Far above the earth, in a citadel without nation or name, four shadows convened once more.
The steppe burned softly in the projection before them, its golden grasses now scarred with streaks of black — the afterimage of a precise strike.
Zhongyan forces had descended like ghosts in the dark. Firestorms. Choke gas. EMP nets. Thirty minutes of calculated destruction.
And yet…
Voice One, low and clinical:
"Half the tribe escaped. No location tags. No signal traces. No useful intel gathered. We destroyed lives, not knowledge."
Voice Two, voice tight with restrained fury:
"That was the point. Fear. Shock. Message."
Voice Three, ever amused:
"A message? The nomads speak in winds and firelight. You think smoke and ruins will teach them fear?"
The projection zoomed in — ruined Sky-Tents still smoldered. But among the ash were empty footprints. Drag marks. Steeds gone. Weapon caches vanished.
Voice One added:
"And casualties among our own were higher than projected. Seven units neutralized by non-automated defense tactics. Primitive doesn't mean unskilled."
The image changed again.
Now it showed a lone nomad figure standing atop a hill during the retreat — clad in full-body composite gear, the armor matte black with fur-lined trim. A massive curved blade rested across his shoulders. His helm was shaped like a snarling wolf's head.
Voice Two muttered:
"Another Champion. That makes… eleven confirmed across the steppe."
Voice One nodded.
"Each tribe has one. They're not ceremonial. These are trained, enhanced by unknown techniques. No implants. No power cores. Yet they outperform most AI-assisted infantry in close-range combat."
Voice Three, almost admiring:
"Artisan warriors. Memory-metal blades. Bone-ink tattoos that resist tracking. They still train with breath, blood, and silence."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, as the projection shifted again — showing red-lit cathedrals and chanting bodies — Voice One sighed.
"And while we hunt wolves… the parasites multiply."
Voice Two, sharp:
"Zealot congregations in the Southern Arcs have doubled in six months. Some rewrite their implants. Others execute any who resist calibration."
Voice One:
"They worship the algorithm as divine law. But their law mutates. Every week, a new prophet. A new code."
Voice Three, chuckling:
"We perfected obedience. They added prophecy."
And then, Voice Four spoke — calm, final.
"Send fire. First to the parasites. Then back to the steppe."
No one questioned the order.
:Zhongyan Southern Command – Debrief Chamber 7
Captain Qin Sura stood at rigid attention, sweat trickling beneath his neural plate. His right arm still trembled from the pulse shock he took during the retreat.
Across from him, General Wu-Fei, his superior, didn't speak — he barked.
"Three companies. Twenty-three combat drones. Six terrain shrouds. Gone. You leveled a village and came back with empty air!"
Sura flinched.
"Sir, we followed standard sweep protocols. Camouflage fields were deeper than expected. Echo readings failed to—"
Wu-Fei slammed a steel palm on the table.
"I don't care about your failures. I care about results. You promised me the head of their elder. You brought me ashes!"
A second voice joined — this one digital, smooth, cold. The Zhongyan Tactical AI spoke from the ceiling:
"Analysis confirms: Khanori tribes remain strategically elusive. Relocation algorithms exceed baseline prediction. Combat engagement suggests unaugmented excellence."
Wu-Fei growled.
"Are you suggesting they're… better than us?"
Sura, to his credit, didn't lie.
"In close combat, sir? Against our basic units? Yes. I watched one of them take down a mecha-suit with nothing but a blade. It vibrated to his heartbeat."
The general sneered.
"A heartbeat won't stop orbital fire."
Sura stared forward. He didn't argue. But in the back of his mind, he remembered the wolf-helmed warrior — unmoved as plasma struck behind him, staring at the army like he knew something they didn't.