The whispers grew louder, as if the ancient trees themselves recognized that something terrible was about to be unleashed within their domain.

And in the distance, Major Carrow's mecha units continued their methodical search, unaware that they were about to stumble into a conflict that would make their planetary war experience seem tame by comparison.

Three forces converging: Earth's military might, the Nue'roka's desire for vengeance, and the Berserk Lord's protective fury.

Lamorg raised his hand, signaling his warriors to halt.

Through the dense foliage ahead, something moved—something that made sounds utterly foreign to this world.

Mechanical grinding, hydraulic hissing, and the heavy thuds of footsteps that shook the ground with each impact.

"What in the ancestors' names is that?" one of his warriors whispered, hand moving instinctively to his blade.

They crept forward carefully, maintaining their captives' silence with warning gestures, until they could see the clearing ahead. What they saw made even the experienced Nue'roka warriors pause in shock.

The mecha units stood like metal giants, their adaptive camouflage flickering as their systems attempted to match the forest environment. Each one bristled with weapons that the elves didn't recognize but instinctively understood as dangerous. And moving between them, humans in strange armor, carrying devices that glowed with lights that had nothing to do with magic.

"Terraspers," Lamorg breathed, using the clan term for humans from Earth.

"But not traders or refugees. These are soldiers. Warriors."

One of his senior warriors—an elder named Thask who'd served Lamorg's father for three centuries—moved beside him, his amber eyes calculating.

"Young patriarch, we should withdraw. Those machines... I've heard reports from the eastern territories. The terraspers have been deploying them near the breaches. They're weapons of war, capable of destroying entire battalions."

"But they've invaded our territory," another warrior protested.

"They have no right to be here. We should—"

"We should leave," Lamorg interrupted, but there was uncertainty in his voice. His honor demanded confrontation, but his tactical training recognized a threat beyond their capacity to handle.

Before he could give the order to withdraw, one of the mecha units' head swiveled in their direction. Sensors they couldn't see detected heat signatures, movement patterns, and the electromagnetic signatures that all living beings generated.

"Contact!!"

A voice boomed from the mecha's external speakers, the words in English but the meaning clear enough.

"Multiple hostiles, bearing two-seven-three, distance approximately one hundred meters. Pattern suggests intelligent positioning. Possible indigenous military force."

Major Carrow's voice crackled over the comm network.

"Visual confirmation. Do not engage unless fired upon. Attempt communication first—we're not here to start a war with the locals."

But the Nue'roka warriors, hearing the mechanical voice and seeing the mecha units turning to face them, made their own assumptions. Several drew their bows, arrows already nocked, while others raised their hands to channel combat magic.

"Wait—" Lamorg began, but it was too late.

One warrior, perhaps more nervous than the others, released his arrow.

It flew true, striking one of the mecha units directly in what would have been the chest on a living target. The arrow shattered against the armor plating without leaving so much as a scratch.

"Hostile action confirmed," the pilot of that mecha reported.

"Returning fire."

What followed was less a battle and more a systematic demonstration of why bringing medieval-level technology against modern military hardware was suicide.

The mecha units opened fire with their railguns—kinetic weapons that accelerated projectiles to hypersonic velocities. Where the rounds hit, trees exploded into splinters, stone shattered into fragments, and any elven warrior caught in the impact zone simply ceased to exist in any recognizable form.

The Nue'roka responded with their own abilities. They were warriors of an ancient clan, trained in combat techniques refined over millennia. They channeled elemental magic, creating barriers of force that should have stopped any conventional attack. They moved with supernatural speed, dodging between the massive mechanical attackers.

It bought them seconds.

Nothing more.

A mecha pilot deployed a plasma cannon, superheated gas contained by magnetic fields and projected in a coherent beam. Where it touched, everything burned—flesh, wood, stone, the very air igniting into brief conflagrations that left only ash.

One warrior managed to close the distance, his blade striking a mecha's leg joint with enough force to shear through normal metal. The enchanted blade bit into the armor, penetrating perhaps an inch before the adaptive plating hardened in response, trapping the weapon.

Before the warrior could react, the mecha's pilot activated the close-combat systems—a blade extended from the unit's forearm and swept horizontally, bisecting the elf at the waist.

The battle lasted four minutes.

When it was over, twelve Nue'roka warriors lay dead or dying, their bodies scattered across a clearing that had been transformed into a slaughterhouse.

The mecha units had taken damage—scratches on armor, one unit's sensor array partially destroyed by a lucky magic strike—but nothing that impaired combat effectiveness.

The survivors, including Lamorg, were surrounded, disarmed, and forced to their knees by mechanical giants that could crush them without effort.

Major Carrow approached on foot, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the carnage. His eyes passed over the elven warriors with the cold assessment of someone cataloging enemy combatants, then settled on the bound figures that had been in their custody.

Swana, seven feet of brown-skinned elven warrior, injured and poisoned but maintaining a defiant posture despite being bound and surrounded.

And Scarlett, human, Earth-born, terrified but alive.

"You," Carrow said, pointing at Scarlett.

"You're from Earth. What are you doing here? Who are these... people?"

The gag was removed from Scarlett's mouth, and she gasped in air before speaking rapidly.

"I'm Scarlett Moorne. I came here with someone I know. These elves kidnapped me and another woman. They were going to use us as bait to—"

"Silence!"

Lamorg snarled, his amber eyes blazing despite his position on his knees.

"You have no right to—"

A mecha pilot casually backhanded the young patriarch with the machine's manipulator arm, sending him sprawling across the ground, blood streaming from his split lip.

"The human is speaking. You will remain silent."

Carrow crouched down to Scarlett's eye level. "You said you came through with someone. Who? Where are they?"

"His name is Jorghan. He's—he's somewhere in this forest. He was with our group when we were attacked. We got separated, and these... these elves captured us."

She gestured at Swana. "She's his cousin. She's injured and poisoned. She needs medical attention."

"We're not a humanitarian organization," Carrow said flatly.

"Secure all prisoners. The elves are hostile combatants—treat them as such. The human and the injured... exotic are to be transported back to base for interrogation."

"You can't do this," Lamorg spat blood from his mouth.

"This is sovereign territory of the red elf clans. You have no authority here."

"We have the authority that comes from superior firepower," Carrow replied without emotion. "This forest sits near our base, so it is ours. As of right now, this area is under IPMF jurisdiction."

He turned to the lieutenant.

"Get them loaded into the transport. I want full interrogations running within the hour. These... elves might know something about the ship disappearance."

"And check the girl with people we are looking for."

The prisoners were hauled to their feet, the elves bound with restraints that incorporated electrical components designed to deliver incapacitating shocks if they attempted to struggle. Swana was carried by four soldiers who handled her with surprising care given the circumstances, though their weapons never wavered from ready positions.

As they moved back toward the landing zone, none of them noticed the single warrior who'd managed to escape during the chaos—a young Nue'roka scout named Kelris who'd been on the perimeter when the battle began.

He ran through the forest with desperate speed, heading in the direction where Lamorg had indicated their true enemy would be searching.

He had to find Jorghan Sol'vur.

Had to warn him that his cousin and the human had been taken by the terraspers, that the Nue'roka's plan for vengeance had been disrupted by something far more dangerous than clan politics.

Behind him, the forest slowly began to recover from the violence, but the wounds would remain. The scent of burned flesh and plasma discharge would linger for days.

-

Four Miles East—Imperial Garrison

Jorghan moved through the forest with blood magic extended like searching fingers, following the faint traces of Swana's life signature.

It was growing weaker—either from distance or from her condition deteriorating, he couldn't tell which. Behind him came Sik'ra, with Sarhita close at his side, both of them grim-faced and battle-ready.

Then Jorghan stopped so abruptly that Sik'ra almost collided with him.

"What is it?" his cousin asked, then followed Jorghan's gaze and froze.

Through the trees ahead, partially concealed but unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for, sat a mobile garrison. Not a permanent structure but a modular deployment—prefabricated buildings that could be assembled and disassembled quickly, designed for military forces operating in hostile or remote territory.

And on every visible surface, painted in colors that marked official authority, was the symbol that made Jorghan's blood run cold.

The Imperial sigil.

The hourglass wrapped in chains represents the Empire's philosophy of controlling time itself through dominance and order.

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