Still alive, huh.

Bed, refrigerator, emergency contact phone, civilian terminal. All high-performance.

A few entertainment items. Privacy, though, is nonexistent.

No military terminal means the information Crewk would want is out of reach.

Restricted from leaving by the attending physician’s order. Originally, the patient himself didn’t care much for going out anyway.

A gentle confinement. External visits weren’t banned—so the restriction remained deliberately vague.

"Body feeling sluggish?"

Natalie asks with a teasing edge. Michelle replies, as if struck by perfect understanding.

"Listen, Natalia! Cooley’s lost more weight again. Can’t believe it—thirty-six…"

"Michelle."

"How many times do I have to be jealous before you’re satisfied? I can’t forgive this.

You’re no different, are you?"

Michelle pouts dramatically. Crewk offers a vague smile.

Natalie’s unease deepened. Not eating properly, perhaps.

“Honestly… I do feel a little envious.”

“Fat’s gone. Pax gets angry if I slack on training, so I keep working out even in the tent.”

“No fat to begin with. You’d agree, wouldn’t you, sister?”

Michelle boldly shouted at Seiva.

As Natalie’s guard, she rarely spoke more than necessary, always fading into the background—must seem quite aloof.

“…As a military officer, you’d look better with a little more weight. No matter how young you are.”

“No, no, no! Not a soldier or anything like that.”

“Michelle, that’s enough.”

“…Oh, pardon me.”

Michelle offered work and guest chairs to Natalie and her companions, then sat herself beside Crewk, on the edge of the bed.

Natalie decided to add a note of reprimand.

“By the way, Michelle—I don’t like that nickname.”

“I think it’s sexy.”

Everyone deflected with vague silence.

“The memorial for Io.”

Natalie cut in.

“…What of it?”

“You were invited, weren’t you? From Crouan, the committee chair.”

Vitto Crouan had shed the title of former chair and taken a new seat.

The Karaf Fallen Memorial and Record Commission, Refugee Support Group, Blue Goldship Initiative Support Association.

Remember Karaf Comrades, Patriotic Comrades Knights, Returnee and Young Recruit Support Organization. Et cetera, et cetera.

From non-profit civilian groups to political factions. Influence networks inside and outside the military.

Top positions in numerous organizations. Expanding influence with eerie speed.

Especially Remember-Karaf Fellowship.

Those who operate under the slogan "Do not forget Karaf"—mercenaries of Vittō, regardless of civilian status.

Natalie herself has little fondness for Vittō, yet she has pushed herself to exhaustion aiding refugees from Karaf.

"The military's official funeral has already taken place. Chairman Kouranjé's ceremony is superfluous.

No... I understand its function in calming public sentiment."

"Karaf people are... treated as nuisances."

Cold, but that is how it is.

The many people and supplies fleeing Karaf instantly strained Audar's situation.

Audar's citizens are struggling. It will take considerable time before stability returns.

"We know what Io and those who died in Karaf did for us..."

If we all verify it again, people can still endure.

No one can go anywhere right now, but something will surely work out eventually.

The committee chair is working so hard it’s like she’s about to collapse.

Workplaces will be established, and military reorganization will begin. So, please—help us, Qulie.

To keep the boy soldiers from the Kharaf from despair, to prevent quarrels, they maintain constant, discreet contact.

Not planning to die.

Michelle stares, incredulous. Funerals are a waste.

I believe it, though.

Maybe I just want to believe.

Time, then.

Shiva spoke abruptly. Natalie attached the built-in terminal without permission.

Might not want to see it.

The memorial service is being held in Bremela, a city two hundred kilometers east of Careliver.

Set up near Careliver, close to the refugees fleeing from Karaf.

A few from Unit 3552 are present. Most did not come.

Io’s face glows on a massive hologram. Behind it, a data board hastily constructed.

What he did. How he fought. Messages from those who admired him flow through.

A proper setup, one might say. A precise arrangement, well aware of what the masses would accept.

—Hmm. Sinclair’s here too. Still wears her helmet, even in times like this.

Sinclair’s Boomer is reportedly stationed at the Careliver refugee camp, according to Charger’s orders.

Crewk knew Pax was training Shorty, too.

Quiet beginning. Petals scatter. The national anthem of Cytalskia plays.

The hologram shows more than Io’s face. Various fragments recorded during the retreat.

Beauty and ugliness. Pleasure and discomfort. All rendered without concealment.

Vittō ascends the podium.

His face bears the marks of exhaustion. He wears a worn suit, unbuttoned. No tie.

In his hand, a flower clenched tightly.

He speaks first.

—To my fellow citizens of Karaf—

A roar rises.

—I may be the one leading this ceremony, and some might question that.

But this time, my whimsy and everyone’s hope have aligned just right.

So you’ve all been dragged into a —‘hug-and-stand-by’ kind of moment, I suppose.

His voice is low, relaxed. His expression calm, tinged with sorrow.

A sudden joke erupts from him. Laughter spills from the audience.

I am Vitto Crouan. I served as the former president of the Karaf Duienne provincial assembly.

…Though brief, I claim to have been one of his comrades in this desperate retreat.

The hologram shifts back to Io’s face.

The camera zooms in. Vitto’s form is captured from multiple angles.

It tilts away from the stage toward the audience. A multitude of prominent figures from various industries occupy the VIP seats.

Then to the general seating. Everyone salutes.

Natasha, you didn’t have to go?

Well now.

Of course, the ceremony drew numerous journalists. Natasha’s absence was…

Still, she wanted to believe.

He was at the front lines. I was already in Audar at that time.

It may seem obvious, but we both paid heavy tolls. As did everyone else.

…My daughter too.

Blood sacrifice. Sacrifice. That payment was Vittō’s unshakable foundation.

The ceremony proceeded. The other three stared at it with complex expressions.

“I…”

Cruke murmured.

“I’ve… only ever received.”

Michelle tightened her grip on his hand.

The hologram continued to replay recorded footage—laughter, sorrow, pain, figures who had fought.

Vittō’s eyes glistened. His voice trembled.

A dragon’s growl rasped through his throat. His body seemed to shrink.

But then, the turning point arrived.

“We have not yet lost everything.

Do not forget Karaf.

The front-line forces are holding Weedran at bay through desperate tactics. But they will inevitably reach Audar.

Audar is not the only place. Everywhere across this planet, the struggle for survival against Weedran continues.”

Because it’s the Allied command center? Doesn’t matter. Audar isn’t special. If we keep going like this, Audar too will inevitably pay a heavy price in blood.

No matter soldier or civilian, family, lover, friend—just like how the Karuf people lost everything, now the people of Audar will lose too.

You’re all tired of this, aren’t you? I am too.

We don’t want to endure this feeling again—ever.

—Let’s make it the last time, shall we?

A speech meant to make you cry. Natalie bites her lip.

Yes. This is how you drive people to war.

I understand we must fight. The war against Weedran is ultimately survival.

If coexistence with those repulsive reptiles is impossible, the fight continues until one side is eradicated.

How long? Who? How far must we go?

Remember Karuf!

Someone is shouting outside the tent.

Sympathizers of the Kouranje were present even in the refugee camp.

…………a, e?

Natalie suddenly confirmed her terminal had received something.

The terminal's response was not normal communication. An endless stream of suspicious data, source unknown, was dumped into the text field.

"Virus?"

Initiate clear program on terminal—immediately disengages.

No idea what’s happening. A program runs—corrupted data merges, glitching text. Then it shifts into a text file with a familiar ID.

Satellite communication. My ID should be blocked on the satellite leased to Fletcher—yet it isn't.

And this ID, this text is.

Natasha—don’t tell me you’re holding my funeral already?

Natalie screamed.

Io?!

――

Cruke lunged forward. Michelle followed. Natalie hurried after, flustered.

Sheva contacts Vittore during the ceremony.

Chairman, this is good news.

The memorial service will need to be canceled.

Natasha, you’re not seriously holding my funeral, are you?

The intercontinental communication link took time to secure. But now I’m being chased by stubborn lizards and monsters. Have to plan the next move.

Right now I’m gathering those who fell behind from Kharaf.

Humans are stubborn. They look like they’ve been wiped out, yet somehow survive.

I’ve sent the first wave out in small boats. About twenty people.

They should be near Careliv Coast by now. I’ve rigged them to avoid detection—possible they won’t show on radar.

The communication gear’s broken. Send out a search team.

They’re all starving. Bring food too.

Kharaf’s at its worst. The Weidran and the viral outbreak are escalating.

The corridors are choked with reptilian abominations and sludge-covered horrors. Worse still, the virus is showing signs of evolution.

A grim era is approaching. The fighting continues. I intend to gather intelligence on the virus.

Alongside civilian rescue operations.

Natasha, lieutenant—how is she? I can’t access her terminal directly.

I’ve asked the ones we extracted to relay a message.

Ideally, it would calm the fury of our commanding officer, who’s undoubtedly enraged.

There’s still more I want to tell you, but time is short.

My fans are waiting outside, calling for an encore. Time to get to work.

This ends here. I’ll contact you again soon.

I’ll supply you with something interesting. Call it your achievement. Report it well.

Take care, friend.

—Honestly… how long do you have to act like such a tough guy before you’re satisfied?!

Natalie ran, screaming.

—

"Sinclair Assault, I request your cooperation!"

Among the dust-crusted coats of Sinclair, a select few special operatives—always masked—were concealed.

They were always prepared. They would move at once, whether in combat or not.

"Crook McGibbon. Who authorized you to contact us? Provide the basis and chain of command."

"The camp administrator and their support team are absent, attending Sergeant Io's memorial ceremony—empty shells.

We require high-level on-site judgment. Among available response units, you are the most seasoned."

"Damn it, command's amateurs....So, what's the situation?"

"A vessel escaped from Karaf in the western Careliv Sea. Exact location unknown. Approximately twenty civilians.

Starving. Likely weakened."

No word from the maritime surveillance base or the air force. Where did that information come from?

Operation ID, Io-200, continental comms!

The personnel seated on chairs sprang to their feet.

GO! GO! GO! Contact the Charger!

Our esteemed operative has done it again!

Launch the Condor! All we have! Kick the airspace control’s ass!

Boomer! Where are you?! Get back now!

The emergency launch alarm begins to blare. A deafening detonation shakes the camp.

Commander 3552, what about you?

Get approval from the management team.

Fine, leave it to you. I’ve heard good things about you. Count on me.

The Condor launches immediately. A rescue craft capable of towing a medium-sized vessel scrambles into action.

The tech officer sprints toward the evacuation zone. Supplies—food first—arrive within moments.

Soldiers sprint toward the shore. Thirty minutes later, a vessel matching the description appears—towed rapidly toward the coast by the rescue craft.

Weakened civilians. Yet their faces brim with smiles and relief. Crook runs toward the ship, sand clinging to her clothes.

I believed in you....We’ll eat properly from tomorrow on.

Michel, smug. Crook nearly cries. Her breath is ragged. Not from running.

Evacuees descend from the Condor, guided down by a Sinclair team member who had been lowered from the vessel.

Among them, the last to descend—a man in field uniform, evidently the leader—Crook inches toward him.

Is Io alive?!

You’re Crook McGabban?

Yes. Commander of Io-200.

A message from him.

The man taps the terminal mounted on his arm. A window appears.

He was there among them. Some wasteland. Overcast sky. Something striped white and black pouring down onto the ruined port.

Ash. In the falling ash, Io wore his usual sarcastic smile.

—Commander. Still alive, huh.

Tears spilled in ragged droplets. Could no longer hold back.

――

—Unspecified time. Detailed information withheld.

—Artificial Spirit Special Connection Point. 'Home of the Beloved'

Operation ID Ioh-200

By the time I noticed, someone had slapped my cheek.

Hey, Yousei! You damn idiot! You serious right now?!

Wake up! I’m reporting this! Your parents will cry!

—Shut up. Yusei answers through a violent headache.

Stop. Don't do that.

……ah……hahhhhh. fuh—.

Still alive, huh. Took me by surprise—damn it.

Dive terminal in forced ejection mode. Warning light flashing red.

Jonas. Yusei is being propped up by him.

Playing prince to this guy—worst awakening imaginable.

“You said you’d do it someday. Be grateful.

You’d be dead without me.”

“Thanks, comrade.”

“Huh? ……You can remember your name, right? Memory loss?

Hallucinations? Auditory hallucinations?”

“Yusei Shinoda. Memories are clear. I’ve seen dangerous things before.”

“……Looks like you’re alright. A bit odd, though.”

Jonas offers a polymer water bottle.

Taking a sip, as instructed. It cuts deep—unexpectedly dry.

“Good thing I handed over the spare key.”

“Damn. A man’s spare key.

You really went all in this time. This game’s got teeth.”

Game. Yeah. A game. But not a game.

What are you talking about, Yusei.

He touches the dive terminal. A strangely damp sensation.

Half of us are still over there.

Jonas exhales deeply, shakes his head in disbelief.

I’ll schedule you a counseling appointment.

Yusei lets out a hollow laugh. A smile that’s him, and not him.

——

——Sitalskia Unified Calendar 266. Record timestamp anomaly

——Northern Karaf Continent, Front Army Secret Research Bunker

Operation ID Io-200

Infection units increasing. They seem to be drawn toward you.

Io stands on a sheer cliff, looking down.

A number of monsters swarm below, reaching upward toward Io above.

Data?

Recovery complete. Shall I confirm details?

Now is good. Loitering will get you eaten.

Wind blows across the azure sky. A cry echoes—pyororo—and a bird takes flight.

Io thinks of comrades across the distant sea.

Still alive, you know.

A presence behind. Wet footfalls. Ragged breathing.

—Variant approaching. Behind you.

—Crush it.

—High-altitude combat support initiated. Neural function correction.

Agent Io, victory is yours.

Io pulls the Raven’s charging handle.

Alternate world sci-fi! FPS!

The Caraf retreat operation concludes here.

Thank you all for reading this far.

Fixing typos as we go.