Fate of Victory

( Goblet )

A brief silence.

……Order, please.

( ……Just a distraction. Goblet, recompute. Probability of 3552 returning alive.)

The Blue Goddess replies, indifferent.

First, 3552 squad, including Crook McGabban, will successfully evacuate to Audar.

( So confident. Doesn’t that change, even seeing our current state?)

Io stood at a corner of the Oxanun Final Defense Line—the assembly point for Crook’s temporary unit and other reorganized forces awaiting deployment.

A terrible sight. Over half were wounded; many had lost their gear.

No longer salvageable. Countless gravely injured waited, unevacuated, with no place to send them back to.

Mechanical combat units suffered a crippling blow—so severely damaged they might as well be lying in hospital beds. The wrecked engineering corps, barely functional, is improvising repairs.

A ragged remnant of soldiers, forming a living shield, trying to protect the ship.

Pathetic. Pitiful. A chill crawls down the spine.

"Agent Io is with unit 3552. Agent Io has Blue Goblet."

(Practically speaking, the soldiers are injured. Few are capable of fighting.)

"Blue Goblet previously predicted a scenario even more dire than this."

(…Did I hear this before? The same content.)

"Details. …According to the original timeline, the Karaf continent should have fallen three weeks ago.

The front army failed to establish a defensive posture. Surrounded and annihilated, unit by unit.

Weidran should have expanded its forces and overwhelmed Oxanun with ease, securing underground resources and other assets smoothly.

Casualties—military and civilian alike—would have reached tens of millions by now.

(Attempting to comfort me?)

Blue Goblet does not lie.

The catalyst was the assassination operation against the enemy command unit at Scordee Pull.

Followed by the countless joint operations with the Sinclair Assault.

Those operations could not have succeeded without Agent Io.

Goblet seemed to reconsider, then shifted course.

The tide has already turned. The question now is where to place the victory condition.

Victory in attrition goes to the side that preserves its forces most efficiently. Humanity has evacuated resources to Audar at a rate several times higher than what I previously calculated.

Your fight was never in vain.

Not just Crook McGibbon’s survival—but creating a wave far greater than expected.

Changed fate? With my power?

Absurd. A single soldier flailing against a crashing tide.

Yet interesting. The number one, normally insignificant even as a combat unit, becomes the ultimate one that saves Karaf.

Saving the world through toy guns... No, I meant that.

...Toy guns.

A man steps down from Tomas, leaning on rubble, his hand pressed into the debris.

He lifts a face slick with grease sweat, eyes darting wildly at Io. Likely shot through the thigh. Dangerous blood loss.

Oil and soot smear across his skin, spreading in the sweat. His expression, twisted in agony, made the sight grotesque.

Hah... hah... d-diamond frame.

—Lend me your shoulder. Hartie, help me out.

Hartie was already behind him. He supported the wounded soldier from the opposite side.

They walked a short distance, then seated him on a discarded supply crate.

—You’re fine here.

—Don’t act tough. I’m taking you to the medics.

—Emergency gel’s available. I can handle it. You’ve got more important things to do.

The man was stubborn. His finger, still slick with sweat and grime from the wounded soldier, pressed against Hartie’s shoulder. A precise salute.

—Please, go. I don’t want to be a burden.

If I can’t do it, you can.

—What’s the real reason?

—Hah. Right now I just want to get home and eat Mom’s blueberry cake.

He snorted softly through his nose.

—Damn it. I don’t want to die. Not like this… I shouldn’t have tried to play the hero.

Why the hell did it come to this?

Hartie, how’s his condition?

I’ve had emergency treatment training… but I’m not a doctor.

You said you could handle the treatment yourself—stop bothering me. I’m not interested in being a burden.

—Come on, move! —Go already!

They abandoned the man’s care and followed behind Tomas, who continued at a steady pace.

That soldier believes in you. Not just him—everyone does.

(…That’s right.)

You don’t fear battle. You rise in crisis. You keep growing stronger.

You forge a path using some inexplicable, inarticulate force—something our sister artificial spirits, the so-called “formula for saving the world,” lack.

Or perhaps this is what makes humanity unique.

The creator of the Blue Goblet often spoke of fate.

Io exhaled, feigning breath.

(You were a romantic too, and so was your creator, come to think of it.)

Yes. The Blue Goblet believes you are destined to win.

(Your specialty? Calculation?)

The Blue Goblet has learned the meaning of the term "intuitive," and now knows that such an operation yields no meaningful result in the current state.

Emotion—our most complex subject of study—has not yet achieved full quantification.

Ultimately, the Blue Goblet’s calculations amount to nothing more than a probability.

Belief is not about calculation, nor its result, nor probability.

(I still don’t follow what you’re getting at.)

I meant to convey that "my belief in you" is no longer a calculated outcome.

Knowing the odds are against me, I still bet on you. Calculating your chance of victory at one percent, I still bet on you.

It is precisely such illogical decisions that constitute "believing" for Blue Goblet at this moment.

Io snorted. What was Blue Goblet thinking.

‘At this moment, Blue Goblet is simultaneously seducing and tempting Agent Io, while also monitoring your mental state.’

(mental care? )

‘Earlier, at the water purification facility, your information body accessed an entirely unknown domain.

The extent of its impact remains uncertain. It is… irritating.’

So. Good. Io thought.

The composed artificial spirit’s visible confusion amused him.

Not hatred. Simply unwillingness to surrender completely.

(Recalling the past.)

‘A different operation to save the world?’

(…Yes. …Perhaps it’s best to end this conversation here.)

Flirting with passion isn't inherently bad, but there's no time now for such abstract, sentimental talk.

Still, feels good.

(That was a complicated line of persuasion.)

‘We will continue further updates.’

(Stubborn one. …But really, what’s the odds? Our chances of victory?)

‘Considering our original victory conditions.’

Goblet smiled with just the mouth, voice flat and toneless.

‘Ninety-nine percent, Agent Io.’

—

The path to the ship was ready. Unit 3552 should have been allowed to board without issue.

Yet Crook seemed to feel responsible for those now under his command at the site.

Four massive transport vessels swayed at the dock. The real final convoy.

Unit 3552 was forced to wait, just slightly, as it stared at them.

Do not load equipment—interferes. Allocate it to those holding their ground.

Compile intelligence, disseminate to all, then disband the Crook Temporary Unit.

Follow the pre-collapse plan: those who escape, escape. Those who remain—act according to their own will.

Thanks to your efforts, the allied forces across the front lines should have regained strength. … Well done.

The commander of the last defensive line with organized resistance wanted to immediately integrate the temporary unit into combat strength, but Crook refused.

She does not feel guilt toward those who hold their ground. Naturally not.

But she is the commander of Unit 3552, and responsibility to them lies at the core of her mission.

To return the children alive. Not just that. After Crook delivers Unit 3552 to Audar, she must also see to their care. The shared final objective with Io, Carlyle, and the others.

Pax—don’t speak a word of what you saw down there.

Io speaks sharply, pulling Pax away from 3552 with deliberate ease.

You’re a smart man. You know why I’m saying this, don’t you?

Yes—yes.

Good boy. Take this. Don’t lose it.

A small smile. He tosses the dirty patch.

Something handed to him earlier from Sinclair’s Charger. He’d been surprised at how carefully he’d kept it—almost reverent.

On the back of the patch, a strip of white fabric is stitched in place.

There, written in neat script: Personal Terminal Code [other].

When you reach Audar, contact that person. Tell them “a collection from Io.”

They’ve owed us favors across multiple operations. Won’t be ignored.

Ah—ah, wait—what?

For safety, Pax.

…That’s not what I meant.

Pax’s thick brows twist into a crude H-shape.

“Sergeant… what will you do?

You’ll stay with us… won’t you…”

“Pax. Just a little longer. Let me finish this.”

“What… what do you mean…? I don’t understand…!”

A heavy fist slams into Pax’s chest. He does not look away.

“Paxton Cornini. I request your cooperation in this operation.”

“Huh?—! Wait—Sergeant, I’ll do anything! Just give the order!”

“Good. Then—survive. Escape Audar. All of you. Live longer.

You weren’t born to suffer without reason and die without knowing why.”

A tear wells in Pax’s eye. He swallows the sob. Clenches his trembling teeth hard.

Hiding pain behind a man’s face.

There were comrades once. Comrades who called me a real brother.

Sergeant—memory...?

They were wretched, pitiful. But still—bright. Like you, to me.

That moment failed. But now—I think I can do it.

I have no one left. Only you. Give me another chance.

—Now, Paxton Cornini.

Stand tall. Live.

Pax answered, face smeared with tears and snot.

...Yes, Sergeant.

Go. We’ll meet again someday. So don’t look back.

Forced Pax to face backward, pushed him forward. Determined, he obeyed Io’s words. Never looked back.

Corporal.

A short distance away, Carlyle stood with the others.

Did not interfere, nor eavesdrop on the conversation.

Carlyle wore a complicated expression.

"Count on me to look after the lieutenant and the children."

"No need to say it, corporal.

But what about our promise? I’ve already told my wife you’d be invited."

"Apologies, but can you wait a little longer? It may take years. I’ll keep my word.

I’ve told everyone this—I’m not dying."

Carlyle fell silent.

Hex cut in, extending a hand. Io returned the gesture.

"Corporal, when we spoke before, I thought something."

"What is it, Hex?"

"You’ve got good taste in erotic literature. Let’s talk again sometime."

Noiman exaggerated a sigh.

"Is this really the moment? Couldn’t we… wait for something better?"

"What’s wrong with you, Noiman? What would be better then?"

Neumann pushes Hex back and straightens his spine into a rigid line.

Sergeant Io, it was an honor. I will never forget fighting alongside you.

—Hey, I said I wasn’t planning to die.

The engineer, three crows, could no longer contain it and burst into laughter.

――

Sudden explosion. Routine. Boom, vibration, dust and shrapnel scattering. Again and again.

But its current scale defied comparison with anything before.

Communication from command center severed. Explosion confirmed within 200-meter radius.

Major Yuaris's escape has not been confirmed. Repeating. Major Yuaris is dead.

Continue the assault. Until the very end—until the very last.

From Titus Special Assault Team to Valorevelin.

Oxanun Central Theater has fallen. The rear-guard defense unit has been destroyed. All as planned.

The enemy has begun reactivating Weedranta towers previously deployed in earlier combat zones.

The Titus Team initiates the sabotage operation.

Goodbye, you damn brothers—every last one of you.

Soldiers perform silent prayers, salute. Io feels a complex knot in the chest, listening to a transmission with no identifiable source.

Did Youaris know? The hidden cost of the subsidence operation. If you trust Geller, widespread viral infiltration begins in 240 minutes. No time to stop it.

The man was a colonel, not skilled in politics, nor cowardly. That’s why he drew the losing lot—overall command of the Caraf Continent withdrawal.

He doesn’t seem the type to navigate the virus’s existence in silence.

Still, verification is impossible now. All that remains is to keep dancing, guided by some unseen hand.

A cold distaste stirred within. Somewhere beneath the stubborn devotion of these mad brothers marching toward death, someone was laughing.

(……Thoughts are destabilizing. Continue the operation.)

"Second Lieutenant, I need to step out briefly. I’m entrusting 3552 to you."

"No way, not happening."

Io began preparations for the final battle, but Crook rejected it immediately.

"I won’t take my eyes off you. No more reckless actions."

"Second Lieutenant, I have a promise. A critical one."

"More important than us? More important than my orders?"

"Please. A pact with the fallen."

He didn’t like Yurius, but promises were kept. It aligned with Io’s own purpose.

They locked eyes. Eventually, Crook yielded.

"...Come back quickly. I’m begging you."

"I’ll try."

Io headed toward the port’s supply depot with Hartie, maintaining communication.

——Io

"Michelle. Take care of Captain Creeke."

"Who are you?"

"Just one last job....Keep my story straight.

Tell him I'm strapped to a capsule bed in the ship's infirmary. No visitors allowed.

He's that type. Could delay departure."

A long silence. Michelle bit her lip.

"Creeke won't forgive you."

"I'll have an excuse ready by the next time we meet."

"If there is a next time... I hope... really..."

"Everyone else seems ready to die. Not me.

I'll see you off....Then figure something out. Leave it to me."

Michelle deliberately raised her voice.

"Ah, trouble. Really trouble....Perfect.

My eyes are too sharp now. Normal men won't satisfy me for the rest of my life."

That concludes the matter.

Wait. Everyone—there’s so much more I want to tell you.

There’s never enough time—there are too many.

Iō halts. The clamor around him recedes slightly.

But you always ignore things like that—act cool, brush it off with a 'no time'—just like always.

If it's going to turn out like that again, I'll just say it in one sentence—something I at least want to get across.

Thank you, our hero.

Iou twisted the corner of his mouth into a clumsy smile, then severed the comms.

Io glances back at Hartie while weaving through the wounded soldiers.

He flicks the helmet's release switch repeatedly. Appears to be severely damaged—non-functional.

Reluctantly, he yanked the rope profile handle at the back of his head, forcing a physical override.

His eyes, calm before death, held unwavering strength.

……last chance. You might still board the ship if you act now.

Got any other soldier who can pair with you and Cell besides me?

What’s this? You said you wouldn’t do it without ten times the pay.

There are others—just not many. The Sinclair crew might barely keep up.

…But not like you, Hartie.

Honored, Sergeant.

Hartie muttered it half-heartedly as he kept walking. Even banter had become a strain.

Any battle plans you’ve heard? The ones left are all tough. They won’t just stand there and be taken.

Multiple requests for mission participation have already arrived.

I’ve kept quiet so as not to interfere with your split from 3552.

…Seems that courtesy was pointless anyway.

Sorry about that. Step, step, step—dragging feet, I make it to the supply depot.

Boomer is there, modifying the supply armor with something or other. Singing a lazy tune under his breath.

Yo, Io, Hartie. Got your armor ready—just for you.

The depot looks like it’s been raided. Everything usable’s already pushed to the front lines.

Among the wreckage, Boomer’s managed to scavenge a custom armor unit for Sinclair.

The Reaper once prepared one for Io, but it’s already torn to shreds.

Boomer’s painting the new one now.

Appreciate it… but you’ve got no artistic talent beyond blowing things up.

What was that, you bastard?

Sorry. I mean it. Thank you.

You're leaving? Farewell. The Charger just sent orders for your return to the unit.

They say the sub-port you used—your princess’s little toy—will be destroyed.

Even if we crush Oxanun, leaving that sub-port intact would be incomplete. Few bases have such extensive harbor functions.

The Charger’s still sharp as ever.

……I see. Then, Boomer.

Yeah. That’s right, Io.

Then, so long.

Boomer pulls his prized energy grenade from the holder and offers it to Io.

Io takes it, forms a fist, and strikes it forward.

No salute. No sentimental words. Nothing at all.

Boomer just squints, smiles, and nods with quiet satisfaction.

So long.

That was it.

Hartie says, leaning against a supply crate.

A noisy one. But not just noisy.

It's a little like my friend.

People who get misunderstood easily— that’s me.

Let's move. Protect the vessel.