2

After leaving the refining facility, Rayla parted ways with Elshard and arrived at the hangar where the Rayla unit’s generator was stored.

There, alongside Rayla’s generator, the units of Folts and Rizet were already parked in the hangar.

The two had already been taken in hand by mercenary mechanics, who were in the middle of adjustments and removing armor plating.

As the frames began to show through, visible warping in places made it clear the machines were badly worn out.

Rayla found the two she was looking for near the two units.

“Folts, Rizet.”

Turning toward her when she called out, Rizet lifted her gaze.

“Rayla, huh. Greetings already, I see?”

“Mm, well, nothing’s broken—so far.”

"Good. Here, you’re dead the second the master dislikes you."

"Really a dangerous place, isn’t it? Can you even go shopping without trouble?"

Laira gives them a look, half-amused, half-exasperated, as they descend the catwalk.

I’ve gotten used to the ways of mercenaries—mostly—but I still haven’t gotten used to how fast a little thing can turn into a life-or-death exchange.

Hahah, no problem. Sure, it’s a bit dangerous—bit of a risk—but that’s why the coin’s worth more than outside. Most things can be fixed with gold, really.

"Seriously, mercenaries..."

Easy, ain’t it? No weird tangles to worry about. Though I suppose that’s what it takes to survive these days—people like this one, I mean.

Rizet ran her fingers through Folzé’s hair, scratching and teasing it gently.

"Rizet, you're gonna kill me, huh?"

“Huh? When it’s all like this, it’s money over trust, ain’t it?”

“Completely get it.”

Rizet pulls her hand back quick as Folzé tries to bite at her fingers, still playing with his hair. She laughs. Lira sighs, watching the whole thing.

Back when Rizet first started moving with her mercenary band, there’d been stiff shoulders between the troops—especially since they’d absorbed another crew. But after surviving the last war together, the gap had eased a bit. Maybe being on the same side of death does that.

Rizet’s always been one to close distances fast. That’s why she teases Folzé like this, and then gets half-attacked in return.

“Anyway, point me to a decent shop. Got some thinking to do—need to fix the machine, too.”

“Alright, basic frame and cockpit area—got those settled, right? Better get the chassis built quick, so I’ll point you to a good shop.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Rizette handed a dried meat strip to Fortze as a joke apology, then led Rayla out of the hangar.

They arrived at a warehouse on the edge of town. Piles of scrap metal—more junk than anything—were stacked inside, and it didn’t look a bit like a place that sold frame parts.

But Rizette didn’t care. She stepped right in.

Fortze and Rayla followed, and from the middle of the junk, a voice called out.

“Welcome. Rare to see pleasure here. What, did you wreck something flashy?”

Rizette smiled at the echoing voice.

You think I’d tear down the foundation so easy? This is a new customer, you know. Get out quick, or I’ll be off to another shop.

Oh! You brought along a proper one this time!

Clang—another sheet of iron tumbled down from the junk heap. Out came an old man, thin as a rail, dressed in ragged overalls.

Coated head to toe in oil, the goggles left only one patch untouched—clearly marked, the skin there kept its natural color.

The man bounced down from the junk mountain and dashed toward Rizet.

So who’s the guest, then?

“This one here.”

Rizet pointed at Rayla, and Rayla gave a small bow. She nearly raised her hand to shake—then froze, noticing the man’s hands were greasy—and quickly pulled it back.

"Rayla. Take care of her."

"Ah, I’m Maizara. I’ve got my hands in all sorts of things—basic frames, this and that. Whatever you need, I usually got it on hand. Custom work’s no problem. Just say the word. So, what’s it gonna be?"

"Get me the basic frame from Fatal. And make the cockpit area match that one. A bit of mix-and-match’s fine, but the controls—those gotta be Fatal’s setup. Can you manage that?"

Having learned to fly on Fatal’s machine, Rayla’s piloting style was built entirely around Fatal’s cockpit layout. Especially the manual controls—she’d drilled every switch and lever into her bones. Switching now would just slow her down.

That’s why changing the cockpit setup was absolutely out of the question.

"Fatal, eh? Stock’s low lately, but one unit’s no problem. Which storage bay’s it in?"

It’s at Eld’s place. Our machines are stored there too.

Hmm, haven’t seen the machines from the Pleasure District in a while—might be nice to take a look. Besides, that monk of yours is a proper battle-hungry sort, ain’t he?

Oh? You know me?

Folzé, idly gnawing on dried meat while staring at the junk heap, suddenly turned his gaze toward Mazarra.

“Got a bit of a reputation, you know. If you’re after something, just say the word.”

Folzé paused, then shook his head.

“Nah, not right now. Gotta gather up some modification ideas first. Half-baked changes won’t cut it—can’t beat the Sword Wings with that.”

“Huh. Well then, I’ll bring you some girl’s parts to Eld’s place when I find ’em. Where do I send the bill?”

"Charge it all to the Elshard Mercenary Company. We’re moving with Elshard these days, same as you."

"I heard. The Armunale trio—real dangerous bunch, that one. Heh, this is getting interesting, isn’t it?"

"The fact that their goal’s to kill Fatal’s knight? That’s the real kicker. Means the target’s seriously dangerous."

"Fatal’s one-armed warrior… now called the Sword Wing, I hear. The Empire’s been struggling hard with that one. Got a massive bounty on their head."

"Get revenge, collect the gold. That’s how mercenaries roll."

"Hmph. Well, I suppose I’ll just try not to die, then."

Mazara said that, and vanished once more into the mountain of scrap.

The three of them watched her go—then stepped out of the warehouse.

"Intense character. You think she’ll be okay?"

She’s got a strong personality, but that’s what makes her such a skilled hand. I’m always relying on her to look after me, that’s for sure.

Hmm, then the base body seems fine for now. Better think about the other parts while we’ve got the chance.

I wanna think a bit more too… and I’m ready to head back to the inn now.

Rizet glanced at Layla, her expression caught between amusement and mild exasperation, as Fortze completely abandoned his original plan of guiding Layla through the town.

Laira gave a small, wry smile and nodded once.

Then let’s head back. Even if we’re gonna tinker with it, we’ll need to hash it out with the maintenance crew anyway.

Yeah, that’s right.

Modifying a machine—it’s not something you can fix with just one person’s opinion.

The pilot’s take’s just their take while flying—mechanics’ll have a whole different opinion, every time.

Honestly, even if you ask for a modification, they’ll often turn you down if there’s trouble with the upkeep. You’ve got to keep on good terms with the mechanics, that’s all.

Ignore it, and of course things’ll get worse. If the machine won’t listen when it matters most, we’re dead already—no matter how many lives we’ve got.

The three of them headed back to the inn where the Elshard Mercenary Company was waiting, to gather their ideas for improving their machines.

The next few weeks passed for Layla like a storm—fast, wild, and impossible to hold onto.

Every day, shuttling to the hangar—between back-to-back meetings and tuning up my own machine.

Wandering through town collecting parts, and if needed, literally slapping someone across the cheek with a fistful of gold.

Thanks to that, Layla’s machine was gradually taking shape.

The frame was built to Layla’s specifications—using Fatal’s chassis, and each component fitted with equipment as closely as possible to Layla’s wishes.

The slender, sleek build reflected Layla’s fighting style: dodging and slashing, not relying on defense or magic.

“Nice feel to it.”

In the cockpit, Layla murmured, checking the monitor.

The cockpit was nearly identical to Fatal’s, but scaled down to fit Layla’s frame—now even more comfortable than before.

The foot pedals responded better, and Layla didn’t get tossed around during sudden movements.

Testing the sensation in her left arm, now significantly heavier, with the lever, she barely noticed the creak of the hangar door opening.

“Layla! Got your gear!”

The man who’d been driving the wagon jumped down and called out to Layla.

“Is that it?”

“Yeah—this one’s a special piece, made just for you. No other sword can even come close to its strength or sharpness.”

Regular Armunale blades were simple affairs—just poured into a mold, whether double-edged or single. But this single-edged one made for Layla? That was something else. The blacksmith had climbed onto an Abnomule, built a custom forge just for her, and hammered it out by hand, every curve shaped with care.

“Thanks. Can you help me equip it right away?”

Layla’s machine was still bolted to the hangar floor—couldn’t move it. So she asked the man to bring it over, then eased her left arm back into place.

“Sure thing. And I brought the scabbard too—just slide it in and we’ll get you fitted.”

“Appreciate it.”

The sword I brought was lifted by a crane and slid into its scabbard.

Then the scabbard was connected to the left hip of the machine.

“Lock complete. You can let go now.”

The monitor flashed “Connection and lock confirmed,” and with Layla’s command, the crane detached.

The scabbard was firmly mounted to the machine’s hip—no wobble, no give.

“Think I’ll stretch my legs a bit. Okay?”

“Got it. I’m releasing the hangar lock—watch out, all of you!”

A sharp *clunk* echoed as the machine’s legs took the weight, bearing the full load.

With the lock released, Layla’s unit stepped forward a few paces—then reached instinctively for the scabbard just fitted.

Left hand braced the scabbard, right hand gripped the hilt.

Slowly, smoothly, it came free—no resistance, no catch—just a clean, sharp release of the blade.

“Perfect.”

Laira lets out a pleased hum at the motion. The mechanics too are awed, murmuring “Ooh” at the blade’s beauty.

Then a voice cuts in.

“Huh. So this is your weapon, Laira?”

“Mm-hm.”

It’s Rizet, who’d been adjusting things inside her own machine.

She’d seen the blade on the monitor and just couldn’t help herself.

“Tch. I’ve got all sorts of swords, but—damn, this is something else.”

“It’s one-of-a-kind. Can’t be compared to anything else. This one blade is my weapon. My life’s edge.”

“Completely opposite from how I think.”

Rizet’s main armament is a barrage of axes—slung, thrown, swung, slammed. It’s the exact opposite of Laira’s machine.

“My blade? I’ve got as many as my comrades. The more, the stronger I get.”

“If that’s what it takes to get stronger, then I think that’s fine. Pushing yourself to the wall? That’s what fools do.”

“You know that, and still you do it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“If you’ve made up your mind that thoroughly, then I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Thank you.”

She sheathed her blade and returned the machine to its hangar.

Ereshald arrived, escorting Fortze.

“Both of you here. Perfect.”

“What’s this, Captain? You coming all the way out here?”

“An order’s come from the Empire.”

The words hit the hangar like a cold wind—every member of the unit stiffened.

We’d already told the Empire we’d be returning here temporarily. So for them to send a directive now… meant they wanted something serious.

“What kind of order?”

“Order’s to take down a small nation bordering the Empire. Just us, the unit. Three months to do it. Supplies only from the outpost in the nearby town.”

“Hahah! What kind of joke is that? You want us to die?”

Rizet’s laugh was perfectly understandable. Even with three Armunale units, and no Armunale on the enemy side, asking a single mercenary company to topple a whole country?

Small nation or not—some have special weapons like Berjio, aiming to destroy with precision; others already have Abnomyle, mass-producing it.

In a time of fierce development race, this order was nothing short of reckless.

“The Empire’s serious. Seems one of the Eight Cavalry Knights who recently took on Berjio’s invasion got taken out.”

“So what?”

Right after that, Berjio formally denounced Overdo and announced a military alliance with Fatal Kingdom. Now, countries opposed to the Empire are starting to follow suit. So the plan’s to knock one down—scare the others, break their strength, all at once. Looks like the Empire’s military’s in a mess, what with the Eight Cavalry Knights all taken out one after another.

The Eight Knights of the Empire, said to be its strongest. Four of them had been slain one after another over the span of just a few months. The military was shaken—plain to see, morale had dropped like a stone, fear of Fatal running through the ranks. And just as if to match that, declarations of blame poured in from Berjio and other small nations. With Ovard’s siege lines tightening for sure, the Empire, forced to prepare for the next battle, had only one hope left: the Elshard Mercenary Company.

“Said we could take the capital of Fatal, kill the king, and walk away alive—so conquering some little country ought to be easy. Well then, you lot—what’re we doing about this challenge?”

Eld’s lips curl into a smirk.

And the first to answer was Rayla.

Just right for testing out the new model, don’t you think? The weapons just arrived a moment ago—been itching to try them out.

“Rayla… you’re serious, right? Rushing to die’s not exactly the plan.”

“Not that I’m trying to die or anything. Besides, Leon—aren’t you feeling it too? You’re in, right?”

“They said go ahead and kill anything that moves. Plus, gotta test the damn machine. Naturally, I’m in. Rizet can stay behind. Just me and Rayla’ll be plenty.”

“Leon… oh, I get it! I’ll join in too! But no reckless charges like you two, okay? This is a new model test—we’ll stick to the safety margins, move in formation, and keep it tight.”

“Then it’s settled. As soon as we’re ready, the Elshard Mercenary Company will invade the Cora Kingdom! Everyone, begin preparations!”

‘Understood!’

◇

Black smoke rising. Buildings crumbling.

Three Armunale stood calmly in the burning town, surrounded by flames.

“Surrounded!”

“No more letting them run wild!”

“Outnumber them! Even Abnomyle can be crushed by sheer numbers!”

An endless swarm of Abnomyle forming a circle around the three machines, their blades raised.

None of them were as refined as Overd or Fatal—some had exposed frames, others had legs thin as birds’—odd, lopsided machines.

Still, they were no pushovers, each one a proven defender of the realm, capable of holding their own against knights who should’ve been far too much for them.

Or so it should’ve been—

“Not even worth fighting.”

“Let’s finish the palace already. The royal family might escape?”

“Then I’ll go. You can have your fun, as much as you like.”

“I said I wouldn’t let them get away!”

Even as they were surrounded, the three pilots kept chatting, calm as ever. That was the last straw. A handful of machines surged forward at once, blades flashing.

But right as those few blades were raised, they froze—then crumpled down in place.

All that remained was a faint gust of wind and the posture of Rayla’s machine, finished with its swing.

The cockpits of Abnomüle and the others had been cleanly severed in one stroke.

And then—

“Then, I’m off!?!”

A voice so cold it sent shivers down the spine—Folzé’s machine stirred to life.

Spewing white smoke, it surged forward in a single breath, barreling into the midst of Abnomüle’s group, and began tearing them apart with its limbs.

The enemy’s attacks—so soft, so fluid—were dodged like a beast, evading with ease. Then, with claws like blades, it pierced the cockpits of the enemy machines without fail.

And through the holes it made, Rizet and Rayla stepped in, forcing them open.

“What in the world are these things!?”

“Mercs,” Leon said, grinning. “The best there is!”

Rizet’s machine—two axes in hand—cut off one of the enemy’s arms, then kicked the motionless frame out sideways, sending it spinning into the others.

Behind it, Layla’s blade shattered two units, and her left arm caught the descending sword.

“N-no, I can’t—”

The words never finished being spoken—cut clean through the torso by Rayla’s kick.

Output stable. Half-manual control’s easy enough. Full manual might still leave a gap, though. Should we ease into it?

Leave it be. Such a fine machine—wasting it here’d be a real shame, now wouldn’t it?

The axe thrown past the Rayla unit, slicing through the one manning the cannon.

Keep track of how many axes there are, Rizet. It’s different from before, isn’t it?

"Yeah, you're right. Then I’ll just zip it down quick!"

"Uh-huh, you're in the way there."

The spell shot out, slicing through the one trying to block Rizet’s path, and in that split second, Rizet slipped through the encirclement and bolted toward the palace.

Abnomüle forces trying to pursue were instantly reduced to scrap by Folz and Rayla.

Two hours after the battle began.

A fire clawed its way up from the palace, and the crumbling structure marked the end of the Koran Kingdom.

Next time preview

The heavy air of impending war had both Fatal and Overd on edge.

Armies moving, repositioning—still on the march. Amidst it all, Eld enjoyed a rare reunion with friends at his old home in the capital, far from the front lines.