They finally reached the lift, navigating through the final stretch of trench that bled into a scorched, half-collapsed access shaft. But since this wasn't their assigned extraction grid, they were stopped and searched by Legion security.
Protocol demanded they wait.
Hours passed in the dim, cold chamber above the shaft. Tension lingered in their muscles even as they slumped against the metal walls. Gilbert remained silent, helmet tucked under his arm, gaze locked on the floor. Blood, grime, and pain clung to all of them, a silent weight pressing down.
Eventually, clearance came through.
As the lift shuddered to life and began to rise, they watched the trench fall away beneath them—rusted steel, twisted rock, the remains of battlefields stitched into the Earth's bones. Explosions echoed faintly through the vertical shaft. Somewhere far below, battles still raged.
They all took a deep breath of fresh air as the platform emerged onto the surface. Gilbert tilted his head back, letting the sun warm his face for the first time in days.
A chime sounded in his helmet.
"Knight 141, report to Meeting Room 3."
– Pantheon OS, Priority Dispatch
A route overlay lit up on his HUD.
Gilbert glanced at the rest of the squad as similar notifications flickered in their displays. Everyone began checking their maps or muttering under their breath.
"Last hurdle, guys," Gilbert said with a tired smile.
"Then we can finally rest," Kean added, cracking his neck.
"Not exactly," Gilbert replied, tone steady. "We'll be reassigned to our company. Judging by the time we've been down there, they've already received their next mission."
The squad groaned in unison—some rolling their eyes, others slumping their shoulders.
"Chin up, boys and girls. We're alive."
They walked together through the processing zone, a towering gray building lined with scanners and automated defense turrets. Once inside, their paths diverged. One by one, each turned down separate corridors, nodding farewells.
Gilbert followed the glowing markers to Meeting Room 3.
He waited in silence, the room bare except for a metal table, two chairs, and a wall-mounted Pantheon interface.
After several minutes, the door hissed open.
A compact man in a lieutenant colonel's uniform entered, his right eye clearly cybernetic—constantly adjusting, scanning, and twitching with silent logic. Holographic projectors embedded in his chest plate shimmered with rows of service ribbons and commendations.
Gilbert stood and saluted.
"Good day, sir."
"I am Lieutenant Colonel Spencer. I'll be handling your debriefing," the officer said, voice clipped and mechanical, no doubt enhanced by a vocal implant. His bionic eye moved as it scanned Gilbert's vitals and armor data.
"I've reviewed the initial report and helmet footage. It confirms you encountered a High Knight of the Deathwatch." He paused. "I want you to walk me through the event. In your own words."
"With respect, sir," Gilbert said, keeping his posture firm, "I've already submitted a complete report and the raw suit telemetry. Is there something specific you want to know?"
"Yes, I want you to walk me through it. That's an order," Lieutenant Colonel Spencer said, his tone sharpening into steel.
Gilbert held the officer's gaze for a few seconds, then slowly exhaled. "Yes, sir."
He began recounting the sequence of events—from the initial ambush in the first cleaning zone, through the skirmishes in the Styx-infested corridors, to the final confrontation with the rogue knight. His tone remained even, his details accurate. But he omitted one thing: his final question to the High Knight before death claimed him.
Spencer listened in silence, his bionic eye twitching as it tracked Gilbert's pulse and micro-expressions in real time.
"Why didn't you request reinforcements after encountering a knight of clearly superior class?" Spencer asked, interrupting him mid-sentence.
"I reported the situation," Gilbert said. "Command instructed us to proceed with the mission."
Spencer made a sound—a clipped exhale that might have been a scoff. "You were being hunted by a High Knight of the Deathwatch, not a random errant unit."
"I understand that now," Gilbert replied, keeping his voice measured.
The next hour passed under the weight of relentless questioning. Spencer's interrogation looped in on itself—phrasing the same inquiries in different ways, dissecting minor details, circling the rogue knight like a predator. Each line of inquiry led back to one point:
What else are you hiding?
Gilbert gave nothing away. He kept to the facts in his report, even when Spencer repeated a question with deliberate pauses, as if waiting for a slip.
Eventually, the lieutenant colonel leaned back slightly, fingers drumming once against the table.
"Your squadmate—Adam, was it? He fired the final shot. But you were the one the knight fixated on. Why?"
Gilbert didn't answer immediately.
"Was there something he said to you?" Spencer pressed. "Something off-record?"
Gilbert's jaw tightened. "No, sir. He didn't say anything of value."
Spencer stared for a moment, then nodded once—not in agreement, but in cold acknowledgment.
"You're dismissed for now. Report to your unit's barracks. You may be summoned for further questioning there."
Gilbert stood, saluted, and turned without another word. As the door sealed shut behind him, Spencer activated a comm channel embedded in his wrist.
"Get me Intelligence. Cross-reference Knight 141's squad's telemetry with all their interviews, something else happened down there."
Gilbert regrouped with his squad, all of them finally cleared to leave. Their pace was slow as they headed toward the Citadel—every rock of their transport adding to their exhaustion. Chen Mei was already linked into the medical HQ, trying to coordinate the reattachment procedure for Gilbert's arm.
As they stepped once more onto the Citadel's black stone flooring, the weight of survival momentarily lifted. Shoulders relaxed. Joints cracked. Some laughed, others just breathed.
Then—
"Gilbert, here!" a sharp voice called out.
Heads turned. Standing near one of the Citadel's transport pads was Colonel Aniela, waving them over. Her stance was rigid, her gestures urgent.
Gilbert blinked, confused. "What now?" he muttered under his breath.
He started toward her.
"All of you!" Aniela barked again, eyes scanning his entire squad.
Now Gilbert's confusion deepened. He glanced back at his squadmates, who were already exchanging puzzled looks. With a quick hand signal, he motioned them forward. They jogged after him.
"No time for greetings," Aniela snapped. "Get inside."
She gestured sharply toward the open transporter. The squad obeyed, stepping in.
But then—a deep rumble echoed across the landing platforms.
Engines.
They turned just in time to see several Ronin-class dropships slicing through the air toward them, low and fast. Matte black hulls, angular designs, and unmistakable markings—
The symbol of the Advocates.
"What the hell?" Kean muttered.
Aniela's eyes narrowed. "Inside. Now."
She shoved Adam through the door as the transporter sealed shut and kicked into motion. It lifted from the pad, thrusters engaging, then surged forward, gliding above Citadel structures at high speed.
Inside, the squad rocked with the sudden acceleration.
"Colonel," Gilbert said, his tone sharp now, "what's going on?"
Aniela didn't answer immediately. She activated a holo-panel, checking their heading.
"I'll explain everything once we're secure," she said. "But for now—stay quiet. That is an order."
Colonel Aniela tapped her halo-watch, ignoring the increasingly aggressive commands from the Advocate ships trailing them.
"Unidentified transport, reduce speed and prepare for boarding. This is your final warning," the transmission echoed through the cabin, firm and cold.
None of them spoke, their eyes locked on the view outside the transport's side windows. The horizon rapidly expanded, revealing the magnetic booster runway—and there, lined up in regal formation, was the core of the White Horns Fleet.
Hovering above the strip like a gleaming guardian was the Ivory Sentinel, a sleek Drakkar-class light cruiser, its emblem proudly glowing against its hull. Around it, four newly arrived logistical carriers formed a support perimeter—evidence that the White Horns were growing in strength.
But none of that mattered if they couldn't reach them in time.
Gilbert's stomach clenched as their transport vibrated under the Advocate ships' tightening net. The enemy vessels were now maneuvering to encircle, thrusters firing in tight unison.
"Damn it," William muttered, hand drifting toward his spear.
"Don't," Gilbert said quietly, eyes still on the window.
Then it happened.
Every suit, every ship system, every HUD in the transport blared with proximity alerts. The interior was flooded with red warning glyphs.
"Something's dropping in!" shouted Kean.
And then—he appeared.
From the sky, with a crack of distorted light and sonic force, a lone figure dropped in front of the transport.
The air rippled. Gravity bent. The entire convoy—Advocates included—froze.
General Beckett.
His advanced power armor, a deep imperial purple, shimmered in the sunlight, his iconic short cape casting a long shadow across the landing strip. His very presence distorted the magnetic field beneath him, causing nearby engines to flicker.
There was no mistaking him—not the glint of the obsidian pauldrons, not the dual war axes slung by his waist. This was the Warden of the Outer Rims, a living legend.
Inside the transport, the squad sat in stunned silence.
"Holy hell…" someone whispered.
The Advocate ships halted instantly, hovering in awkward stasis.
Aniela never flinched.
She guided the transport forward, past the still-locked Advocates, and toward the waiting embrace of the White Horns.
"General, I've safely escorted Gilbert to the medical vessel," Aniela whispered into her comms, her voice just above a breath.
"Thank you, Aniela." General Beckett's voice responded almost immediately—calm, commanding. "I've already instructed Major Cade to take off. Don't worry—I'll hold them off."
Outside the transport's thick blast-shield windows, the ronin-class vessels of the Advocates were repositioning—sleek and fast, now lining up across the booster runway like vultures around prey.
Aniela gave a firm signal to her squad and the medical crew. "Move. Now." She guided them toward the White Horns' new medical cruiser, its hull still gleaming from the factory's sealant coats.
Gilbert paused beside her, matching her stride. "Aniela… can you please tell me what the hell is happening?"
Her face tightened, and for a moment, she glanced away.
Then, eyes sharp and tone low, she answered, "Someone broke into my office and personal quarters two nights ago. They stole a batch of medical records—files I had compartmentalized and encrypted. Yours included."
Gilbert's stomach dropped.
"But…" she continued, "they only retrieved fragments. I split the full diagnostic into isolated memory shards, some in hard copy, others encoded in private med-lockers. But the way they moved—they knew exactly what to look for."
Gilbert stared at her, stunned.
"That's when I contacted General Beckett." Her voice softened slightly. "He arranged the White Horns' deployment as a cover for an emergency off-world assignment… because he knew if we stayed in the Citadel, you wouldn't survive the week.