4

Batis and Shōren face off.

The units around us—couldn’t spare a glance to cover the other two, not with the enemy right in front of them.

But Batis and Shōren never counted on such things from the start.

Just trust your own strength. That’s all that matters—cut down the enemy right in front of you.

The two machines shifted their feet, grinding—then slowly began circling each other, like they were waiting for a crack in the defense.

So, what now?

With Mike’s magic cut off, Batis mutters.

Enemy's the second in command of the Empire. They say he’s the strongest if you let him wield that greatsword. Step in too careless, and you’ll end up cleaved clean in two by his blade.

But we can’t just keep circling around like this forever. The enemy still has that commander unit—Armunale—hidden somewhere inside the Abnomyle forces. If we don’t take it down, our losses’ll only keep mounting.

“Gotta make a gap!”

In one breath, I shift direction and pour forward, straight into the enemy’s chest.

“Just gotta create it!”

The back of my right arm’s greatsword erupts in a blast. The shockwave sends the blade hurtling down, faster, harder.

But of course, it’s blocked—cleared aside by the enemy’s cavalry saber, belly-first.

I swing my left arm out wide, aiming for their right. The enemy shifts their whole body left of the blade, just enough to parry again with that same saber.

But that’s not where it ends—never is that where it ends with Batis’s machine, Exsplanage’s true nature.

A sword brought to a standstill can’t cut through an enemy machine—no force left to push with, no initial swing to draw from.

But with Exsplanage—

“Fly apart!”

Two great swords caught in midair. Their backs exploded at once.

Forced thrust. Impossible to achieve, really—force pulled from a state of total stillness.

“Good edge. I feel the confidence behind it, the magic backing it up. But—”

“Wha—?!”

That power was completely absorbed by the enemy’s saber.

The enemy machine’s feet sinking into the ground proved Batis’s attack had real weight behind it.

But no—what won was the saber’s durability, and the enemy’s raw strength.

“This time, it’s my turn! Take this, my single strike!”

The saber, raised high into the sky, came down—straight toward Exsplanage.

“Gah!”

Instinct screamed it couldn’t handle a single blow like that. So he crossed the two greatswords like a pair of scissors, catching the cleaver mid-swing.

But the weight made Exsplanage’s knees shriek—*giiii*—in protest.

“Whatcha gonna do, some kinda monster strength?”

“Haven’t seen someone block my single strike head-on in a while.”

As the enemy machine pulled back its blade, the pressure vanished.

“Huh? What…?”

He narrowed his eyes, puzzled by the sudden release of force.

The enemy machine quietly reset its cleaver stance.

Batis snapped the mic on instantly.

“Thinkin’ you can play with me?”

If that pressure had kept up, Exsplanage might’ve been cornered. In that state, a hit from another—say, the commander machine hiding in the Abnomyle unit right now—would’ve been impossible to dodge.

But the enemy machine pulled its sword back. I figured it was holding back.

But the reply was a flat no.

"My single strike has no second cut. To cleave an enemy in one blow—that’s the soul of my machine. If you blocked my first strike, then I’ll cleave you with the next one!"

"That’s what I’m saying! You’re underestimating me!"

It was fine to boast about pride. But on the battlefield, where lives hung in the balance, failing to do everything you could? That was the kind of arrogance Batis couldn’t stomach.

Fueled by rage, I lunged at the enemy machine.

This time, no explosion from acceleration—instead, I detonated the moment I blocked the slash, aiming straight for the sword arm.

"If you’re so obsessed with that blade, I’ll break it for you!"

"My sword is my soul. Don’t think it breaks so easily!"

I swung the blade again and again, detonating over and over.

The enemy machine had cut through every explosion with a single cleaver.

“Damn you!”

“Your attack’s too wild. Chaos in the heart makes openings. Like this!”

Frustration bubbled up from being blocked again and again—both arms raised high to deliver a single, crushing blow. In that split second, the cleaver swung down.

“Gah!”

I instinctively brought my sword down, blocking the strike.

The cleaver—just a flick of the wrist, no real speed—still carried enough force to overwhelm both arms, even when braced.

The impact shoved the machine backward.

“Caught that one, did you? Thought I had it locked down, hm. So this is manual control, then. Better to assume the response lag’s about twenty percent higher than expected.”

Batis gritted his teeth at the enemy machine readjusting its stance—frustration bubbling up, but the attack had already cooled his thoughts a little.

“Suuu… haa…”

Deep breath. Flooded his head with oxygen. Checked the situation again.

The enemy machine worshipped a single, clean strike. And now, having wasted two chances, it was sticking to that belief like a stubborn fool.

So if he blocked that one strike now, the enemy would probably pull back. That could turn into an opening—his opening.

He remembered his own style: whatever worked, use it. No rules. No pretense.

Then why not use the enemy’s principles, its pride, its whole damn philosophy—turn them into his own advantage?

“Alright, I can do this.”

Calm settled in. He lunged at the enemy machine again.

Explosion—same as before, used to shatter the enemy’s blade. But now, instead of just smashing, he twisted the impact into a sudden, sharp retreat.

The enemy would go for their best strike. Knowing how fast Exspleage reacted, they’d only attack if they thought they could break through. Otherwise, they’d just defend and wait.

So if he struck and pulled back right after—well, the enemy’d be left with nothing to counter.

“Hmph. Changing tactics, are we?”

He hit from front, side, even glancing past—angles and directions shifting fast.

Each strike sparked an explosion. The enemy machine, rooted in place, slowly vanished into black smoke.

Then, when the enemy’s vision blurred, Batis struck at their feet—first time.

“Hmph.”

But the enemy was second seat. Not some pushover to be caught off guard so easily.

He drove the cavalry sword straight into the ground, catching Batis’s greatsword with it.

But that was exactly what Batis had been aiming for.

He’d fought stronger foes than this—plenty of them. So he knew, just as well, that an opponent would react to his attack. All he had to do was see beyond that.

If one step wasn’t enough, two. If not two, then three.

And that’s exactly what he’d trained for. Riding Abnomyle, always moving just ahead of the enemy’s next move.

This was the result.

“Got you!”

He let go of the greatsword, blocked by the cavalry sword, and grabbed the second blade with both hands.

The pose—raised high toward the sky—was nearly identical to that of the enemy machine moments before.

“Not this time!”

The cavalry sword rose overhead. Two blades clashed. The explosion from Exsplarage surged toward the cavalry sword.

A second later, a faint, crackling sound reached Batis’s ears.

Your soul’s got a crack in it, looks like.

The prairie, cleared of blazing fire. The enemy’s cavalry sword, facing off against Exsplarage, bore a single hairline fracture down its blade.

And the great sword in Batis’s left hand—half of it shattered, plunged into the ground.

Keeping watch, he收回 the fallen blade, stowing the broken one across his back.

“Still got a blade on this side, untouched. That crack—won’t that be fatal for a sword?”

“Indeed. To scar my soul—worthy of praise. And deserving of a thousand deaths!”

The enemy surged forward, accelerating fast, closing the gap. Batis’s lips twitched upward at the sudden shift—no more defense, no more counterplay, just a full-throttle lunge now.

“About time you started playing for real!”

Frontal clash. Our blades slammed together, but Batis instantly shifted his momentum, sliding the halberd along the belly of the greatsword.

Then a kick—straight for the open left side.

The enemy machine caught it with its left hand, yanking hard to throw off balance.

In a flash, Batis used the greatsword as a staff, kicked off the ground, and leapt lightly—then drove a kick straight into the opponent’s belly.

The enemy machine took the hit right under the cockpit, staggered back, wobbling.

Exsplugé crashed to the ground, but was up again in a heartbeat, regaining stance.

“Tried copying Eld… but yeah, still tough.”

He raised his sword, lunging forward once more. The enemy machine flinched as if wary of cracks, dodging Exsplugé’s attack. Then, seizing the wide arc of the halberd’s swing, it lunged forward with a clean cut.

Batis triggered an explosion instantly, using the thrust to redirect the blade’s path and slam it into the cleaver.

He drove the enemy’s cleaver deep into the ground, then kept detonating explosions in quick succession.

“That’s it!”

Cracks spread—just a little more and the cleaver would snap. Then, suddenly, a warning alarm blared inside the cockpit.

“What?!”

“Hmph. You’ve been firing off explosions like that nonstop. The strain on the frame must be serious.”

A heavy thud rocked him—thrown back hard. He’d been distracted by the alarm, and the enemy had punched him.

“Strain? No way!”

Batis realized what Shawren meant and called up the frame’s joint stress readings on the monitor.

There, the image showed the machine—its wrists, elbows, and shoulders all blazing red from overload.

The strain of repeated explosions had finally pushed the machine past its limit—long before the sword even got a chance to strike.

That was the one flaw in Exsplugue that had never mattered before, when we’d always relied on the blast’s force to end fights in seconds.

“Alright, then—sword versus arm. Let’s see which one gives out first.”

“Sure thing. Let’s go all out, shall we?”

Both machines surged forward at once, colliding head-on. Batis, mindful of his arm’s strain, held back the explosions and fought with pure swordcraft alone. Shoiren, conserving the durability of his cleaver, shifted his tactics to evasion.

Batis danced back and forth in tiny steps, never letting the enemy find a rhythm. Shoiren stayed calm, waiting quietly for the one opening.

And just after a few exchanges of blade on blade, that moment arrived.

Batis’s unit was the first to reach its limit.

At the instant their blades met, sparks burst from the wrist of his left arm, and his grip strength vanished in an instant.

“Seems my soul’s stronger than I thought.”

With one arm gone, the blade slipped from his grasp in the clash, and he was shoved back hard.

He stepped back—but the gap closed instantly, and he couldn’t pull away.

And then—

“This one slash ends it.”

The cleaver rose high. Through the monitor, Batis smiled at the enemy’s body.

“Yeah. That’s it. Game over.”

A single switch changed the control system. Balancer disengaged. Output adjusted manually. Lock released. Hydraulic parameters freed.

His remaining right arm stretched back, reaching for the broken greatsword lodged there.

A flash of collision. The sound of iron cracking, twisting, collapsing echoes across the battlefield as one Armunale is driven to failure and crashes down.

“Ah… crap. Both arms are wrecked.”

There he stands—Explarage, both arms dangling limp, his greatsword jammed deep into the enemy machine’s chest.

“Now’s my chance! That life’s mine!”

“Wha—?! Now of all times?!”

Before he can even savor the sweet weight of victory, one Armunale bursts forth from the enemy line—hidden until now. The commander of the enemy unit.

Explarage’s already a mess. Both arms useless, legs frozen in place. He can’t move fast enough to react.

“Crap… I’m gonna die.”

Right as the blade’s tip pierced toward Explarage’s chest, the voice came from above.

“Wanted to say well done—but you’re still no good at fighting on the battlefield.”

“Wha—!?”

“Elexia, captain. Saved you.”

The enemy’s sword was flung skyward by magic from the rear of the formation, knocked aside by Elexia’s airborne机体, the Siphonic.

“Honestly, get back to the rear already. This is my turn now.”

“Then I’ll leave it to you. I’ll be back after repairs.”

“Hope it’s over before I get back.”

“Haha, that’d be fun too. Well then.”

“Now, you’re mine. You don’t seriously expect a knight to run away in a situation like this, do you?”

“Hnngh…”

The Siphonic, now standing, turned its blade toward the enemy machine.

◇

Time flickered back a bit—just as both sides’ Armunale were deployed onto the battlefield.

“Hnngh… the captain’s stepping out. Then I’ll clear a path. Form up—V Plan.”

‘Understood.’

One Abnomyle gave the order, and all the others followed suit.

The Abnomyle unit, blades like spears with two prongs, smashed straight through the enemy line, tearing open a gap. Just as if it had been waiting, one Armunale broke through the disarrayed formation and plunged into the enemy’s center.

“Good work, Leon. Just as I expected—your command’s sharp.”

“Honestly, I’d rather be working on my individual skills, you know.”

While the enemy formation scrambled to reorganize, one Armunale and one Abnomyle were left behind, stranded in the enemy ranks. The two machines stood back-to-back, watching the encircling enemy machines all around.

"Close range—fire forward, retreat fire! General, wheel right!"

No panic, just steady obedience as the Abnomyle unit unfolded its formation, responding to the order as if it were nothing. With each movement, the enemy units were pushed back, and the wall surrounding the two machines slowly thinned.

"Stop that command chain!"

"This one’s the core of the unit!"

"Commander! We can’t let it keep going!"

"I know! Leave it to me!"

Realizing the two surrounding machines were the heart of the force, the enemy focused their fire on Armunale, aiming to take down Leon and his commander, Watts, thickening their lines.

But that was exactly what Leon had been counting on.

"Watts, you’re with me on this, right?"

"Can’t help it. Let’s see what a battlefield commander’s really made of."

"Then—"

The enemy Armunale closing in. By the book, it should’ve been Fatal’s Watts that stepped forward.

But the one facing it head-on was Leon’s Abnomyle.

“Move aside! A mere Abnomyle like you!”

“No way. If I hold you down, then Watts—Captain Watts—can scatter those Abnomyle scum.”

Two machines clashing head-on. But Abnomyle, shorter and weaker than Armunale, was bound to lose. Of course, Leon’s machine was pushed back, retreating hard.

Still, he didn’t let go of the sword. Stuck tight, he kept blocking every move the enemy tried to make.

No force behind a slow-starting attack.

Leon used every scrap of insight—his sharp eye, the knowledge he’d gathered from both Armunale and Abnomyle—to cut off the enemy’s next step before it even began.

“Ugh, annoying!”

In the meantime, Watts was steadily tearing through Abnomyle, and the enemy’s encirclement was slowly crumbling.

Then, frustrated, the enemy machine made a reckless move.

Reaching out, it tried to drag Leon’s unit down by force.

Leon blocked the arm with his shield, sliding it smoothly aside and deflecting it backward.

“Wha—why can you move like that in an Abnomyle!?”

“My unit’s only special thing is the activation processor—senseboard.”

That was the one thing that made Leon’s machine stand out.

The activation processors—senseboards—installed in mass-produced Abnomyles were still just mass-produced, and couldn’t quite handle the finer details of control.

But if you’re a senseboard writer assigned to the Armunale unit—specifically, one tuned for Leon, the deputy commander—you could adjust this machine’s senseboard in mere moments.

That’s why, even though it was an Abnomyle, it could still pull off the kind of delicate control that only an Armunale could manage.

Still, no other pilot could handle this machine—only someone specially tuned for it.

In effect, it had become a one-of-a-kind, mass-production model.

Armunale was swept backward. Leon seized it from behind, and both machines crashed together into the ground.

“What the—?”

I’ve always thought about it. My peers—got their own machines, became squad leaders, still racing around this battlefield. But me? Still stuck as deputy. What do you think that’s about?

“Who the hell knows!”

“Just bad luck. They happened to get lucky—grabbed a generator, made a splash. I never had that chance. That’s all. That’s why I made a promise to the squad leader before this fight.”

“So what’s your point?!”

He writhes, trying to break free, but his joints are locked tight—can’t twist loose. The Empire’s pilot panics, and instead of the voice being caught by the sound-absorbing magic, he hears it plain—raw, real.

“Your machine… I’m taking it.”

“W-what?!”

The cockpit hatch swings open. Wind magic slams straight into the seat.

“Gh—!”

The last thing the pilot saw, snatched in an instant, was the knight with glasses.

Having finished ravaging Armunale, Watts approaches the two fallen machines.

“Leon, isn’t it about time?”

As if answering, the Armunale that had been pinning it down rolls sideways, and the Imperial Armunale rises to its feet.

“Yes, acquisition complete.”

That voice—undoubtedly Leon’s.

And the pilot who had been riding Armunale now lay sprawled on the ground beneath.

“Ha ha… battlefield commander, you’re always pulling such stunts. Now, really—would anyone normally think to grab their own Armunale right here on the battlefield?”

“Don’t want to keep getting left behind by them, that’s all. So let’s finish off what’s left quick and head to reinforce the other units. Looks like the north and south are getting pushed hard.”

“Huh. You’re sharp for being right in the middle of it. I can’t tell a thing.”

“Last-line movements, orders from headquarters, the timing of the Armunale charge, and where the enemy fire units have been landing—there’s plenty to go on. Plus, no mercenaries near the center. Probably caught between a pincer from north and south.”

“I see. Then tell me, Leon—what’s your take? How should we move?”

“South. There’s a troublesome mercenary unit there.”

“Ah, so we’ll clear out these reinforcements first, then.”

The rear unit, having learned the Armunale had been taken, threw everything they had into a full-force counterattack.

"General unit, forward! Close combat stays behind the general unit. Don’t lose, now!"

"Got it!"

"Then, Captain, I’ll hand you the lead position."

"Ah, you’re just shoving the tricky part onto me, aren’t you?"

Caught red-handed, he blinks—just for a second. But he’s got a solid reason, and he knows it.

"...Still not used to this console."

True, the controls feel similar, but it’s from another country. The activation engine—sense board—wasn’t tuned for me. Tiny errors creep in.

And in battle, tiny errors mean life or death. That’s why I wanted to get used to it during this reinforcement window.

"Alright, fine. Then let’s go."

Two Armunales draw their blades and unleash magic at the approaching reinforcements.

Next time…

A single Armunale stands in front of Eld.

That was the Espiülezen of Meola In Levelta, First Seat of the Overd Empire’s Eight General Knights.