The afternoon sun bore down on the tarmac as the private jet coasted to a smooth landing. Its sleek black exterior shimmered with an austere elegance, a single faded crest stamped near the nose: the shield of the Black Knights Society, split and reforged.
Parked nearby, two armored SUVs and a matte black tactical van stood idle. Li stood beside the lead SUV, one hand on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. The long edge of her trench coat caught the wind, her stance straight, unwavering.
Next to her, Diego rocked on his heels, fingers drumming against his thigh, sunglasses hiding nothing of his anticipation.
"You ever met a Black Knight?" he asked, glancing sidelong at her.
Li didn't move her gaze from the jet. "No."
"Me neither," he muttered. "Thought they were just a scary bedtime story hunters used to scare trainees."
"They are," she replied calmly.
The jet's door opened with a mechanical hiss. A moment later, a heavy clank of boots echoed against the steel stairway.
General Richard appeared first, tall, built like a fortress, jaw tight, bearing the kind of expression carved by centuries of war. The scar over his left temple glinted in the sunlight.
Behind him, twelve more figures emerged, moving in a formation so precise it felt like choreography. None spoke. Their armor was mixed, ancient in some places, modern in others, but every movement radiated silent discipline. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Diego let out a soft whistle. "Thirteen of them…"
Li's eyes narrowed. "Thirteen legacies."
They marched up, stopping a few paces away. General Richard studied the pair in silence. His gaze moved between them, not with skepticism, but with the scrutiny of a man who'd buried countless allies and refused to lose more.
"Diego. Li." His voice rumbled low, weighty with history. "The living."
Li gave a crisp nod, unfazed. "Welcome to the living's last stand."
The General gave a brief nod. Behind him, the twelve split into formation again. Without a single word, they approached the waiting vehicles, six entering the SUVs, six slipping into the van. Richard remained outside.
"I'll ride with the lead escort," he said.
Li opened the door to the tactical van, stepping aside. "Right this way, General."
As Richard climbed in, Diego followed, sliding into the opposite bench seat, shifting slightly as the van rumbled to life.
The convoy pulled away moments later, gliding through the outskirts of the city with aerial drones flanking their path like silent sentries.
Inside the van, the tension was tangible but unspoken.
Diego, ever the mouthpiece of chaos, cracked his knuckles. "So tell me, General… they say you died twice. That true?"
Richard's eyes didn't shift. "I only count the ones that stuck."
Li smirked faintly, arms crossed. "Let's just hope your third death's not on our watch."
His response was simple. Cold. Solid.
"I don't die on borrowed time. I collect."
The private elevator hummed quietly, large enough to accommodate the full weight of history riding within it. Thirteen members of the Black Knights Society, cloaked in tailored combat coats and old-world insignias, stood tall in silence. Li and Diego stood at the front, the only ones without war-hardened armor, yet they carried their own kind of grit.
They had picked the Knights up straight from the airport, bypassing the main entrances of the Demonfire Group of Companies through an underground tunnel reserved only for emergencies and high-level security protocols. The private elevator was their silent passage, no announcements, no eyes, just shadows slipping into place.
"This thing feels like a coffin," Diego muttered, glancing at the security panel. "A really damn expensive one."
Li gave a quiet smirk, her voice steady. "Built it that way on purpose. Some things are meant to be sealed until the time's right."
The floor number blinked silently, 67. Executive wing. The heart of the war council.
When the doors parted, a controlled chill swept across them, cool air conditioned by design. The hallway was empty, glass walls tinted against city glare, every security camera disabled for privacy. No footsteps echoed but theirs.
At the end of the corridor, double doors of reinforced steel stood wide open. Inside, the largest conference hall in the building waited. The Demonfires were already seated, a storm of presence and silence: Slacovich, Tyler, and at the center, calm yet commanding, sat Queen Sofie.
As the Black Knights stepped inside, every one of them halted in unison.
In a single synchronized movement, the twelve infantry leaders and General Richard lowered themselves into a formal bow, one hand pressed across their chests, heads dipped low in unwavering respect.
"Your Majesty," Richard said with crisp formality, his voice echoing cleanly across the hall.
Queen Sofie rose from her seat, gaze steady and warm, her black-gloved hand lifting slightly in response.
"Rise, General. All of you. This is not a court. This is the table of war, and every soul here is a blade."
They stood, movements sharp as always, but there was something more in their stance now. Deference, yes, but also familiarity, trust hard-earned.
Slacovich's eyes, however, landed on one face in particular, Vera.
They didn't speak. Not yet.
He just offered a small nod.
She returned it.
Then the room sealed, and the planning began.
As the last of the bowing knights stood tall again, Queen Sofie returned to her seat, composed but not distant. The air settled, thick with quiet reverence.
General Richard stepped forward slightly, hands clasped behind his back.
"Your Majesty, Demonfires… allow me to present the current infantry commanders of the Black Knights Society."
He didn't turn to gesture. The first stepped forward on her own.
"Vera Storme," she said, her voice cool, not cold. "Combat strategist. Blades and bombs. India, Russia, and the Arktis campaigns." Her eyes flicked to Slacovich briefly, then settled on Sofie.
The next came up with a soldier's grace.
"Thorne Malrick. Heavy assault. Shield bearer. France, Black Wastes, and the Isle Rebellion."
Each name followed like steel striking steel.
"Lucien Vane. Long-range. Sniper division lead. Arctic Front. South Sector sieges."
"Amira D'Sein. Recon and infiltration. Silent division. Specialist in terrain disruption."
"Kellan Drover. Cavalry class. Mounted and mobile unit command. Siegebreaker role."
"Juno Vel. Explosives and demolition. Tactical sabotage. Underground warfare."
"Cazien Holt. Flame-wielder. Volcanic terrain and high-heat battlegrounds. Reinforced thermals."
"Alden Rael. Aerial unit. Jetpack and hover assault systems. Skyfield defense."
"Bram Lowen. Dual blade. Close quarters. Known for breaching enemy HQ lines solo."
"Eris Kael. Medic. Not a field medic, combat certified. Can kill or heal in seconds."
"Rook Vale. Tech disruptor. Handles magnetic and signal scrambles. EM field specialist."
"Siva Tan. The Judge. Executioner class. Sent when diplomacy fails."
They moved like a single current, introductions spoken with neither ego nor hesitation. No flair. Just fact.
General Richard, last to speak again, closed the line.
"I stand as General of this company, and sword to the Queen. Our lives are yours to command."
Queen Sofie nodded once, gaze lingering on each of them. "I do not command hearts. But I welcome your loyalty… and your blades."
The air remained still for another beat.
Slacovich's fingers tapped lightly on the table in subtle approval. A soft vibration buzzed on his wrist, a secured comm update. He glanced down briefly.
Harry's voice came through, encrypted and direct: "Final tests are stable. Carolina's analysis confirms the serum holds. Cadets are prepped. Your side?"
Slacovich didn't respond aloud. He simply flexed his hand once, quietly answering in his head: "They're ready."
Tyler, half-listening, leaned toward Li with a crooked grin. "So when do we get to spar with them?"
Li folded her arms. "You'll spar. I'll watch. From a safe distance. With popcorn."
A few smirks tugged across the Demonfire ranks, easing the edges of the tension.
Queen Sofie's hand rose slightly. The room quieted.
"Then let's begin."