The thunder of marching boots echoed through the desolate streets as Budo led his forces toward the looming silhouette of Aria's mansion. The structure stood defiantly atop a hill, its darkened windows staring down at them like hollow, unblinking eyes. To the general and his soldiers, it was a symbol of rebel occupation—one that would be burned to the ground by day's end.
The Imperial army, hardened warriors clad in polished armor, advanced in disciplined ranks. Their banners snapped in the wind, and their weapons gleamed under the pale moonlight. To them, this was just another mission, another stronghold to reclaim for the Empire. They had crushed countless enemies before, and this night would be no different. With Budo at the helm, victory was all but assured.
Yet, as they drew closer, an unsettling silence stretched over the battlefield. The usual signs of an impending skirmish—the shifting shadows of defenders, the anxious whispers of watchmen—were absent. It was as though the rebels had abandoned the mansion entirely. Some of the younger soldiers began to relax, thinking the enemy had fled. Budo, however, knew better. His instincts screamed at him that something was wrong.
Then the world erupted in chaos.
The first shot rang out like a crack of thunder, shattering the illusion of calm. A soldier in the front ranks jerked violently before crumpling to the ground, his chest torn open by an unseen force. Blood pooled beneath his still body, steaming in the cold night air.
Before anyone could process what had happened, another fell. Then another. And another. In the span of mere seconds, the march of the Imperial forces dissolved into frenzied disorder. The sharp clatter of gunfire filled the air, drowning out the cries of the wounded.
From within the mansion's perimeter, automated turrets sprang to life, their barrels glowing red-hot as they rained destruction upon the Imperial ranks. They moved with terrifying precision, tracking their targets with an eerie mechanical efficiency. Every attempt to push forward was met with an unrelenting hailstorm of bullets. Men screamed as they were gunned down, their armor proving useless against the sheer firepower of the sentries. The very ground became a battlefield of smoke, blood, and shredded bodies.
The officer beside Budo barked orders, desperately trying to regain control of the situation. "Shields up! Fall back! Find cover!"
It was too late. Those at the front had no chance to retreat; the relentless barrage had cut off their escape. Some tried to crawl back, only to be cut down before making it more than a few feet. Others attempted to rush the mansion gates, hoping to overwhelm the defenses with sheer numbers, but the sentries adjusted their aim, mowing them down like grass beneath a scythe.
Budo's sharp eyes darted across the battlefield, assessing the carnage unfolding before him. This was no ordinary defense—this was something else entirely. He had faced countless foes before, some wielding great power, others brilliant minds, but this? This was different. This was the work of a genius who fought not with brute strength, but with machines and strategy.
"Fall back! Regroup at the second line!" Budo's sharp command rang out over the battlefield, cutting through the chaos.
But the order barely mattered. The Imperial troops were already in disarray, scrambling for cover as the air filled with the relentless chatter of gunfire. The once-proud front line was now a graveyard, bodies littering the blood-stained earth, steam rising from the fresh corpses. Those who remained upright had abandoned their formation, desperately trying to find safety amid the ever-watching gaze of the sentry guns.
But there was no safety here.
The mansion's defenses adapted. As if alive, the network of automated turrets swiveled with mechanical precision, tracking movement faster than the human eye could follow. Every blind spot was covered, every angle accounted for. Any attempt to break through was met with overwhelming force, and those who managed to evade the turrets soon found themselves facing another horror entirely.
Hidden within the battlefield's wreckage, crimson-gloved hands reached out from the shadows. The unfortunate soldiers who thought they had found refuge suddenly found blades pressed against their throats. One by one, Imperial troops vanished with muffled screams, their bodies left crumpled in the dirt. The Spy's traps had been set well in advance, and now they reaped their harvest. Those who managed to avoid his traps found themselves being picked off by cloaked operatives, unseen until it was far too late.
On the other side of the chaos, those attempting to flank the mansion met an entirely different kind of resistance. The RED soldiers—empowered by Dispensers humming with unnatural energy—stood firm, cutting down anyone who dared advance. A wounded Imperial captain, staggering from cover, watched in horror as a mangled soldier was thrown from the shadows—his body still smoldering from the arcane energy of one of the Engineer's enhanced weapons. Even the wounded among the REDs refused to fall, their bodies rapidly regenerating wounds thanks to the Medics stationed at key defensive points.
Explosions rocked the battlefield as sticky bombs detonated in a carefully orchestrated pattern, wiping out entire squads in seconds. A handful of Imperial soldiers made a desperate charge, hoping to break through the death trap, only to be met by an oversized Russian clad in steel-reinforced armor, wielding a minigun that roared like a dragon. Heavy's laughter bellowed over the chaos as he mowed them down without mercy.
And Engineer himself? He was everywhere. One moment, he stood on a rooftop, directing the movements of his machines with precise hand gestures. The next, a portal shimmered beside him, and he stepped through, vanishing from sight, only to reappear in the heart of the stronghold, making rapid modifications to a damaged turret. The Shambala device embedded in his arm pulsed, twisting reality itself to his whim, allowing him to shift effortlessly between the battlefield and his headquarters.
The defenses were not just static placements; they were evolving, adapting in real-time as Engineer continued to upgrade his network. He worked with a calm efficiency, repairing what little damage the Empire's forces had managed to inflict, adding new countermeasures in response to every attempt at breaking through. The mansion had become a living fortress, and Engineer its unshakable guardian.
A group of Imperial elites, armed with specialized armor and reinforced shields, made an attempt to breach the defenses. Engineer spotted them instantly, his goggles flashing. With a flick of his wrist, he activated a second wave of sentries—mini-turrets hidden beneath the battlefield—popping up like steel fangs. The elites barely had time to react before the whirring barrels locked onto them, cutting through their armor like paper.
This wasn't just war.
This was slaughter.
Budo stood amidst the carnage, his jaw clenched as he surveyed the battlefield. His once-proud army was being cut down like wheat before the scythe, their armor and training meaningless against the overwhelming firepower of the REDs' defenses. Sentry turrets continued their merciless assault, the air thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and charred flesh. The cries of the dying echoed all around him, and for the first time in years, Budo felt something he had long forgotten.
Frustration.
He had expected a battle of warriors, of strength and skill. Instead, he was watching his soldiers be slaughtered by soulless machines, by cowards who hid behind mechanical walls. This was not how war was meant to be fought. This was not honorable combat. He could see the despair creeping into the eyes of his men, the hesitation in their movements. Their courage, once steadfast, was now faltering under the relentless barrage of mechanized death.
"Is this the future of warfare?" Budo thought bitterly. "No skill, no strength—just machines doing the work of men? Has the battlefield become a place where warriors are replaced by cold steel and cowardice? If this is what war has become, then I shall burn it all away."
His grip tightened around the hilt of his Teigu, Adramelech. If his men could not breach these defenses, then he would do it himself. He would not stand idly by as the honor of the Empire was tarnished by these wretched cowards. These machines, these unnatural contraptions, had turned what should have been a grand clash of warriors into a slaughterhouse where honor held no meaning. Budo was not just furious—he was disgusted.
He raised his arms to the sky, and the very heavens seemed to tremble at his command. Dark clouds gathered with unnatural speed, rolling in like an omen of destruction. The battlefield was suddenly cast in shadow, the only light coming from the flashes of energy crackling around his gauntlets. A deafening roar split the air as the first bolt of lightning struck, searing through the battlefield with the fury of a god's wrath.
The turrets, once indomitable, sparked and sputtered as the surge of energy overloaded them. Circuits burned out, metal warped from the heat, and the once-unyielding defensive line began to falter. The scent of burning metal and ozone filled the air as electrical discharges crackled like a storm given form. A second bolt crashed down, then a third, each one carrying the full force of Budo's rage. The very ground trembled beneath his power as his lightning storm reached its crescendo. Soldiers dove for cover, abandoning their weapons, their cries of fear barely audible over the relentless crackling of his wrath.
Meanwhile, Engineer watched from a hidden vantage point, his brow furrowed as he calculated the damage. The sentries had held their own for longer than expected, but even they could not withstand such an overwhelming force forever. Still, he had anticipated this. It was a gamble, but that's what war was—a game of pieces moving in calculated patterns, and right now, Budo was making his biggest move yet.
"He's angry, all right. Fella's got the power, but power don't mean much without control. A storm's only as strong as the one directing it, and he's playing right into our hands," Engineer thought to himself, adjusting the dials on his wrist-mounted device. "Ain't no way we're stickin' around to get roasted by a living lightning rod, but he don't need to know that yet."
Budo roared into the storm, his voice carrying over the battlefield. "You cannot hide behind your machines forever! Come out and fight like warriors, if you have the courage!"
Then, with one final surge of energy, Budo unleashed his might upon the mansion itself.
The once-grand estate, which had stood defiant against countless storms, could not withstand the wrath of a man who commanded the sky. Lightning arced through its structure, turning walls to rubble and setting the remains ablaze. The great columns that once held the structure aloft crumbled like sand beneath the might of the storm. With a thunderous crack, Aria's mansion collapsed in on itself, sending a shockwave of dust and debris outward. The night was momentarily illuminated as fire raged within the wreckage, consuming what little remained. What had once been a fortress was now nothing more than smoldering ruin, a testament to the sheer destructive force of Adramelech.
Budo exhaled, surveying the devastation. He had done it. The REDs' stronghold had fallen. Victory was his.
And yet, something was wrong.
Through the haze of smoke and destruction, he saw no bodies. No broken corpses of his enemies, no signs of Engineer or his allies. Just the wreckage of their former battleground. The expected cries of anguish, the final gasps of the defeated—there were none. Only silence.
Budo's eyes narrowed.
A shimmering distortion rippled in the air where the REDs' forces had once stood. Then, with a hum of energy, the remnants of their forces vanished entirely. Engineer had not underestimated him. He had expected this.
From the remains of the battlefield, Engineer reappeared briefly atop a crumbling rooftop, his signature goggles glinting in the storm's fading light. He adjusted his gloves, his expression unreadable as he observed Budo's handiwork. There was no panic in his posture, no fear. Only calculation.
"Well now, that was a mighty fine display of power," Engineer mused to himself, tilting his head as he observed the battlefield. "But power without control? That's just destruction. I ain't in the business of winnin' battles through brute force—I play the long game. And you, big guy, just made your move. Now it's my turn."
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he activated the Shambala device embedded in his arm. A swirling portal formed beside him, energy rippling outward like the surface of disturbed water. The moment before he stepped through, he tilted his head, almost in amusement, as if silently acknowledging Budo's display of power. Then, with a single step, he disappeared into the abyss, shifting between strongholds with practiced ease.
The battle was far from over. The REDs had been forced to retreat, but they were not defeated.
Budo stood amidst the wreckage, his breath slow and measured, his muscles still tense with residual energy. The sky above him was still dark with storm clouds, though the battle had long ended. The once-proud Imperial force that had marched upon this outpost with confidence and purpose now lay in shambles. The ground was littered with the bodies of his soldiers, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh, melted metal, and scorched earth. The symphony of war had faded, leaving behind only the mournful cries of the wounded and the crackling remains of his destructive wrath.
He had destroyed the REDs' stronghold. Aria's mansion was no more than smoldering rubble, its grand halls now buried beneath the weight of his unrelenting power. And yet, as he surveyed the battlefield, a bitter taste filled his mouth. He had struck with all his might, yet the only thing he had succeeded in was proving just how woefully unprepared he had been for this war. The Empire's might had been met with something far more terrifying than sheer strength: ingenuity.
This was no victory.
What had he truly won? The majority of his forces had been annihilated, their elite training and discipline rendered meaningless in the face of the REDs' monstrous machines. Those who survived were not celebrating; they were limping, clutching wounds, supporting one another with vacant eyes, the fire of their once-proud spirits doused. His warriors—men who had pledged their lives to the Empire—had been reduced to shadows of themselves. There were no triumphant cheers, no songs of conquest, only the muted shuffling of feet as the remnants of his army clung to their battered pride.
Budo exhaled sharply, his hands clenching into fists. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He had thought sheer might would be enough. That he, the Empire's greatest warrior, wielding the heavens themselves, could storm through whatever defenses these mercenaries threw at him. And for a time, he believed he had succeeded. The mansion was gone. The REDs had retreated. But the cost was too high.
He turned his gaze toward the ruins of the battlefield. Scorched craters marked the land where his lightning had struck. Twisted metal, the remnants of the Engineer's infernal machines, still smoldered in the distance. Bodies of his best warriors lay strewn across the wreckage, their armor charred, their weapons shattered. The battlefield, once a symbol of Imperial dominance, was now a graveyard.
And yet, despite all of this destruction, he knew the truth. The REDs had planned for this outcome. They had known that brute force alone would not be enough to secure victory. That was why they had disappeared before his final blow. Why they had abandoned the mansion at the last second. Why they had allowed him to think, even for a fleeting moment, that he had gained the upper hand.
They had anticipated his attack, adapted to it, and chosen survival over confrontation. And in doing so, they had left him with nothing but ashes.
A hollow victory.
Budo closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. He would not make the same mistake again. The REDs were unlike any enemy he had ever faced. Their technology, their tactics—this was not a battle of strength alone. No amount of brute force would overcome an opponent that refused to fight by the rules of traditional warfare.
The weight of realization settled on him like a shroud. The Empire had trained him to be a warrior, a master of combat, an immovable wall against all who opposed them. But this war demanded more than just warriors. It required something far deadlier.
He could not rely solely on overwhelming power. He needed a strategy. He needed to understand his enemy.
"Retreat," he commanded, his voice heavy with reluctant finality.
The surviving soldiers looked up at him, some in shock, others in quiet relief. Without hesitation, they began their withdrawal, carrying their wounded, leaving behind the battlefield that had claimed so many of their comrades. The banners of the Empire, once raised high in defiance, now dragged along the dirt, tattered and bloodstained.