Hartie Goodman

Dying off faster and faster. Those who know, those who don’t.

Weirdran’s assault grows more brutal. The lizard legion, having lost most of what they sought through ground collapse tactics, burns with fury.

The port—the last functioning one—should be what they want too. Yet no mercy is shown.

Cutting losses as “necessary expenses,” or has everything else become irrelevant?

Soldiers sacrifice lives for fleeting seconds. Io strikes from the shadows, again and again.

The cycle continues.

Yet the lizards never yield. Never flinch.

Gradually, options dwindle. Still, they fight on, desperate.

Kill. Kill. Kill. The followers say nothing.

No screams. No battle cries. Numb senses. Their expressions hollow—true ghosts.

“Rondes Street chimney bakery. That girl with the crimson boots—adorable.”

Jump unit launching from the rooftop of the derelict apartment.

The lead hunter team peers through the long-range unit, waiting for Io.

“Can’t afford flowers with my pay. Still, she always smiles.”

The hunter leans against the rooftop transformer, muttering.

Listening closely, it sounds like a song.

The hunter offers Io a single, rigid cloth.

Camouflage cloak—special material blocking heat, electromagnetic waves, and long-range sensor pickups.

No, a hooded cape. Or a cloak. Designed to be worn over armor—substantial in size.

—Scout team’s hidden reserve, they say. Gotta put it to use somehow—

Slip it over the head. The hunter turns back toward the street, still muttering song under breath.

Back to the girl waiting. Back to the girl waiting.

Io made no comment on the scene, asking the hunter soldier hunched over the long-range sensor unit instead.

Enemy is

All according to plan.

A heavy-caliber sniper rifle was ready. A multi-situation launcher too.

The attack point is not limited to this location alone.

Last stand. The ship departs the harbor in moments. We hold until then.

Ammo running low.

Seize the weapon from the enemy.

—How are you still fighting at this level?

Sixteen kilometers of defense line from north to south, nine defensive positions traversed in rapid succession—ambush, diversion, counterattack, all executed with precision. Waves of enemy assault repelled, held at bay, kept from approaching the ships.

Easy to say, but only the toughest among the elite scout unit could keep pace with Io.

Exhausted beyond what stimulants could restore, some dropped out. Others suffered severe wounds—some died.

Hartie did not participate in every battle Io fought.

A zombie unit, body torn apart, forced to move by excessive doses of stimulants and regenerators.

Now, the soldiers no longer believe Io is human. Not that anyone bothers to say it anymore—too broken, too drained, to care.

From the question slipping out of the hunter’s lips, a flicker remained—proof he still possessed humanity and thought.

Exposure to extreme conditions doesn’t sustain human care for long.

Ironically, that means you’re not human.

So what if you aren’t?

Io drew his personal long-range sensor, scanning the distant enemy with a cold tone.

Even if we were born from lizard tech—less than human.

The task remains unchanged.

A lizard scout unit approached, drones trailing behind—unseen before.

They’d been blown apart too many times to ignore the danger of explosives now. Carefully checking for traps, guiding the following units forward.

You afraid?

Afraid, yes. … Anyone would follow your one word—“come on”—and charge straight into the afterlife.

Only you and a few lucky ones will survive. Most of the rest will drop where they stand."

"Could be."

"You're the grim reaper."

"Then. You're not coming with me?"

It doesn't matter. But no one's getting out this time."

The hunter lowers the long-range sensor unit into the tool pouch.

Still, the eyes remain hollow.

"Let's go. I'm tired too."

The depleted hunter squad shifts into combat formation.

The soldier who had been muttering a song continues humming it, rifle scope pressed to his eye.

"Hurry up and get that girl. Become the sea wind of Yunati, hurry up and get that girl.

Woo-oh, woo-oh, woh woh woo. Woo-oh, woo-oh, woh woh woo."

Io leaps from the rooftop.

"Selected Hunter, initiate attack. Hartie, flank the enemy counterforce in response to their reaction."

And again, the Hunter team cut down the enemy in an explosion of gunpowder and lead.

At the cost of their own lives.

Sometimes amidst rubble, sometimes in mud, sometimes among the corpses of comrades.

Invisible, silent, slipping into blind spots—gagging in agony, bloodshot eyes, killing breath itself, stealing life. A sight befitting the name of a ghost.

Leading the charge, a death god feared by both man and lizard, scattering death and chaos.

And in the end, nothing remained. Yet the ghostly remnants dwindled—one by one, each vanishing.

Only Io and Hartie returned.

They, too, had given their lives, as all before them had. That was all.

The two collected the tags from the fallen Hunters. Bodies could not be carried back.

—

There was no more resource left to spend on offense.

Not even a single round of ammunition could be spared, let alone vehicles or drones.

The anti-air system defending the port and its access routes, along with the Defender deployment units, had ceased functioning properly.

Weedran advanced with unrelenting momentum.

— Regretfully, regrettably, support bombardment is terminated. Valoverin is departing!

All personnel, salute the comrades of Karaf!

The Valoverin, packed tight with people and equipment, stood at full alert. Marines on deck rendered salute.

On the dock, wounded soldiers slumped on the ground, faces taut with near-tears, watching.

Amid the remnants of the shattered force, an officer shouted.

— Move, move, move! Tomas unit's bombardment is coming!

Run! No one else dies!

At a position two kilometers offshore, Altankark continued its bombardment.

Thinking of those who stood firm despite grim faces, as the enemy Firefly Swarm’s attack on the Oxanun Port was repelled.

And Io had just completed another surprise assault.

Dragging Hartie, whose thigh had been shot through, into the defense position where allies still put up a fleeting resistance.

"Has the ship already sailed?"

Applying emergency gel violently, wrapping bandages and tourniquet systems onto Hartie.

A soldier with a dazed expression answered.

"Valovelin has departed. Mission complete."

All eyes turned to one another.

Finally. The tension snapped.

The shipborne Defender generator was large and powerful. It would not break unless directly hit by Tomas’s concentrated fire.

"…Retreat order."

Retreat, they said—but they were already five hundred meters from the harbor.

The enemy Tomas had long since locked onto the defensive target, and the Hunter Team Io had repeatedly launched ambushes to draw his attention.

Between the buildings, in the narrow alleyway, gunfire and explosions still echoed without pause.

The six-meter, three-tier shield erected by the engineering unit was on the verge of collapse. This defensive position was moments from falling.

—Isn’t it enough already?

Someone said it. The collective will of soldiers drained to the bone.

No escape. No strength left to advance. No strength left to defend.

The commander of the defensive position slumped down, eyes fixed on Io’s face.

—From here on… leave it to each individual’s judgment.

It’s over. You’ve fulfilled your duty. At least for the end, do as you please.

Fight or flee—do as you wish. …I know it’s irresponsible to leave you in this state, but that’s how it is.

The soldiers couldn’t react properly. Not confusion. Physical and mental limits. Sensory paralysis.

One dropped his rifle and unscrewed the cap of a hidden bottle of whiskey.

—Cheers. To Sitalskia.

Even as lead and energy rounds still struck the shield nearby with dull impacts.

No one reproached him. Not Io. Not Hartie.

It was understandable. Hartie nodded with a satisfied smile, accepting the fate awaiting them.

Io asked.

—Current highest commander?

—…Who knows. The command structure collapsed ages ago. Units on-site coordinated on their own, responding to Valovelyn’s orders when possible.

So. That means anything goes now.

Checking Hartie’s thigh as he speaks.

Emergency treatment gel isn’t taking effect. His expression remains steady, but his complexion is terrible.

(Goblet, Hartie is)

‘Hartie Goodman’s body has reached its limit due to repeated short-term administration of recovery agents and stimulants exceeding tolerance thresholds.’

(Should’ve forced him to keep going.)

Hartie’s blood forms crystal-like clumps within the applied treatment gel. It will soon rupture the gel.

He’s barely avoiding exsanguination thanks to the hemostatic system—but time is running out.

‘Burn the wound. Wait a moment.’

‘Stop. I’ve already got a massive hole. You can’t just burn it and fix it.’

I don’t want to go through any more pain.

Hartie laughs, feigning amusement.

——I’m heading to the harbor. Coming?

I’ve come this far. You’re not ditching me.

A soldier, eyes fixed on some distant point, asks.

Still fighting, Reaper?

—Who knows.

——I’ll hold this defensive position a little longer. Goodbye.

Five hundred meters. A short distance for a body on the brink.

Enemy pressure remains irritating.

The chatter that once filled the air has abruptly dwindled.

After all that shouting and screaming.

Battlefield sounds feel strangely distant. Ioe leans on Hartie, dragging heavy feet down the street to the harbor.

Lurch, lurch—five hundred meters, final stretch.

Hartie, you know how thorough Yuaris is.

She’s probably already prepared to destroy the harbor, isn’t she?

You’re still talking about fighting up to the very end.

……I don’t know the details—this is a classified operation—but yes, such a plan does exist.

What’s the plan?

Nothing special. The harbor was supposed to be blown apart the moment the last ship departed…

But it hasn’t happened. Something must have gone wrong.

Hartie’s breath comes ragged.

Both of them covered in blood and mud, the sweat now dripping and spreading, their gazes unfocused.

They drag their feet forward. The sound of explosives detonating in the distance—like a drumbeat.

Moving away from the iron music, toward a harbor that should have nothing left.

Ugghh…

Hartie groans, his blood staining the red trail of his footprints.

He loads the last remaining stimulant into his tool and drives it into his neck. His face twists in discomfort.

I want to see the sea.

Almost there, Hartie.

The sunset’s reflecting—beautiful, isn’t it?

Io finally succumbs to unbearable weakness and sinks to his knees.

But he wants to walk a little more.

“Died when I was eighteen. Both parents.”

“…Old story?”

“I was a delinquent. A worthless piece of trash.”

Hartie begins speaking vaguely.

Likely his last words. Io supports him as they walk, waiting for the next part.

“But eight months later, a child was born.”

“That’s…”

“My life changed. Not a lie. I decided to start over. Had to. Absolutely had to.”

Hartie grunts as he walks. A slight increase in pace.

“Nothing to offer, but the army gave me one last chance. I threw myself at it. The army answered.”

“Is that so…”

But Rick is dead. Wife, Calina, she left.

Io avoided looking at Hartie’s face.

Thought a man of honor shouldn’t be seen like this.

I had nowhere else. Couldn’t survive outside the army.

A sharp turn at the T-junction brought the sea wind slamming into them. Fire and artillery were far behind now.

The sea’s in sight, Hartie.

Hartie sank to his knees. Io stopped supporting him and lifted him onto his back.

—Did I bore you with that?

No. I’m glad you told me.

But why now?

Feels like I’ve been with you forever.

Like we’ve been together for years…

Yes. Strange. We’ve only fought side by side for a short while.

War distorts human perception. A day for those who face death repeatedly is not twenty-four hours.

It is denser—far more compressed. What is born within it must be solid.

Even if only for a brief moment.

—Then it felt strange, not having spoken a word to you.

Io smiled.

Scattered along the harbor, weary soldiers stood like ghosts.

Each preparing for the end in their own way—checking weapons, praying to gods, thinking of friends or family.

They noticed Io and rose, straightened their backs, saluted.

Some wept. There was no time to return the salute.

They reached the point where waves crashed and ships docked.

—Still, it’s beautiful.

The sun was setting. An orange sun bounced off the sea surface, blindingly bright.

Kariana was a woman as beautiful as the sunset.

Tell her when you meet her.

“Ex-wife,” that’s all.

Io lowered Hartie and laid him down. His eyes no longer focused.

He sat beside him. The sound of waves.

Hartie, I’m from Carver Ve. Probably worse than you.

Is that so?

His voice was thin.

That’s right. But I was the same way… just like you.

Io suddenly stared at Hartie’s face.

He placed a hand on his cheek.

No breath.

…………Hartie.

Thank you, Hartie.

It was an honor to fight alongside you.

Io gently closed Hartie’s half-open eyes.

Activated Little Lady.

Altankark, can you hear me?