Assassins," elite soldiers specializing in covert operations and infiltration. They excelled in speed, agility, and stealth, even surpassing the already lethal Shadowstalkers, although they were inferior in physical strength and damage resistance.

The Assassins, designed to be living blades in the shadows, operated with surgical precision during their missions of espionage and elimination. Every movement they made resonated with the lethality of a razor-sharp blade sliding through the darkness, invisible until it reached its target and extinguished the threat with the pendulum-like sweep of death. This level of perfection was no accident but rather the result of a ruthless and meticulous process to turn candidates into weapons that erased every trace of humanity.

The process began with the forced recruitment of elite women from the ranks of Metrocops, as well as female Overwatch soldiers who had demonstrated extraordinary performance for this "ascension." Those transhuman soldiers who already possessed cybernetic modifications were dismantled and rebuilt from the ground up, with even more advanced implants installed, transforming them into something beyond human. Their flesh became a canvas for the cold artistry of alien machinery. But this was not limited to terrestrial humans; the Alliance, always seeking expansion and perfection, extended its reach to captured prisoners from the invading army on the other side of the portal.

It was in this decision that the demi-humans found their place within the Assassin branches. Warrior rabbits, elves, cat-girls, and other female creatures deemed "suitable" by the stringent selection parameters were ripped from their cells and subjected to a devastating process. For some, this meant total lobotomization: their brains reduced to simple biological engines reprogrammed to carry out orders with unwavering efficiency.

However, the warrior rabbits stood out for a significant reason. Most of them did not have to be forcibly dragged into this cold and mechanical future. The offer and explanation given to them, and the other demi-human women, of joining the Overwatch forces were met with a mix of searing fear and calculated determination by the majority. The proposal offered an opportunity none of them could have dreamed of before: to exact revenge on the Saderan Empire, the barbaric and insatiable empire that had enslaved their people and reduced their lives to ashes. The hatred toward Sadera burned within their souls like smoldering embers that even the most inhuman experiments could not extinguish.

Though they voluntarily accepted this destiny, the Alliance left no loose ends. They ensured that their memories were almost entirely erased, leaving only a faint spark of the atrocities they had suffered under the Saderan Empire's yoke. That spark was carefully preserved, alongside their intense hatred of Sadera, to fuel their unparalleled ferocity on the battlefield.

Even as their most human emotions and feelings were stripped away, memories of slavery and lost happiness were preserved, specifically designed to amplify their effectiveness with the bittersweet taste of fulfilled vengeance.

With these meticulously assembled elements, the Assassins became perfect tools of the Alliance on Earth: lethal shadows navigating the darkest corners of the conflict against the Resistance and now against the Saderan Empire. They killed without mercy and served with absolute loyalty rooted deep within their reprogrammed minds.

Among the demi-humans, the end of the process, regardless of who they had been at the start: terrified women or fierce warriors with dreams of justice, saw them emerge as a cruel and walking irony. Each Assassin bore an invisible but indelible scar: the silenced memory of what they once were and the constant echo of what they now had become. They were more than transhuman soldiers; they were walking summaries of the malevolent compromise between despair and metal.

Each time they wielded a knife or their submachine guns of dark energy or disappeared into liquid-like shadows to take lives, they thought not of the "great cause" or the illusory hope they might have sworn to when accepting the deal. They only thought of the emptiness now resonating within their reconnected minds: orders delivered in a soulless language and the relentless sound of silenced hearts.

Not even nightmares visited them at night, after all, monsters do not dream.

Their weaponry consisted of two AR-2s equipped with suppressors and modified to resemble submachine guns. They were also lightened in weight to allow for one-handed firing, though they were incapable of executing the secondary fire of the original models and had a slight loss of firepower. This design ensured their speed and mobility were not compromised while operating as undercover spies. This weapon was named "Eclipse AR2-FS," representing elegance and darkness. A weapon that "extinguishes" its targets without any noise, lethal and reserved.

However, the Assassins could also function as frontline soldiers or snipers when the situation required. In such cases, their equipment was completed with state-of-the-art optical camouflage devices that allowed them to become completely invisible to the human eye and conventional detection systems, previously belonging to the extinct Black Ops units.

There was a total of 400 Assassins deployed to monitor and provoke sabotage among the imperial forces since their creation three and a half weeks ago. These lethal female agents, forged from human recruits and various captured demi-human races, were the spearhead of Earth's espionage and infiltration forces.

When night fell over the primordial forest of Vorshant, the Overwatch units activated their sophisticated optical camouflage systems. In the blink of an eye, their silhouettes vanished into the surrounding environment, becoming virtually invisible to the human eye and conventional detection systems.

A faint electronic hum was the only audible indication that the Assassins were still present, moving through the shadows with supernatural grace. Moments later, the 400 agents divided into 36 smaller squads of between eight and thirteen members each.

They moved silently and with perfect coordination, sliding through the underbrush like stalking predators. Each squad had a clear objective in mind: infiltrate enemy camps, gather intelligence, sow chaos and confusion, and eliminate any threats that crossed their path.

But the Assassins were not alone on this mission. In the distance, a battalion composed of 200 Shadowstalkers moved with equal dexterity and stealth, following the assassins' trail in a carefully designed formation. These deadly vaguely insectoid creatures, standing at 2.5 meters tall, advanced in perfect silence, their slender bodies blending seamlessly with the forest shadows.

A silent signal passed among the ranks, and the battalion of Shadowstalkers fragmented into eighteen smaller squads of ten to twelve members each. These elite groups spread out in a fan formation, with each attaching itself to one of the Assassin squads to provide lethal support if necessary.

The strategy was straightforward but deadly: the Assassins would handle the initial infiltration and covert sabotage. With their supernatural stealth abilities, they could slip into enemy camps undetected, gather valuable intelligence, and sow chaos and confusion among enemy ranks.

However, should complications arise and open combat become unavoidable, the Shadowstalker squads would be there to unleash their murderous fury. These transhuman creatures were true killing machines, capable of annihilating any enemy force with their lethal combination of speed, strength, and devastating weaponry.

The Assassins were the scalpel making the initial incision, while the Shadowstalkers were the sword that cut flesh to the bone. Together, they formed an unbeatable elite team designed to bring terror and death to the very heart of enemy forces.

As the combined squads of Assassins and Shadowstalkers crept silently through the forest of Vorshant, the fate of the unsuspecting enemy camps was already sealed. Tonight, the darkness would claim new victims, and the forest floor would be stained red with the blood of the incautious.

Because this was how Earth's forces operated, with surgical precision, relentless efficiency, and a total absence of pity or remorse. They were the very embodiment of calculated cruelty, turning warfare into a lethal art with no room for the weak or indulgent.

And this attack would be no exception...

Location: In Falmart, within the forest of Vorshant, at the second Imperial Camp.

Deep within the forest nestled at the foot of the imposing Livia Orientalis mountain range, the second Imperial camp sprawled like a stain of civilization amidst the wilderness. Canvas tents and rudimentary cabins rose in a cleared glade, surrounded by a perimeter of palisades and defensive trenches.

At the very center of the camp, an open area had been repurposed as an improvised mess hall. Long wooden tables and benches fashioned from freshly felled logs stretched across the clearing, occupied by a multitude of soldiers sharing rations while exchanging stories and experiences from the recent military campaign.

The atmosphere, however, was far from cheerful and jovial. A somber and tense aura seemed to permeate every corner of the camp, reflected in the tired and grim faces of the veterans who had returned from the confrontation with the "demonic" forces beyond the interdimensional portal.

Barely twelve thousand human soldiers had managed to return alive from that massacre, a minuscule fraction of the over two hundred ninety thousand human soldiers who had initially crossed through the portal. The rest had either been struck down by the deadly powers of the "demons" or deserted in horror at the scale of the devastation suffered, leaving only twenty-three loyal.

Those survivors, once proud warriors of the Sadera Empire, now sat crestfallen and taciturn at the mess hall tables. Their faces, lined with fresh scars, bore the weight of the atrocities they had witnessed in that hell into which they had been cast by their emperor's orders.

"They should listen to us..." murmured one of the veteran soldiers in a hoarse voice, his gloved hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. "We tried to warn them about the true nature of the enemy that awaits us, but no one wants to believe our words."

"And what did you expect, Appius?" replied another warrior seated across from him, his bitter tone laden with disillusionment. "Molt himself made sure to discredit our accounts, labeling us as deranged or hallucinating from the stress of battle."

A slight shiver ran down Appius's spine as he recalled the lies and deceit the emperor had spread among the Imperial ranks. Molt had argued that the invasion participants had been "defeated by mere natives due to their lack of clarity," attributing hallucinations and combat delusions to them.

"Of course, the new recruits prefer to believe the emperor's drivel rather than our warnings..." A stifled laugh, devoid of any trace of humor, escaped the soldier's cracked lips. "After all, what soldier would dare to challenge the word of their supreme ruler?"

Around them, the other veterans nodded in somber agreement, their gazes drifting to the groups of newly arrived soldiers who devoured their rations with renewed enthusiasm. Those newcomers boasted shamelessly, confident in their imminent victory over the "weak enemies" awaiting them beyond the portal.

"Arrogant fools..." Appius muttered through clenched teeth, his jaw tightened in a bitter grimace. "They have no idea of the true hell that awaits us if those infernal bastards counterattack."

"Maybe it's better this way..." His companion exhaled a weary sigh, shaking his head slightly. "At least they'll fight with clear minds, without the nightmares and paralyzing fear that torment those of us who have already seen the truth."

Appius did not respond, merely nodding silently as his eyes wandered to the figures moving among the tents and cabins at the perimeter. These were the new reinforcements that had arrived a few days ago, three new legions of soldiers and auxiliary demi-humans sent by the emperor to "strengthen" the position around the portal.

Burly orcs of brutally savage appearance, armed with steel axes and clubs and clad in heavy armor. Minotaurs towering over two meters tall, their sharp horns gleaming in the torchlight. Trolls with bulging muscles and grayish skin, wielding massive spiked maces. An imposing force in appearance... but useless against the true threats lurking beyond the interdimensional threshold.

"Do you think those beasts will do anything when the demons return?" Appius murmured in a subdued tone, his eyes fixed on the demi-humans patrolling the camp's outer defenses. "Not even our strongest knights or demi-humans could stand against them..."

"I highly doubt it..." His companion shrugged resignedly. "Those monsters are nothing but cannon fodder for the true masters of that infernal realm. Even their lives won't matter when the hellish legions cross the threshold..."

A heavy silence settled over the table, broken only by the occasional echoes of laughter and boasts from the groups of new recruits. Appius shook his head with regret as he turned his attention back to the half-eaten food on his plate.

Meanwhile, in a spacious tent illuminated by the dim light of torches, a general of the Sadera Empire was meticulously donning his imposing armor. Each piece of burnished metal resonated with a muffled echo as it was adjusted over his body with meticulous precision.

With a soft creak, the final segment of the chest plate clicked into place, the shoulder guards locking with a faint mechanical snap. The general rose to his full height, his silhouette outlined against the dancing shadows cast by the torch flames.

Grasping the jeweled hilt of his sword firmly, the imperial soldier drew the gleaming steel from its scabbard. The blade reflected the light, adding a steely and menacing gleam to his already imposing appearance.

With determined steps, the officer emerged from his shelter of canvas and hides, venturing into the night of the military camp. Two fierce-looking guards of martial bearing immediately flanked their superior, remaining alert and vigilant as they moved among the scattered tents and campfires.

The three men ventured beyond the limits of the fortified perimeter, delving into the gloom of the primordial forest surrounding their position.

Where the moonlight bathed the Vorshant forest, the treetops cast a canopy of shadows stretching across the dense expanse. A chilling breeze wove through the foliage, drawing faint whispers that seemed to exhale the restrained sighs of the ancient trees themselves, some of them millennia old.

In a section of the forest, a small clearing broke through the tangle of vegetation, the gnarled branches twisting aside to reveal a crystalline pool reflecting the starlit sky. The serene lake appeared as a liquid gem embedded in the verdant landscape, an oasis of tranquility amidst the vast wilderness.

It was in this idyllic setting that the imperial general chose to pause, momentarily distancing himself from the camp's confines and the company of his soldiers. With measured steps, the imposing figure clad in gleaming plate armor approached the water's edge, stopping just short of where the gentle waves kissed the earth.

A weary sigh escaped the warrior's lips as he raised a gloved hand to his face, momentarily removing the helmet that concealed his features. A mane of gray hair streaked with silver fell as the metallic protection was lifted, framing a countenance weathered by years of battles and hard decisions.

The general ran his fingers across his forehead, rubbing it with a meditative gesture in an attempt to clear his mind of the doubts and worries clouding it. "What in the hell is going on?" he murmured to himself, his gaze lost in the rippling waters reflecting the starlight.

Only two weeks had passed since the imperial forces had taken positions around the Livia Orientalis portal, establishing vast fortified camps nearby. A deployment of five hundred thousand soldiers and auxiliaries, all by direct order of Emperor Molt Sol Augustus.

And yet, despite their overwhelming numerical superiority and the erected defensive perimeter, nothing seemed capable of stemming the tide of deaths that had swept through the imperial ranks. One by one, the lives of experienced warriors and even "allied" demi-humans were snuffed out inexplicably, like candles in the wind.

("How is this possible?") The general shook his head slightly, his eyes scrutinizing the dark depths of the lake for answers. ("No enemy has crossed the portal since our arrival, and the scouts have detected no signs of hostile activity beyond the perimeter...")

A new wave of unease churned within his chest, raising the hairs on the back of his neck as though an icy presence had laid its claws upon his soul. The warrior turned on his heels, his eyes scanning the blurry outlines of the ancient trunks rising in the gloom like silent sentinels.

For a fleeting moment, he could almost swear the shadows moved and contorted, taking on spectral forms that defied any known logic. Stealthy figures danced among the trees, drawing closer with each passing second...

("Bah!") The general dismissed these impressions almost immediately, shaking his head with a stifled snort. ("I must be losing my mind, damn it!he chastised himself harshly. ("Allowing fear and paranoia to cloud my judgment will only seal my death sentence.")

Clinging to the remnants of his resolve, the imperial warrior forced himself to banish those grim thoughts from his mind. Instead, he focused on coldly analyzing the facts, as a consummate strategist would on the battlefield.

First, there were the deaths among soldiers of his own race, executed with a precision and efficiency bordering on the supernatural. No signs of struggle, no traces leading to the killers... Simply bodies lying in their beds, their eyes open and staring into nothingness, or sometimes, no bodies at all.

Then, the disappearances among the auxiliary demi-human ranks began multiplying alarmingly. Ogres, Minotaurs, boar-men, and others vanished from their guard posts, never to be seen alive again. Even some of the strongest and most fearsome orcs and minotaurs vanished without a trace, as if the earth itself had swallowed them whole.

In less than a month since the preparations of the defensive army concluded -organizing, assembling the units, and making the journey from Sadera to Livia- the army was stationed. From the very first day, the force of four hundred thousand soldiers and more than one hundred thousand demi-human auxiliaries had already been reduced to just over three hundred eighty thousand human troops and eighty thousand demi-humans. The mysterious and ever-growing wave of murders and disappearances had eroded their confidence and sense of security to unimaginable depths.

"Who, or what, could be behind these horrors?" The officer dismissed almost immediately the possibility that the enslaved demi-humans were responsible for such acts. The victims seemed to have been eliminated with a precision and clinical coldness that completely escaped the capabilities of those primitive beings.

Moreover, where would the slaves have obtained the poison used to perpetrate the murders? This forest lacked toxic plants potent enough to cause the fatalities that had been recorded. Additionally, they wouldn't kill each other. No, there had to be another explanation, he had to find it quickly. He doubted that others would continue believing the lie that their missing comrades had deserted out of fear and cowardice.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the guards around him collapsed to the ground with a dull thud, their skulls punctured and their metal helmets riddled with smoldering holes. The sudden death of his protectors heightened the general's sense of vulnerability, like a surge of cold running down his spine.

The imperial warrior's eyes widened in panic, scanning the surroundings frantically in a desperate attempt to discern the origin of the invisible threat now stalking them. His mind swirled in a whirlwind of terrified thoughts and absurd theories as he sought explanations.

"Could they be the 'demons'?" He questioned himself in a choked whisper, feeling a lump form in his throat. The idea that the fearsome "demonic" creatures from the other side of the portal, those spoken of by the crazed survivors of the first invasion, were responsible for these murders seemed implausible... and at the same time, inescapable.

The emperor Molt had discredited the accounts of his fallen soldiers, dismissing them as delusions and hallucinations caused by the stress of combat. But at this very moment, as the general gazed upon the lifeless corpses of his guards at his feet, all logic and rationality seemed to evaporate into a mist of primordial terror.

Uncertainty and fear swirled in his chest, enveloping him in a suffocating shroud as he raised his sword defensively. Instinct alone drove him to swing the steel forward in a wide arc, attempting to strike at any hostile force he could only vaguely perceive.

A chilling whistle cut through the air as the sharp blade shattered into fragments, the metallic shards clattering to the ground with an agonized tinkling. The expression of panic on the imperial leader's face deepened as he found himself completely disarmed against the invisible threat that besieged them.

With frantic, clumsy movements characteristic of irrational fear, the general tried to reach for the hilt of a dagger concealed in his belt. But before his gloved fingers could even brush against the steel, a crushing force slammed into his chest.

The impact was so brutal that the officer was hurled into the air, his body twisting grotesquely as he flew in an impossible parabola. A wrenching scream tore from his throat as he finally crashed into the tranquil waters of the lake, sinking into its depths with a resounding splash.

Underwater, the general thrashed desperately as he struggled to remove the dead weight of his now-shattered armor. Fragments of steel and leather floated around him, stained red by the blood flowing from his chest, a dense cloud that darkened the surrounding liquid.

An searing, indescribable agony consumed him from within, as though a red-hot iron had been driven into his torso. Each breath was torture, with his intercostal muscles spasming as they fought to draw air into his battered lungs.

It was then that an invisible presence seemed to materialize above the waters, a diffuse, ethereal shadow that loomed over the lake like a ghostly apparition. The general stifled a fresh scream as an unseen force clamped around his throat, a cold, merciless grip that lifted him into the air like a rag doll.

Kicking and writhing with what little strength remained, the agonized warrior tried to break free from that supernatural hold. But every effort was futile, like struggling against the tentacles of a steel octopus. The creature, whatever it was, seemed relentless, its resistance unyielding.

The imperial officer's eyes widened in sheer horror as his mind wrestled to process what he was witnessing. Through the haze of pain consuming him, he managed to see once again the lifeless bodies of his guards sprawled on the lake's shore, their inert forms scattered across the grass in grotesque death poses.

But what truly froze the blood in his veins was the sinister, humanoid figure standing next to the bodies, a diffuse silhouette that seemed to blur and take shape amid the dancing shadows. A presence defying all logic and sense of reality, materializing out of nowhere like a nightmare made flesh.

As his gaze focused more sharply, the creature's distinctive and horrifying traits became clearer. Before him stood a being that chillingly matched the descriptions of the "white demon lords" that the few survivors of the first invasion had managed to babble amidst their incoherencies.

Its attire was immaculately white, seemingly radiating a supernatural glow as though the very fabric were woven from moonlight. But what truly captured attention were the appendages protruding from its head, from the top of its skull. Two elongated, furry protrusions resembling the upright ears of a rabbit or hare, a grotesque incongruence that didn't align with witnesses' accounts.

And then there was that eye, a singular, blazing orb of intense red that seemed to burn like an ember in the dimness. An empty gaze devoid of any trace of humanity or empathy. An eye that fixed upon the imperial officer with the same clinical detachment as a scientist observing an insect under a microscope.

"P-please!" The general's anguished scream echoed in the stillness of the night, his voice breaking into a sob choked by terror. "I-I beg you! D-don't kill me!"

His words were barely a garbled babble, mingled with agonized gasps and pitiful wails. The man who had once been a proud imperial warrior was now nothing more than a trembling, pathetic bundle, reduced to pleading for his life.

Tears of fear and despair streamed down his cheeks as the general crawled backward, trying to distance himself from that entity defying all comprehension. But no matter how hard he tried to flee, the invisible force gripping his neck did not relent in the slightest.

"P-please!" The officer whimpered again in a faint voice, his gloved fingers clawing uselessly at the pressure strangling him. "I-I'll give you whatever you want! G-gold, jewels..."

His pleas were abruptly silenced as the pressure around his throat intensified suddenly. A strangled gasp escaped his lips as his eyes widened in renewed panic, his face reddening beneath the mask of agony.

It was then that his vision began to darken at the edges, shadows spreading like a shroud over his terrified gaze. The general struggled with what little strength remained, his lungs burning for lack of oxygen as the blackness engulfed his consciousness.

In one final, desperate attempt to cling to life, the imperial turned his head toward the sinister creature executing him with such clinical indifference. His lips moved in a muted, final plea, forming words that never emerged before his skull was crushed with a grotesque crunch.

A cloud of blood and viscera splattered into the lake's waters as the imperial officer's head burst like an overripe melon. His body convulsed in one final spasm before going limp and lifeless, floating face-down with the remains of his skull reduced to a bloody pulp.

The Shadowstalker, for there was no other way to describe this murderous creature beyond its transhuman status, stood impassive and unmoving before the carnage it had wrought with its companion. Its green "eyes" within the tubes connected to its sockets swept the surroundings for any lingering threats, its claws slick with spilled blood.

Then, a faint electrical hum broke the silence of the night. Materializing from nothingness, a second figure appeared beside the Shadowstalker, another of the menacing Assassins, shorter than her male counterpart but equally unsettling and deadly.

A subtle nod was the only form of communication between them before they moved into action. With near-robotic efficiency, they gathered the bodies of the guards and the imperial officer, lifting them as though they weighed no more than feathers.

And then, with the same eerie ease with which they had entered, the three Overwatch soldiers vanished into the forest's darkness along with their macabre burdens. All that remained were the bloodied remnants floating on the lake's waters and a silence so absolute it nearly screamed with a voice of its own.

Location: On Earth, in City 17, inside the Citadel.

Back in the reconstruction zone of City 17, within the citadel towering eight kilometers above the ground, the holographic screens of the Consul's office projected a series of eerie scenes captured by body cameras worn by assault forces. Wallace Breen and his old friend Erwin watched the footage with impassive expressions, their faces sculpted into masks of cold determination.

In one of the recordings, a cell of human Assassins stealthily infiltrated the kitchens of the Imperial camps. These lethal female agents moved like dancing shadows, each step orchestrated with an almost hypnotic grace as they slipped between improvised cooking stations.

One of the Assassins, a human woman, paused in front of a massive cauldron of boiling stew. With calculated movements, she retrieved a small glass ampoule from one of the hidden compartments in her pristine white suit.

The contents of the vial were a greenish liquid that seemed to glow with a sickly light under the torchlight. Removing the ampoule's stopper with a slight flick of her gloved fingers, the Assassin let a few drops of the compound fall into the cauldron, observing impassively as the poison dissolved into the bubbling mixture.

A slight nod was all the agent needed to signal that her task was complete. In perfect synchronization with her companions, the Assassins left the kitchens as quietly as they had entered, merging into the darkness of the night like nightmare phantoms.

How was it possible for cameras to detect the spies despite their invisibility devices? The cameras had also been upgraded and modified to capture the operatives, bypassing their cloaking technology.

In another projected recording, the scene shifted dramatically to show a group of Imperial scouts advancing through the dense forests surrounding their camps. Six burly soldiers armed with spears, shields, and swords were flanked by a pair of fierce-looking Minotaur auxiliaries.

The small patrol moved cautiously among the ancient trunks, their weapons raised and senses alert to any potential threat. Yet no matter how much they scrutinized the shadows cast by the foliage, nothing betrayed the presence of predators stalking them.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers froze, his eyes widening in panic as blood gushed from his throat. The man clutched at his neck with both hands, his fingers sinking into torn flesh in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. A strangled gurgle escaped his lips as he fell to his knees, his body convulsing in agonized death throes.

The Minotaurs were the next to fall, their massive bodies collapsing with a resounding thud as energy blades decapitated them with the precision of professional executioners. One of the soldiers managed to brandish his weapon before an invisible claw lifted him into the air, his legs kicking uselessly as his skull was crushed with a grotesque crunch.

Within seconds, the scene devolved into a bloodbath, with the mutilated bodies of the scouts scattered among the underbrush. Only one of them managed to take cover, crouching behind a tree trunk with wide eyes and labored breaths, terror evident in every fiber of his being.

Then, the silhouettes of two Shadowstalkers materialized on the footage, their slender and menacing figures moving through the shadows with supernatural grace. The Imperial soldier let out a choked whimper, his trembling hand fumbling for the hilt of his sword as he watched the creatures draw closer.

One of the Shadowstalkers froze abruptly, like a cursed statue emerging from the shadows. Its bionic eyes, glowing green within tubes snaking into its empty sockets, pierced like spectral daggers into the spot where the Imperial scout was hiding. The man's petrified figure, frozen in a chasm of terror, barely breathed. But the Shadowstalker didn't need to hear.

It had already sniffed him out. A hiss emerged from beneath the folds of the metallic muzzle covering its mouth. A sound that twisted through the air like a venomous serpent sliding down the scout's spine. The man swallowed thickly. His breath hitched in his throat. And then, the silence shattered.

The transhuman's movement was so swift, so inhuman, it barely seemed real. One of its energy blades whirred as it detached from its housing with a glimmer of dying light. The blade spun furiously through the air as if hungering for flesh. It struck the tree shielding the soldier with a beastly crunch, ripping through wood and flesh alike. The blade sliced through the bark as if it were hot butter, embedding itself in the scout's guts. The resulting scream was not entirely human. It was as if the cry tore something deeper than his voice.

The scout collapsed to his knees, clutching his abdomen as a torrent of warm, wet viscera spilled from his body, splattering onto the ground with a sickening squelch. Intestines writhed like freshly skinned snakes, while his blood pooled in a reflective puddle illuminated by the murderer's unsettling weapon. The blade shimmered once more before returning with surgical precision to its owner's hand, like a loyal hound. The creature didn't even flinch. There was no satisfaction in its face, no remorse either. It simply observed its prey fading into oblivion with the same cold indifference one might have when crushing an insect.

From his office, Wallace Breen followed the recordings motionlessly, like a shadow. His face, though impassive, seemed a canvas betrayed by cracks of discomfort. The fingers of his right hand twitched slightly on the armrest of his chair, a barely perceptible gesture revealing his revulsion simmering beneath his controlled exterior.

Breen's gaze shifted away for a moment when the glistening viscera reflected the reddish light of the visors. The motion was almost imperceptible, but the rigidness in his lips betrayed his discomfort. The disgust he felt wasn't entirely derived from the blood or the metallic scent he imagined through the video. It stemmed from how unnecessarily theatrical it all seemed, the wasteful brutality permitted by the Consul in the name of efficiency. His jaw clenched as the video showed how the Assassins briefly appeared to collect evidence and sanitize, leaving behind nothing but emptiness.

"An extremely... efficient job," he finally commented, his words carefully measured. His hands rested on the backrest of his chair, fingers slightly tightened as he looked at the man across the desk. "It seems our new additions have proven to be just as lethal as we expected, once again." There was something almost imperceptible in his tone, a hidden edge behind his usual politeness.

Erwin didn't need to look at Breen to know what he was thinking. The barely visible tic in his friend's left eyebrow, the way his eyes avoided the most grotesque details on the screens. With a dry smile, Erwin tapped his fingers against the cold surface of the desk. He didn't mind. If anything, he found Wallace's reaction entertaining.

"Indeed, Wallace. With these units at our disposal, the conquest beyond the portal is practically guaranteed." His words were an absolute contrast to his friend's measured tone, dripping with an almost cruel certainty.

The difference between the two men could not have been more apparent. Where Breen watched cautiously, with a rational mind calculating risks and benefits, the Consul viewed with voracious hunger. His gaze fixated on the recordings, not seeking mistakes but relishing in the chaos unleashed by his creations' strategy. It was as if the sound of breaking bones and muffled screams fueled an inner fire of delight that never seemed to extinguish.

Breen crossed his legs in a gesture almost defensive, averting his gaze when yet another scene unveiled itself. The screen displayed a Shadowstalker embedding its claws into the skull of a Minotaur, tearing it apart with a viscous sound that only barely muffled in the quality of the footage.

"The efficiency is undeniable," Breen eventually conceded, though the rigidity in his tone did not go unnoticed. "Although I do wonder if this… display, is strictly necessary." It was a veiled critique, a mere graze against the surface of the conversation, but enough for Erwin to turn his head toward him, his dark eyes glimmering with cold humor.

"Necessary?" repeated the Consul, raising an eyebrow as a thin smile spread across his face. It was a smile devoid of warmth. "Wallace, my friend, war has never been a game of necessities. It is a spectacle. Every death, every victory, not only cements our position in the hierarchy of the Alliance. It sends a message. One that our enemies, human or otherworldly, will understand perfectly."

Breen didn't respond immediately, his mind processing his friend's words. He knew that arguing against Erwin's logic would be futile. Erwin had always been this way, even in their youth. A brilliant strategist with an unwavering tendency toward the extreme. And yet, the vision of mutilated bodies and the blood still dripping from the energy blades left a bitter taste in his mouth. Not because he didn't understand the necessity of violence, but because there was a fine line between efficiency and sadism, something his old friend understood all too well but had never cared to avoid.

"I suppose there's no arguing when the results speak for themselves," He finally said, though his words felt less an approval and more an attempt to close a subject that was beginning to unsettle him far more than he was willing to admit.

Erwin, hearing this, paused in his grotesque yet self-described "artful" revelry. His sharp, calculating gaze turned stony, speaking loudly of his readiness to steer their dialogue in another direction. "My dear friend," began the Consul, his voice low but laden with authoritative resolve, "it is time we go on the offensive. Tomorrow afternoon, our troops will cross the threshold, and we will begin the invasion of Falmart. This time, we will be the ones to sow terror among the natives."

"Then tomorrow marks the beginning of our counterattack, as planned," Breen replied, listening intently to the words of the planetary defense minister. His expression betrayed only the faintest flicker of deliberation as he awaited final confirmation from his colleague.

Erwin allowed a few moments to pass before responding, his gaze momentarily lost in the monitors, as if envisioning the movements of his forces amidst the forthcoming invasion. At last, a subtle nod broke his stillness, his black eyes gleaming with steel-edged determination.

"Yes," he said with unshaken certainty. "I'll issue the order for the troops to prepare and head toward the portal front." The tone adopted by the Consul was unmistakable in its finality: this was the voice of a seasoned military leader who had meticulously crafted his plans down to the very last detail. "An army corps of 25,100 transhuman units, along with several hundred synthetics, will secure the area surrounding the portal, annihilating any lingering enemy forces."

The Consul paused, barely perceptibly this time, as if mentally calculating the next steps integral to his overarching strategy. "Once that initial control point has been established, we'll dispatch the builders and the first engineering units to begin constructing our operations base on the other side of the portal."

The seasoned strategist's words flowed effortlessly, his statements brimming with unyielding confidence. "According to calculations, it will take approximately one month to complete the first phase of fortifications and command center construction. We'll use that month to deploy the remainder of our offensive forces, prepare for a full-front advance, and establish aerial infrastructure for our units."

Breen nodded once more, his expression reflecting a mixture of respect and camaraderie for his childhood friend.

"I understand. What updates do you have on the vehicles, artillery, and air defenses?" Breen inquired earnestly, trusting that both the soldiers and synthetic entities were adequately accounted for.

"I'll provide a brief overview," Erwin replied, adjusting his posture slightly as he prepared his thoughts. "Regarding campaign artillery, I've reactivated and improved a significant number of systems left over from the old European militaries prior to the Seven Hour War."

The Consul paused, his fingers tapping softly against the polished surface of his desk, a cadence that betrayed his ever-calculating mind. "Self-propelled howitzers, such as Germany's Panzerhaubitze 2000, Britain's AS-90, and Sweden's Archer system, all of them have been subjected to profound modifications to maximize the potential of the technology left to us by the Alliance."

"We're refining and optimizing the efficiency of these new artillery systems," he continued, his tone measured yet confident. "Their range, rate of fire, and precision will far surpass the original versions, thanks to advancements in guidance and propulsion systems."

A slight furrow appeared in Erwin's brow as he transitioned to the next point. "Unfortunately, we haven't yet fully adapted these designs to utilize dark energy projectiles. For now, we'll continue to employ conventional high-explosive ammunition, though with significantly enhanced potency."

"That will change in approximately two months," Erwin added, his tone laced with assuredness. "By then, the new artillery models will have been upgraded to use dark energy as their primary propulsion source. This will grant them virtually limitless destructive power against both organic and inorganic targets."

Breen slowly nodded, processing the information with an expression of approval. "Excellent, Erwin. Those reinforced artillery systems will be critical in supporting our initial advance and crushing any resistance encountered."

The administrator paused momentarily, his gaze taking on an analytical aspect. "And what about armored vehicles and tanks? What is the status of our armored forces for the invasion?"

A dry chuckle escaped Erwin's lips, almost a stifled laugh. "Ah, as for that... We've significantly bolstered our armored personnel carriers or APCs, enhancing their armor and troop transport capacity. Each vehicle has undergone rigorous testing, facing rebel bases and lion-ant nests in combat simulations."

"However…" The Consul interlocked his fingers atop the desk, his tone growing heavier. "The main battle tanks are not yet ready for deployment. They'll require at least another two to three months of modifications and testing before they can operate reliably in Falmart."

An almost imperceptible grimace tugged at the corners of the strategist's mouth. "Though, if I'm completely honest, I don't believe conventional tanks will be truly necessary in this initial phase of the invasion, or even in subsequent phases. The Striders and the S.W.E.E.P.E.R. units should be more than sufficient to fulfill their roles as armored support and assault units in urban areas."

Leaning back slightly in his chair, Erwin's gaze exuded a subtle glow of contained satisfaction. "As for the individual weaponry of our troops... We've reestablished the ammunition factories and maintenance facilities used by Earth's now-extinct armies, which, in the near future, will shift to producing dark energy-based munitions. But we haven't stopped there."

A slight nod underscored his next words. "The firearms used by some soldiers as the standard, and others in line units, have been upgraded to utilize dark energy instead of conventional ammunition. Something akin to AR2 pulse rifles, but with a greater variety of models and calibers tailored for different roles."

"These dark energy-based weapons will be far more effective, lethal, and cost-efficient than the outdated ballistic designs." The Consul asserted this with a note of professional pride. "Though we'll still maintain some conventional kinetic weaponry as a reserve, just in case."

"As for armored units like the Wallhammers..." Erwin made an almost dismissive gesture with his gloved hand. "Their Demolizer-23 model shotguns have been replaced with light machine guns that also employ the same dark energy projectile technology. A substantial improvement, both in range and sustained firepower."

The Consul's face contorted slightly, as though a fleeting memory had brushed against him, revealing a crack in his usual mask of confidence. A crucial detail lingered at the edges of his attention, a detail that now took sharp form in his mind. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the dark wooden desk while his dark eyes glittered with the reflection of the holographic screens.

"Ah, I almost forgot," he remarked, his tone laden with calculated indifference that barely concealed the importance of his words. "The genetic coders... those already implemented in the weapons of the Echo-rank units and ordinal units... they will also be applied to the rest of the weapons, and especially to the AR2s." His voice became an instrument of precision, each word weighted to underscore the inevitability. "From now on, only genetically registered carriers and troops cataloged in our genetic records will be able to utilize them."

The weight of this revelation filled the room, but Breen, who had been listening attentively to every word, furrowed his brow imperceptibly. While his expression remained far from openly incredulous, there was something in the way his head tilted slightly to the side that suggested the spark of a doubt emerging upon hearing the part: "will also be applied to the AR2." Breen couldn't entirely believe it, perhaps he could if it were about weapons still using lead bullets, but the AR2s?

His mind processed not only what was said but also what was left unsaid, the implications brushing against a dangerous line of systemic failures under the previous military administration. It wasn't possible that the favored weapons of elite units lacked such an important security measure. Even Echo-ranked soldiers, at the lowest rung of the Overwatch hierarchy, had such safeguards on their pulse weapons.

"Wait a moment…" he murmured in a tone that seemed directed more at himself than at Erwin. Finally, he lifted his gaze to fix it squarely on the Consul. "Are you telling me the AR2s haven't had genetic coding until now?" The words were inquisitive without being outright accusatory. However, the subtext simmered beneath the surface: another rotten link in the chain of errors committed by the former planetary defense minister, a man whose corruption and supposed betrayal were under intense scrutiny in an endless trial.

The question hung in the air for a few seconds before Erwin let out a dry chuckle, a low laugh laced with sadism, masked by theatrical pity. "Oh, I am undoubtedly aware," he commented with razor-sharp mockery as his fingers drummed lightly against the metallic desk surface. "It was… surprising, to say the least, to find such an obvious gap in the system when I reviewed the reports." His eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and icy disdain, as though savoring the imagined torments awaiting his predecessor. "It's yet another piece of evidence to pile onto the charges against that imbecilic traitor."

He leaned back against the chair's support with a smile barely perceptible, but his next words were as sharp as blades. "I wonder… what punishment your superiors will dole out to him? Perhaps something so cruel and creative that even in death, he'll continue regretting every decision made. Or perhaps something more psychological, a perpetual cycle of remembering how his collaboration with the Resistance sealed his fate, not to mention how many Metrocops he allowed to affiliate with the rebels, smuggling weapons and vests under his nose."

The air grew denser with each word from the Consul, an oppressive presence laden with darkness and implied challenges. Breen averted his gaze briefly to the nearest screen, where data on elite transhuman soldiers and their AR2s were projected in meticulous detail. The strategic importance of these modifications was no minor thing; genetic coding added another layer of security to the arsenal of Overwatch troops, ensuring that even in the event of theft or capture, these weapons could not be used against them.

Most notably, the secondary fire of the AR2, the devastating dark energy sphere, was capable of disintegrating organic beings at an atomic level. Without that genetic coding, it had been a potentially fatal risk in enemy hands. Now, it represented another pillar upon which to consolidate absolute control in this interdimensional theater of war. However, all of this also underscored something deeper: the flawed legacy left by Erwin's predecessor and the decisive, albeit cold, steps now being taken to eradicate those deficiencies.

The Consul reclined in his chair, crossing his arms with an air of triumph. "So there you have it, Wallace. The AR2s and the rest of our weapons can now only be fired by those whose genetic imprints are registered in our systems. A simple measure of control… but one that ensures they never again fall into the wrong hands."

"And if someone tries to use them without being registered?" Breen's question shattered the silence like a hammer striking glass. There was something in his tone, a curiosity laden with something deeper.

The Consul smiled but said nothing. Instead, he extended a hand toward one of the monitors and played a video. The footage depicted a captured rebel in Nova Prospekt, someone not included in the Citadel's genetic records, being forced to hold an elite Overwatch soldier's AR2. The moment his fingers touched the weapon's trigger, a burst of energy surged through his body, causing him to convulse violently before collapsing into a smoking heap. His skin, charred. His eyes, glazed with agony. The electrical current ceased only once he released the weapon.

"Does that answer your question?" said the Consul, his voice imbued with a satisfaction as tangible as the ozone scent that seemed to waft from the screen.

Breen said nothing. There was no need. The answer lay there, glowing in the ashes of a man who had once harbored hopes of overthrowing the regime. And then, the Consul laughed. A low, guttural laugh like the sound of a rusted saw cutting through metal. But it wasn't a laugh of humor. It was the laugh of someone who knew they had won, someone who relished the suffering of those they considered enemies.

The administrator broke the noise of his childhood friend's laughter with a slight nod, his expression returning to neutrality, though his calculating eyes betrayed a flicker of fear. "Well, another potential error has been eliminated. These implementations are necessary," he conceded with cold, analytical precision. "After all, we cannot afford to repeat the mistakes of the past, especially now that we are on the verge of expanding our influence into a new world." His words carried a faint trace of barely veiled disapproval toward Erwin's display of personal enjoyment moments earlier, but he chose not to press the issue further.

For his part, Erwin seemed satisfied with this small rhetorical victory. With a fluid gesture, he manipulated the desk's panels to shift the holographic projections to another set of data: detailed schematics of the new genetic coding system integrated into the weapons and a comparative analysis highlighting the vulnerabilities eradicated under his leadership.

"My dear friend Wallace," he finally said, his voice tempered yet dripping with sarcasm. "The only regret I have is not being able to witness in person how my predecessor writhes under this constant, inescapable deluge of evidence condemning him. But I suppose one cannot have everything."

Having said that, he decided to leave behind the subject of his predecessor's trial, which was already assured to end in a harsh sentence for his betrayal of the Universal Union. Now, the topic of value in the conversation shifted to the state of preparations for the Overwatch troops' counteroffensive into the world beyond the portal.

"In summary, Wallace… Our ground forces will be more than prepared to face the challenge awaiting us beyond the interdimensional threshold. We have left behind the limitations of outdated ballistic technology, and now our soldiers will carry a fragment of the Alliance's true power in their hands."

"Is everything with the plans in order? No inconveniences we need to account for, correct?" Breen asked, his careful tone aiming to confirm every point while attempting to dismiss the fresh images from the earlier videos.

The Consul exhaled softly, his dark eyes flickering with a rare momentary doubt that Breen noticed immediately. "Well... there's a minor detail. I wouldn't exactly call it an inconvenience," Erwin admitted, his voice, typically brimming with certainty, now tinged with an uncharacteristic hesitation.

"Does this detail relate to Overwatch's temporary absence in Falmart?" Breen's query carried a pointed sharpness, an evident blend of intuition and resignation. He deduced the answer before the Consul could confirm it.

Erwin inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the observation with an expression that, for a fleeting moment, betrayed his steadfast composure. "Precisely. As you know, our transhuman soldiers operate under a mental coordination system not unlike a hive."

Breen arched an eyebrow, his tone taking on a firm, analytical edge as he replied, "What exactly do you mean by 'hive'?"

The question seemed to ignite something deeper within the Consul, who straightened in his chair as a faint nostalgic glint crossed his gaze. "The hive mind," he began with deliberate pacing, as if savoring the term, "is the most efficient organizational model in nature. Think of ants..." The word slipped from his lips with unusual softness, almost reverent. "Tiny creatures, yet capable of constructing underground empires rivaling any human creation. Each individual works in unison, guided by a central consciousness. It's a system so perfect that even higher beings like the Vortigaunts, entities capable of transcending conventional spacetime into the unknown levels, adhere to collective systems."

The Consul delved deeper, weaving further examples not limited to Earth but spanning entities across alternate realities: "From Antlions to Alien Controllers under Nihilanth's dominion, all operate similarly to a hive. Even the true military force of the Alliance is structured in such a fashion."

Erwin's voice dropped lower, carrying the weight of an ancient secret. "Our Overwatch AI fulfills that role: the queen of the anthill. It coordinates, directs, and provides purpose to each unit. Without it, soldiers lose some speed, some efficiency. It won't be a critical issue, but they won't be perfect."

"And the Stalkers," he continued with a clinical calmness that bordered on chilling, "our workers. Much like load-bearing ants in a hive, they're responsible for building, repairing, and maintaining. Without the queen, without Overwatch's voice, their already limited efficiency degrades even further. If we need them to construct a base in Falmart, their work might not meet the estimated time without centralized direction."

An oppressive silence followed, dense with unspoken understanding that words could not break. Breen, however, could not suppress a faint gesture of disbelief. "Are you comparing your troops to ants?"

"Why not?" the Consul countered, an almost playful glint in his eyes. "I've admired ants since I was a child. Their organization, their dedication... each one knows its place in the hive. Isn't that, in the end, what we seek in our troops? A perfect system, free from error."

Although not entirely convinced, Breen chose not to prolong the debate. There was something unsettling about the Consul's passion, a near-obsessive devotion that blurred the lines between strategy and fanaticism. Yet, despite his inclination to move past the topic, one more question pressed itself to the forefront of his mind.

"But have you already devised a way to address that imperfection?" Breen inquired in a controlled tone, his gaze fixed on the reflection of the data projected across the screens. His question carried the weight of calculated probing more than genuine confusion, as though he wished to avoid inviting yet another of the Consul's extravagant entomological analogies.

Erwin, however, couldn't resist the flicker of amusement that danced across his eyes, a look Breen found disturbingly familiar from childhood. Back then, the Consul's fascination with ants had been an odd quirk; now, it seemed rooted in every facet of his strategic worldview.

"Naturally," the Consul replied, drumming his fingers against the cold surface of the metallic desk in a rhythm faintly reminiscent of a marching cadence. "Overwatch, our tireless hive queen, has devised a provisional scheme. The most capable elite soldiers, those who excel in precision and leadership, will serve as the hive's leaders."

He leaned forward slightly, a conspiratorial air about him. "These roles will range from lieutenant generals to minor commanders. They'll act like senior ants guiding the workers when the queen is absent. This way, the hive can continue functioning, albeit not with absolute perfection."

Breen nodded slowly, absorbing every word while maintaining his neutral expression. Yet, his subtle sidelong glances betrayed a weariness at the Consul's persistent indulgence in the metaphor. Before he could respond, Erwin released a low, guttural laugh, the kind of sound Breen had long associated with provocation.

"Come now, Wallace," the Consul teased, his tone adopting an almost playful quality that contrasted sharply with the gravity of the topic. "It's not so bad. After all, you're the king of this anthill we call the Citadel."

The statement, though framed as lighthearted banter, resonated in the room with an undertone laden with subtext. Breen, raising an eyebrow, turned his head slowly toward his friend, his lips forming a barely perceptible grimace. "King, you say?"

"Of course," Erwin replied, his gaze alight with mischievous intent. "You're the central figure, the point of reference. While I, as the humble architect of this system, observe and organize the lines of construction and defense, you wear the metaphorical crown. But rest easy, there's no rivalry here. After all, even ants know there's room for both a queen and a king in harmony... if only to maintain order."

Breen exhaled sharply, closing his eyes briefly as if summoning patience from some distant reserve. The metaphor, while irritating, was not without logic. However, the Consul's deliberately provocative tone remained an inescapable constant.

"So, you expect me to accept this... monarchical analogy without objection?" Breen retorted at last, his voice carrying a subtle undercurrent of sarcasm.

Erwin merely shrugged, a smile verging on mocking as he reclined in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. "I'm only stating the obvious. Or would you prefer to be a worker ant, Wallace?"

The exasperation in Breen was palpable, though tempered by the subtle verbal challenge. He had long since learned that the Consul relished testing his limits, wielding humor as both a disarming weapon and a distraction. Instead of responding directly, he chose to redirect the conversation. "Returning to the central point, Erwin, the artillery we're bringing will be sufficient to sweep the enemy from a distance…"

The Earth administrator fixed his steely gaze onto his lifelong friend, the glint of curiosity sharpening in his pupils. Wallace Breen was also silently hoping to avoid discovering whether the Consul could concoct a metaphor for air units. "I won't ask anything about the aerial forces. It's obvious we can't deploy Gunships and Hunter Choppers without establishing the necessary facilities on the other side of the portal."

Erwin tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment, his face hardened by years of military service, lit with a shade of shrewdness. "Precisely. But there's more, isn't there, Wallace?" A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, an expression reflecting their deep camaraderie since childhood. "Otherwise, you'd have easily requested this information with a simple encrypted message."

"You're right," Breen admitted with a resigned sigh, taking a moment to draw a measured breath.

The administrator appeared to marshal his thoughts, carefully calibrating every word he was about to utter.

"In the memory extractions obtained from captured Imperial and demi-human prisoners," Breen began, "there was mention of a kingdom not too distant from the Livia Wa Orientalis mountain range." The mention of this data, familiar to the Consul, seemed to resonate differently when viewed through the cold lens of strategic operations.

The Consul listened, though his facial expression mirrored a parallel narrative: a slightly arched eyebrow, almost a parody of surprise; lips faintly pursed as if withholding a sardonic remark. His eyes, dark and ever-watchful, gleamed with that particular brightness that only surfaced when he teetered on the brink of finding something ironic.

"Yes, I recall," Erwin said, his tone measured but with an underlying edge. The pause that followed was almost theatrical, accompanied by a faint exhale, something sitting between derision and indifference. "That kingdom, Orbis Lunamutatus. Lycans, correct? The Imperials refer to them as Volralden. Although, from what I understand, they're not precisely werewolves as depicted in our legends and horror tales."

The Consul allowed his words to linger in the air for a moment, as if waiting to gauge Breen's reaction. His long, calloused hand made a vague gesture, culminating in a soft rhythm of tapping against the table.

"But tell me, Wallace," he continued, his tone veiled in the thinnest layer of feigned curiosity, "what does that kingdom have to do with our immediate plans? According to the gathered intelligence, their closest city to Livia lies 45 kilometers away. As for their capital... it's even farther, 79 kilometers, if I'm not mistaken. A considerable distance, sufficient to keep them off our radar regarding initial operations."

The military strategist let the sentence hang in the air, crossing his arms as he leaned back slightly in his chair, expectant. Breen, displaying characteristic deliberation, nodded silently. But there was something in his demeanor that betrayed his usual composure: faint unease, a nervousness seeping through the cracks of his carefully controlled mask. It didn't escape the Consul's notice; if there was one thing Erwin excelled at, it was reading people like open books.

"What I mentioned may not seem immediately relevant to our topic, but it's crucial to keep in mind," Breen began, his voice even and almost pedagogical. His assertion was met with a subtle nod from his counterpart, silent permission to continue. "Our scientists have discovered something fascinating about the demi-humans."

Erwin allowed a brief arch of his brow to break the neutrality of his expression. It wasn't a gesture of surprise but rather compelled curiosity, almost as though indulging a role to maintain conversational momentum. Breen, of course, recognized the dance, it was a choreography they had perfected over decades.

"On a genetic level," Breen continued, choosing his words with surgical precision, "the demi-humans are variants of the human species. A sub-species, to be precise. Within this sub-species, we find a variety of human races, the Volralden among them." The mention of the lycans was accompanied by a note of fascination in his tone, as if he were discussing a scientific curiosity rather than anything political or strategic.

The Consul couldn't suppress a faint smirk from gracing his lips. It was a smirk heavy with sarcasm, the kind that made one question whether he was about to unleash a cutting remark or remain silent to amplify its effect.

"I understand this 'discovery' might appear revolutionary, Wallace," he said at last, his voice laced with dry humor. "But let's be honest here, wasn't it obvious from the beginning that these so-called demi-humans were, fundamentally, genetic variants of our species? Come now, even the clumsiest recruit could have deduced that just by looking."

The subsequent pause was brief, almost imperceptible, before Erwin added with slight irony, "Not to mention their inability to reproduce under the suppression field implemented by our benefactors, designed specifically for our species, is virtually definitive confirmation. Or is there something else I should know?"

Breen shook his head faintly, his face darkened, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point in the room as though observing something visible only to him. A barely audible exhale escaped his pursed lips, steeped in a blend of resignation and pent-up frustration.

"Yes, I know," he finally said, his voice low and grave, as though his words carried the weight to sink the silence surrounding them. "That line of reasoning occurred to me as well in the beginning." There was something in his tone, a faint echo of apology, directed not just at his conversation partner but at himself and the choices that had led him to this moment.

Breen's fingers began to drum against the armrest of his chair, a jagged rhythm reflecting the agitation within his thoughts. "But we mustn't forget that the inhabitants of Falmart lack any advanced scientific knowledge. They're trapped, Erwin, still stranded in the jaws of Ancient Rome's era. Their understanding of the world doesn't extend beyond what they can see or touch. Perhaps they don't even understand what it means to share a genome or differentiate between species, sub-species, or race."

The Consul, arms crossed and wearing an inscrutable expression carved by years of strategy and warfare, raised one brow. Breen, however, did not wait for an immediate reply. He knew how Erwin's mind operated, knew he would dissect every word, every nuance, with the precision of a surgeon searching for cracks to exploit. So he pressed on.

"It's akin to the way video games and sci-fi films classify aliens as 'races,'" Breen added, his tone shifting slightly, as though attempting to lighten the density of the topic with a mundane comparison. "When, in actuality, they're entirely different species. With origins so distant from Earth that genetic similarities would barely register. The inhabitants of Falmart have done the same, albeit unknowingly, they've coined terms based purely on appearance, on the external traits they share."

A brief silence settled over the room, broken only by the constant, low hum of the life-support system. Breen interlocked his hands, his gaze adopting that peculiar glint he always carried when approaching something of critical importance.

"That's why," he finally asserted, his tone firmer now, "it was vital for us to conduct our own analysis rather than blindly trust the native nomenclature. And the results... were conclusive." His words struck with precision, sharp as a scalpel. "All those demi-human 'species' share a common origin with us. They are variations of our species, not something entirely separate. The genetic differences, though significant, aren't marked enough to classify them as a new species. They're a human sub-species, Erwin."

For a moment, the Consul sat in silence, a calculated pause that seemed to make the very air in the room feel heavier. His eyes traveled across Breen's face, searching for something, perhaps a flicker of doubt or hesitation. What he found instead was the steady resolve of someone who had done their homework, someone assured in their conclusions.

"Of course, that makes sense," Erwin finally spoke, his tone pragmatic but laced with faint derision, as though all that scientific exposition had left him wholly unimpressed. "But Wallace, was it truly necessary to expend so much time and resources on something that was evident from the start? Let me add another proof besides the suppression field; the engineers tasked with adapting cybernetic implants had no significant issues tailoring them to the demi-humans we recruited. That should've been another glaring clue that we aren't dealing with an entirely distinct species."

Breen simply nodded, the faintest smile curling his lips at his old friend's incisiveness. It had always been something he admired, Erwin's ability to distill complex information to its most basic essence, stripping away any unnecessary ornamentation.

"Fine," the Consul continued, as though dismissing the matter as concluded, though his tone betrayed a faint impatience to return to the central topic. "So that resolves the 'mystery' of the demi-humans' nature. Now, what does this have to do with the Kingdom of Orbis Lunamutatus and its wolfkin inhabitants? Do they pose any potential threat to our invasion plans in Livia Wa Orientalis?"

The question hovered in the air for a moment, like a dagger poised on the edge of a precipice. Breen tilted his head slightly, a gesture that signaled both deliberation and the intent to measure his words carefully.

"The Kingdom of Orbis Lunamutatus," he began, his tone analytical, almost clinical, "according to the memories extracted from the captured general during the invasion, sent all its armed forces to participate in the excursion against City 17. However, they did so under very specific circumstances."

He paused, allowing his words to settle before continuing.

"It was under threat from the Sadera Empire." His eyes narrowed slightly, his voice acquiring a sharper edge as he pronounced the name of the empire responsible for inciting so much chaos. "They imposed an ultimatum: accept participation in the invasion or face a drastic increase in tributes. And if that wasn't enough, they were also made to understand that refusal would result in a direct invasion of their kingdom, with all the consequences that entails."

The tension in the air was palpable, like a wire stretched taut, ready to snap under strain. Breen's fingers drummed once more against the armrest, a gesture that seemed more an unconscious reflex than a deliberate attempt to punctuate his words.

"So no, Erwin. They do not represent a direct threat to us. Rather, they're another victim of imperial oppression. But that doesn't mean we should ignore them completely." His gaze turned toward the Consul, his grey eyes gleaming with the intensity of someone who understood the value of each piece on the chessboard of war. "They could be useful, if we know how to leverage them."

Erwin let out a small huff, his expression shifting into one of contemplation as he processed the information. His dark eyes, always carrying a predatory glint, narrowed slightly as he mulled over the implications.

"Interesting," he finally said, his tone neutral but tinged with genuine interest. "So, if we play our cards right, we might turn these Volralden into a valuable resource rather than an obstacle. But tell me, Wallace, are you suggesting an alliance... or something else?"

"You're not wrong, Erwin," Breen began, tilting his head slightly and allowing a flicker of admiration to pass through his eyes as he realized that the Consul, predictably, had grasped the essence of his plan before he could even detail its nuances. "According to the memories of Secundus Ro Pollio, the imperial general tasked with the invasion, he mentioned that the Volralden kingdom has a remarkable inclination toward peace despite having a past as a race of mercenaries. A rarity in Falmart, where nearly everyone seems to live to conquer or subjugate."

Breen exhaled softly, his hands now resting on the polished metal surface of his desk, his gaze unfocused for a moment, as though weighing the gravity of his next words. "They accept the presence of other demi-human races within their borders. Without prejudice. Without the segregation that defines the Sadera Empire. And that, in itself, is astonishing."

The Consul, hearing this, raised an eyebrow. The gesture was significant. Though Erwin always maintained an air of absolute control and superiority, there were things that, if not surprising him, at least momentarily captured his attention. Volralden, a kingdom of lycans that not only tolerated but embraced racial diversity. In a world like Falmart, this sounded like such a strange anomaly it could almost be considered dangerous for that kingdom. Before he could interrupt or add a comment, Breen continued.

"And there's more," he added as he adopted a straighter posture, almost solemn, as though about to deliver a report of vital importance. "The Volralden possess libraries containing knowledge of the nature of magic." The mention of that word, "magic," seemed to charge the air between them with an intangible weight, something both men perceived though neither openly remarked upon. Breen paused to allow his words to settle before pressing forward.

"Not on the level of Rondel, of course. It doesn't compare to the city the Imperials consider the sanctuary of magical knowledge." His eyes narrowed slightly, his tone adopting an analytical edge. "But it's still a resource that, in the right hands, could transform our understanding and eventual mastery of something that remains a mystery to us."

Erwin leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes locking more fully with those of his old friend. On his face lingered that half-smile, an expression that could be interpreted as admiration, amusement, or perhaps a blend of both.

"Just as I guessed," he said in a tone laden with that characteristic confidence of his, almost as though he didn't need to hear the rest to predict where Breen would steer the thread of the conversation. "You want to establish some sort of… diplomatic dialogue with them for assimilation." It was not a question, it couldn't be. It was a direct assertion, suffused with the kind of certainty only someone like Erwin could convey without seeming arrogant.

Breen nodded slowly, allowing a small smile to cross his features. "Precisely," he replied, his voice firm but tinged with satisfaction at seeing his friend arrive at the same conclusion. "To access that knowledge about magic, to understand it and perhaps integrate it into our technology, we need the Volralden on our side. And a superficial deal won't suffice. We must assimilate them as part of Earth, under our structures and norms."

Erwin let out a light chuckle, a low, almost guttural sound that momentarily fractured the solemn atmosphere of the room. "Of course, Wallace. Always so… methodical." His smile widened, though his tone turned slightly more serious. "But you know as well as I that diplomacy, while effective, only works as long as you keep a finger on the trigger. What do you propose if they aren't willing to cooperate?"

Breen didn't answer immediately. Instead, he allowed the silence to settle between them, his gaze fixed on the data displayed on one of the holographic screens to his right. Finally, he spoke, his tone deliberate, almost clinical. "There are always alternatives, Erwin. But I prefer to explore the path of reason first. If the Volralden are as advanced in terms of tolerance and peace as the reports suggest, I see no reason why they wouldn't be willing to become part of something much larger than themselves."

"And if they're not…"

Breen turned his head to look at Erwin directly, his grey eyes meeting his friend's dark ones. "Then, as you would put it, we move on to Plan B."

The Consul relaxed once more, his smile returning as he nodded. "Ah, Wallace. Always so reasonable. Fine, we'll play your game for now. But make sure the preparations for Plan A are thorough. I'd hate for our first diplomatic venture in Falmart to end with us looking like fools."

Breen said nothing, but the slight inclination of his head was enough to seal the unspoken agreement between the two men. The initial campaign in Falmart was about to take an unexpected turn, and both knew that every decision, every word, and every action would have repercussions felt far beyond the portal's boundaries.

"But I do have a small question," the Consul said, his tone practical and devoid of any delicacy, typical of someone accustomed to swift, effective solutions. "Why not simply take that magical knowledge by stealth?" Erwin's words were laden with pragmatism, making it clear he already preferred this option to any diplomatic negotiation. "We could send infiltration squads to steal or make digital copies of those magical books. With their cloaking devices, no one would notice. We've already proven their effectiveness in the tests."

Breen listened, his expression barely shifting, though his thoughts churned rapidly. He didn't dismiss the validity of Erwin's proposal, even offering a single nod in acknowledgment. But as soon as the military strategist finished outlining his idea, Breen shook his head, a subtle yet firm denial.

"I'm afraid that option isn't viable, Erwin," Breen responded, his tone adopting a hint of superiority, not to belittle but to assert intellectual dominance. "It's true that our infiltration squads are effective, and I don't question their skills, but this situation is… different." He paused, interlocking his fingers over the table as he met the Consul's gaze directly. "The libraries of the Kingdom of Orbis Lunamutatus are sealed with some form of magic that can only be deactivated with the authorization of Volralden royalty, or the very creator of those seals. In other words, your spies would be incapable of entry, even with the best stealth technology in the world."

Erwin's fingers drummed against the desk in a syncopated rhythm as he mulled over Breen's words. The repetitive cadence betrayed his dissatisfaction, even as his expression remained a mask of thoughtful calculation. "And what of our studies into magic?" his tone was clipped, precise, and yet devoid of outright anger. "The mages we've captured, the experiments we've conducted, the recalibration of their psyches, has none of this brought us closer to finding a crack in these so-called seals?"

Breen exhaled, the sound carrying a faint edge of resignation. "Progress has been agonizingly slow," he admitted. "We've barely scratched the surface. Magic, as they describe it, appears to be an energy originating from a higher dimension, possibly tied to the fourth dimension."

The Consul scoffed, his laughter short and sharp, tinged with a weariness that bordered on disdain. "The fourth dimension? This is beginning to sound like something ripped from a Marvel comic, Doctor Strange, perhaps. Then again, considering we already host refugees from a macroverse, I shouldn't be surprised." His words were laced with mockery, though the weight behind them revealed the psychological toll of wrestling with what Breen consistently labeled "mysteries."

"Humanity has faced far more incomprehensible phenomena over the last two decades," Breen countered, his tone now reflecting his own fraying patience. "I understand the exhaustion of confronting the unknown time and time again. But for now, our best course of action is to integrate demi-humans into our fold, offering them a deal far better than what the Sadera Empire could hope to provide."

Erwin unfolded an arm, rubbing his chin as his expression darkened into one of introspection. "Perhaps you're right," he conceded, his voice carrying a monotone edge as though weighing pros and cons in real-time. "Demi-humans possess physical advantages that surpass ours in many respects. If we succeed in assimilating them, we could tip the scales against other species within the Alliance's hierarchy."

Breen's features shifted subtly, satisfaction flickering through his demeanor as he noted how his argument had begun to resonate with his colleague. Before he could respond, however, Erwin added a comment.

"Though don't expect me to embrace demi-humans entirely," the Consul remarked, his tone a blend of disdain and pragmatism. "The Volralden… they're still dogs. They act like dogs. Inferior in mind as they are in essence."

Erwin's unapologetically xenophobic remark didn't catch Breen off guard, though it left a shadow lingering over the conversation. Breen didn't respond directly, tilting his head slightly as if acknowledging the inevitability of the Consul's perspective. He had known this side of Erwin too well, and experience had taught him that challenging it would yield little.

"Now, Wallace," Erwin continued, his tone shifting but retaining its characteristic sharpness, "what exactly do you plan to offer them to convince them to join us peacefully? Because, as you're undoubtedly aware, several Imperials managed to flee back through the portal before their general surrendered to our Overwatch forces. I have no doubt they've already spread rumors of us among the kingdoms of Falmart. To them, we're demons, hellish creatures born from the very underworld itself, a distortion of fear bred from the defense of the city. If we approach them now, with those whispers still fresh, they're likely to retreat into fear and assume a defensive posture."

The Consul's critique didn't end there. He raised a second point of contention. "And let's not forget their state religion centers around the worship of Wareharun, the 'goddess' of nature, who claims dominion over those mountains as sacred territory. Our beachhead will be within those mountains, and I doubt that aligns with the sentiments of a fanatical population, especially considering our plans to extract resources from those forests and ranges, a clear contradiction to their beliefs."

Breen fell silent momentarily, his gaze fixed on the holographic display of data concerning the Volralden and the Kingdom of Orbis Lunamutatus. The hum of the dark energy core deep within the Citadel filled the void left by their conversation, a steady thrum that marked the passage of time as the administrator processed his friend's words. Finally, his voice emerged, more controlled than ever before.

"You're correct, Erwin. Those rumors are indeed an obstacle, but not an insurmountable one." Breen's expression hardened, reflecting the determination of someone who had already considered all the permutations of their next move. "If we play our cards right, we can discredit those tales before they crystallize into irrefutable truth for the demi-humans. But to do so, we'll need more than words, we'll need actions. Something that demonstrates not only our strength but also our willingness to cooperate. Crushing the Empire's defensive forces and offering the Volralden tangible benefits, such as protection from the Empire, should suffice to bring their rulers into our fold willingly rather than by force."

The first obstacle had been addressed, albeit temporarily. Breen now turned his focus to the second issue raised by his childhood friend. "As for the religious aspect… that's a more complicated matter. I don't have a clear solution yet, but rest assured, I'll devise one."

Erwin's gaze fixed upon Breen, his expression remaining stonily unreadable as he weighed the administrator's words. "You'd better have a solid plan, Wallace," he finally spoke, his tone carrying the chilling calm of someone accustomed to enforcing their will by any means necessary. "Because if these dogs decide to bare their teeth, I'll have no qualms about administering a dose of 'rabies vaccine' to put them down."

Breen met Erwin's eyes silently, his face impassive but tinged with an undertone of resignation. The dynamic between the two men was clear: their methods often diverged, but their ends always converged, each complementing the other's ruthlessness with their calculated precision.

"Very well, Erwin," Breen declared at last, his tone serene but weighted with an implicit authority that brooked no argument. "I will proceed to send a diplomatic delegation to the Kingdom of Orbis Lunamutatus within the next forty-eight hours. It will coincide with the completion of the base currently under construction on the other side of the portal." His words fell like stones into a calm lake, sending ripples that promised unseen consequences. "I hope," he added, his voice low and edged with fatigue, "that reason and the benefits we offer them will outweigh their initial reservations."

The Consul smiled, but it was not a gesture of warmth. It was the predatory smile of someone who showed little more than teeth. He didn't say it, but Breen didn't need him to. Both knew what the next step would be if diplomacy failed. Erwin had never been a man of words; his language was steel and fire.

"Otherwise…" Breen left the sentence unfinished. It wasn't necessary. Erwin's eyes glinted with a light that could only be described as eager anticipation. The unspoken understanding between them was clear: diplomacy was a means to an end, and that end was submission. If words failed, there were always other tools to ensure compliance.

The air between them grew heavier with that tacit agreement. No further discussion was needed. Both men knew that the debate had been exhausted and that the stakes were now set. The will of Earth, or rather, the Universal Union, would assert itself over any opposition, whether through the art of manipulation or the brute force of bio-machines and transhuman soldiers.

Breen tilted his head slightly, observing Erwin with the intensity of a surgeon dissecting a failed incision. There was something beneath the surface of his old friend's expression, a subtle undercurrent of skepticism that disrupted the apparent balance of their recent agreement. "Erwin," he began without raising his voice, letting his words hang with measured weight, "I detect a hint of mistrust in my plan. Why? If there's a detail you think I've overlooked, say so. I'll address it."

The Consul reclined in his seat, his fingers tapping against the metallic edge of the desk in a rhythm that sought no melody but instead served as a release for the tension simmering just beneath the surface. "It's not so much distrust in the plan," he replied at last, his tone oscillating between candor and calculation. "It's distrust in you, Wallace. That you might show benevolence toward these… beings. Despite their so-called 'compulsion,' they aided the very people who kidnapped our citizens. Citizens who, by the way, we've yet to locate."

There was no genuine concern in his voice, no empathy for the mentioned civilians. He wielded their plight like a nail to hammer down his reservations, a point of leverage that legitimized his doubts without exposing his true motivations. Breen recognized this immediately; he knew the inner workings of Erwin far too well.

"What makes you think I'd show benevolence toward them?" Breen countered, his tone devoid of anger or challenge. There was no pressure in his voice or posture; it was a question delivered with the surgical precision of someone seeking to expose flaws in an argument.

Erwin regarded him silently for a second longer than usual. Finally, he broke eye contact, releasing a faint scoff before responding. "Proof lies in how you handled Eli Vance," he said, his tone direct but steering clear of mockery. "You had him trapped, and you spent every second trying to convince him to join us. You wasted time extolling the 'grandeur of the Alliance,' its magnificence stretching across dimensions, universes, even higher planes of existence like Xen."

The weight of his words wasn't in their literal meaning but what they implied: that his concern wasn't with the plan itself but with Breen as the pivotal figure orchestrating it. It was more an accusation than a factual statement.

"All that time wasted," Erwin continued, his dark eyes sharpening as they scanned every nuance of Breen's reaction with surgical precision. "You could've extracted the memories directly from his mind or recalibrated him like we do with prisoners to bring him over to our side. Valuable information about localized teleportation technology slipped through our fingers. And in the end, Mossman betrayed you. She used that defective prototype developed at Nova Prospekt to escape with Vance to some unknown corner of the Resistance, destroying part of Nova Prospekt's underground facilities in the process."

Breen's sigh was deep, laden with a weariness that went beyond the physical, it was mental exhaustion as well. His fingers instinctively moved to his forehead, massaging it as he wrestled with memories he'd rather bury under layers of work and political justifications.

"Are we bringing that up again?" he murmured at last, closing his eyes momentarily as though trying to dispel the persistent images of his failure that Erwin had now dragged back into focus. Perhaps he'd been wrong to entrust Erwin with that episode; it had become part of the Consul's rhetorical arsenal.

That defeat had never been forgotten by the Advisors. Those psychic larvae bound to their life-support "thrones" always found ways to pepper their interactions with him with stinging reminders. Their invisible tones were a mix of cynicism and thinly veiled contempt, masquerading as constructive criticism. To some among them, he wasn't even worth addressing; they considered him a useful but replaceable tool.

One incident stood out above the rest, after his third and final chance to prove humanity's utility to the Universal Union, the leader of the Advisors had violently applied telekinesis to Breen, enraged as if disgusted by the decision of his peers to grant him another opportunity. The Advisor delivered an extended monologue about how the Alliance could usher humanity into a new era but warned that one more mistake would result in entropic consequences.

Fortunately for Breen, the other Advisors intervened, stopping their leader from burning his brain out entirely with psychic force. It was not a memory Breen liked to dwell upon, much less share, even with Erwin, who had been summoned to meet him mere minutes after the Advisor's outburst..

"I don't mean to aggravate you with this," the Consul added quickly, oblivious to the storm brewing in Breen's mind. He raised a hand as though attempting to steer the conversation away from the emotional crossfire it was teetering on. "I mention it only because I know how you've spoken of your superiors. If they're already in foul spirits over the current developments, I worry about what drastic measures they might take if something goes wrong again as it did then."

"That won't happen," Breen cut in firmly, and though his tone remained measured, he couldn't entirely mask the frustration and fear directed more at the Advisors than at Erwin. "Completely different contexts. This time, there will be no room for errors or repeated leniency like I showed with Eli."

"I hope so, Wallace," Erwin replied, his cold yet measured tone suggesting he accepted the statement but did not entirely believe it. His gaze, sharp as a blade, stayed fixed on Breen's face as he added without preamble, "Though I still believe your morals hold you back at times. That unsolicited compassion has allowed our enemies to perceive cracks in our armor. And those cracks…" his tone hardened slightly as he stressed the final words, "are opportunities they exploit. Just as Mossman did."

The silence that followed was like the calm before a storm, an interlude rather than an endpoint. Both men recalibrated their positions on a metaphorical chessboard too vast for either to control entirely.

But that silence couldn't last forever; both still had duties to fulfill, particularly the former administrator of Black Mesa. Breen, ever meticulous in his mannerisms, leaned forward slightly in an informal bow toward his old friend. "That will be all for now, Erwin." His voice carried a blend of professionalism and familiarity, a faint echo of simpler times, carefully concealing his deeper feelings about the echoes of the Advisor's anger. Then, almost as if on autopilot, he rose to his feet and smoothed out invisible creases on his brown suit with both hands. It was a small gesture but revealing, indicative of his constant need for control and perfection.

"I must withdraw to prepare one of my daily 'Breencasts,'" he said, taking a step toward the door, though not before letting out a faint scoff. The term still felt alien to him, even after all this time. He knew it was an egotistical nickname, but he also knew it had resonated deeply among the population, becoming something of a personal brand. And if Breen knew anything, it was how to exploit a brand. He preferred steering the conversation toward something softer, less likely to involve Earth's actual power structure.

"Since revealing the portal's existence," he continued as he walked slowly toward the exit, his words flowing as though part of a well-rehearsed monologue, "and since announcing our commitment to bringing back the citizens kidnapped by the Imperial invaders, our public image has improved dramatically."

Erwin watched Breen with an expression that might have been interpreted as boredom, but his dark eyes betrayed him. He absorbed every word with intent focus, dissecting the strategic implications behind his friend's statements. Breen, as always, had managed to turn disaster into opportunity.

"The assistance our soldiers have provided to civilians uninvolved in the uprising," Breen added in a more measured tone, as though addressing an unseen audience, "has also bolstered our narrative. Greater support means fewer individuals willing to join the Resistance." The administrator paused, turning his head slightly to look directly at Erwin, as though anticipating some form of acknowledgment.

The Consul says nothing. He merely nods slowly, his fingers drumming a hypnotic rhythm on the desk's surface. The conversation could have ended there, but just as Breen reaches the door, a sound splits the lingering tension. It starts low, a chuckle, rising and rolling into laughter that fills the room. Breen halts mid-step, his brow furrowing as he pivots on his heel, his grey eyes narrowing. Erwin's laughter is rare, but laughter like this? Uncharacteristically loud and almost genuine.

"'Breencast!'" Erwin exclaims between bouts of mirth, lightly thumping a closed fist against the desk in a futile attempt to steady himself. "I still can't believe you call your announcements that. Couldn't you have thought of something better?" The mocking tone is evident, but it lacks venom. It's fraternal teasing, an echo of the years they'd shared as friends.

Breen scowls but can't suppress the subtle upward tilt of his lips. "Oh, come now, Erwin," he retorts, a mix of faux indignation and restrained amusement in his voice. "It's an excellent name for humanity's savior, don't you think?"

His grin widens as he speaks, his words dripping with that unmistakable ego that, for better or worse, made him highly effective in his role. "Not just anyone can decipher the language of multiversal conquerors," he continues loftily. "Much less convince them to grant us a chance at survival, along with the possibility of ascension within their multiversal hierarchy."

Erwin, reclining back in his chair and still wearing a broad smirk, shakes his head. "A fitting name for an egomaniac, without question," he says mockingly, his words echoing around the stark room. "Ahhh, I haven't laughed like this in years, Wallace."

The atmosphere in the office lightens as if a weight had been momentarily lifted. Breen, though still slightly exasperated, also seems to loosen, his carefully constructed egotistical façade hiding a far more complex inner turmoil, a turmoil born of past regrets and the haunting memory of that multiversal entity with eyes radiant as twin suns or cosmic nebulae, depending on one's perception.

Continuing to wear the mask of the egocentric administrator who revels in his privileged position within this planetary dictatorship, a position imposed by an empire operating beyond the boundaries of human comprehension, Breen projects an image of grandeur. Citizens, ignorant of the true structure of power, believe him the one in command of Earth, unaware that he is merely another puppet in a grander game. He works within his constraints, striving to fulfill the terms of a deal that brought humanity to this precipice. Yet he remains acutely aware of the disdain and hatred directed at him by his species. And deservedly so.

Breen shakes his head, the faint glimmer in his eyes betraying a flicker of fraternal fondness. "Ah, Erwin…" he mutters with a soft chuckle.

The metallic hiss of the door's hermetic seal being released slices through the room's solemnity. But Erwin isn't ready to let Breen go just yet. Mid-step toward the exit, with his words still hanging in the air like smoke, Breen freezes as Erwin's voice cuts sharply through the silence.

"Wait, Wallace!" It cracks like a whip, imbued with a gravity that forces Breen to stop.

Turning slowly on his heel, Breen meets Erwin's gaze with the composed yet analytical stare of someone both curious and cautious. "What is it, Erwin?" His voice carries a measured calm, laced with a subtle note of wariness. Breen knows his friend well, too well. That spark in Erwin's dark eyes, that inscrutable glint, always heralded something deeper beneath the surface, rarely something uncomplicated.

Erwin adopts a more relaxed posture, reclining in his ergonomic chair and interlacing his fingers over his abdomen. The subdued light catches on his bald head, accentuating its sheen and casting stark contrasts against the shadowed contours of his face. His lips curl into a restrained smile, a facade masking whatever machinations churned within.

"I wanted to ask you something," he begins, his tone deliberately measured, each syllable drawn out to maintain suspense. "After the diplomatic mission, regardless of its outcome, will I have absolute freedom to deploy and command our forces as I see fit in this new world?"

His words land with the subtlety of a hammer, the weight of the question pressing down on the room. It isn't merely a query; it's a veiled declaration, tinged with malice and thinly veiled under a pretense of formality.

Breen doesn't respond immediately. His mind shifts gears swiftly, working through the implications of Erwin's request. He knows his friend too well, that unsettling blend of military pragmatism and barely restrained psychopathy. Erwin's effectiveness was precisely why Breen kept close watch on him. He could execute strategies with chilling efficiency, but his unpredictable streak made him a constant variable in any equation.

Finally, Breen speaks, his voice measured as always but carrying an edge that echoes the seriousness of the situation. "That's… a difficult question," he admits, his grey eyes locked onto Erwin's dark ones, probing for hidden motives. "But I would say yes. You will have complete autonomy to deploy the army in Falmart, provided the targets exclude key magical zones like the city of Rondel. In those cases, diplomacy must take precedence."

Erwin nods slowly, his smile widening ever so slightly. Though he maintains a professional demeanor on the surface, Breen can see through it. That glint in Erwin's eyes is unmistakable, something feverish, as if he's already envisioning how he might exercise this newfound freedom.

"Thank you, Wallace," Erwin replies, his voice low and composed but with an undercurrent that barely conceals the psychotic joy simmering beneath. "That's all I needed to know. Although," he adds after a brief pause, his tone turning almost playful, "I did wonder when I might finally meet your superiors. But I suppose time will tell, won't it?"

Breen acknowledges the comment with a curt nod, already shifting toward the door once more. "Very well. In that case, I'll take my leave now, Erwin." He pauses briefly before adding, almost as an afterthought but with deliberate weight in his tone, "And when that time does come, do me a favor, lighten the reports for me. I neither need nor want to know about the atrocities you're likely to commit."

The administrator doesn't smile; he doesn't even smirk. He simply nods with a neutral expression before exiting the office, the door sealing shut behind him with a resounding finality.

The silence thickens as Breen's footsteps fade into the distance, leading him away from this sector of the Citadel toward his office at its apex. The mechanical whisper of the ventilation system is the Consul's sole companion now, the cold air brushing against the bare skin of his scalp. Alone, Erwin's dark, penetrating eyes survey the room before closing momentarily, as if savoring a private thought, a thought too forbidden even for the most flexible moral compass.

A smile creeps across his lips, not a warm smile nor one born of genuine joy. It is crooked, predatory, charged with malice born not just of his nature but from years of suppression. His fingers resume their rhythmic tapping on the armrest of his chair, slow at first, then quickening as though keeping time with the tempo of some dark symphony unfolding in his mind. Finally, a single word escapes him, a venomous whisper dripping with anticipation.

"Perfect…" It spills from his lips like a poison, the gravity of his voice resonating in the solitude around him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he feels the reins firmly in his grip, unbound by ethical constraints, legal oversight, or even the vestiges of humanity's fragile ideals.

Erwin chuckles softly, a low, guttural sound, as he leans forward, planting both elbows on the desk. "Finally," he murmurs under his breath, as though sharing a secret with the shadows that enshroud him. "I'll truly be able to enact my own warfare manual. No rules. No limits. None of those damned UN laws tying my hands."

The mere mention of the UN elicits another bitter chuckle, a dry, acerbic sound that reverberates within the room. That organization, with its lofty ideals of justice and humanity, had been a constant thorn in his side throughout his tenure as one of the leaders of the U.S. military. But now? The UN lay in ruins following the Seven Hour War. With Breen granting near-unrestricted autonomy, Erwin finally feels fully in his element.

His mind begins to weave scenarios, each one more macabre than the last. Villages ablaze under white phosphorus rain. Mutilated bodies scattered like discarded toys across battlefields. The imagery dances in his mind like a grotesque theater performance, each scene more intoxicating than the last.

"I wonder how white phosphorus will look against Falmart's untouched skies, and see its primitive inhabitants, deal with the monsters of Xen" he muses aloud, his voice tinged with dry amusement. The thought excites him, almost like a child anticipating an unopened birthday gift. But this gift isn't for him, it's for the world on the other side of that portal. A virgin canvas upon which Erwin plans to paint using the darkest hues of his psyche.

He reclines in his chair, his hands lacing behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling, as though envisioning his future unraveling before his eyes. There is a glint in his gaze, a spark of something teetering on the edge of madness, though far too contained, too calculated, to be dismissed as mere insanity.

"Diplomacy may be the first step," he murmurs softly, his words meant only for his own ears. "But when it fails, and it will fail in due time, that's when I'll truly shine." His smile broadens, exposing teeth so impeccably aligned that they stand in stark contrast to the darkness brewing within his thoughts.

For Erwin, Falmart is not merely a new territory to conquer. It's an opportunity to show the universe, or more accurately, the multiverse, what human power really means when unshackled from the foolish constraints of morality. And he, as the architect of this vision, stands ready to unleash all that he has.

In his mind, he can already hear the screams. He can already smell the searing metal intermingled with fresh blood. He can already see the flags of Earth rippling against a backdrop of death, standing atop fields of corpses while Xen's invasive flora consumes the natural greenery of this untouched world. And for the first time in what feels like eternity, Erwin feels truly alive.

His laughter echoes once more within the empty office, a sound that tangles itself within the walls like a spectral presence before fading into stillness. Yet within him, that laughter burns on like an unquenchable flame, fueled by the promise of what lies ahead.

---

Author's Final Note: Congratulations if you managed to get through this 26,000 word chapter! That's not even counting the author's notes and the section where I respond to comments. Now, let's wrap things up with some explanations and additional details.

The Consul's Personality: As you might have picked up in this chapter, the Consul, whose real name is Erwin, is a consummate psychopath and sociopath. Additionally, he's completely deranged and practically devoid of empathy. His obsession with sending Xen's flora and fauna to Falmart reflects his total disregard for consequences, considering that those same species have already wreaked havoc on Earth in every conceivable way. Taking inspiration from the state of Earth in Half-Life 2's beta, I developed the Consul with a personality far more disturbing and cruel than Breen's. As the story progresses, Falmart will eventually become what I call "Beta Earth," a grim reflection of what happens in the alternate canon.

The Alliance's Total Territory: As you readers already know, the Alliance is a multiversal and multidimensional empire. However, there's something particularly interesting worth highlighting: during his attempt to persuade Eli, Breen mentions existential planes similar or identical to Xen as examples of the Alliance's reach. This implies that the Alliance also extends into macroversal planes like Xen. What's striking is that Eli doesn't refute these claims. Instead, his only response is to denounce the inherent evil of the Alliance, which suggests that Breen's statements might actually be true.

Behavior of Overwatch Troops: As I clarified in the chapter, Overwatch garrison troops won't be benevolent like the JSDF. Instead, their approach will be to offer assimilation only to highly strategic or significant locations. In other words, they'll be true monsters in Falmart, living up to their nickname as "infernal hosts." However, they won't act recklessly or without purpose; their actions will be strategically calculated at all times.

HL2 Beta Troops in the Fic: Due to the lack of detailed descriptions in wikis and other sources regarding the appearances of the beta troops I included, such as Alien Assassins (aka Shadowstalkers), Combine Assassins, Combine Super Soldiers (renamed S.W.E.E.P.E.R.), and Cremators, I had to rely on their visual representations to build their profiles. Personally, I envision Alien Assassins as humanoids with insectoid features. It's worth noting that more beta troops will be introduced later; I have plans to portray the Combine Guard as a semi-divine figure.

Well, that's all for now. See you in the next translated chapter, which will finally cover the arrival of Earth's garrison troops in Falmart. There will be a surprise waiting for the rebels, courtesy of Breen, in the "Breencast" that officially announces the invasion. I'll also delve deeper into the Lovecraftian horror elements inherent to Half-Life.