Days Gone By Chapter 13

…there was always a brutal arithmetic to war. How many bodies, bullets and bandages it cost to make the enemy sue for peace, to give up, to surrender. Before it had been measured in trench lines, in gas attacks and sweeping machinegun nests. Then, it was measured in tank shells and tracks, in how many miles a rolling metal war machine could charge before needing a fresh tank of ragnoline. But that wasn’t the war we fought. Our calculus wasn’t measured in machines, or bullets, or even bodies. It was in fear, and how much of it it took to break the wills of the men invading Gallia. To our side, we were heroes, but the enemy, they invented a new word to describe what we were. Terrorists.

-Chapter 3, The End of the Beginning, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front

Chapter Thirteen

Time was beginning to grow long for the three, and Jerry knew it. They had gotten this far on luck and chance, but that couldn’t last forever. The truth of it was that they were one shift change or patrol adjustment from someone raising an alarm, and the fact that it hadn't happened spoke volumes of just how many troops were watching the bridge and how confident the Imps were on this side of the river.

Jerry kept that thought close as he weighed their next steps. He knew the girls were feeling the strain too; the long night and the raw tension of the mission was wearing on all of them. Seven cold, wet hours had taken a toll, lots of waiting, lots of hiding, hiding from the wind as much as they were from the the enemy and still shivering despite it, pretending they weren't all freezing. This job had pushed them, and they had all seen the cracks. The sluggishness, the slower reactions, and the steady change from sprinting, to jogging, to power walking as they moved from cover to cover.

The rain had been slowly letting up in the last hour, too. What had been a curtain of water blinding the Imps was thinning into a pale haze. It gave Juno and Marina clearer sight lines from their tower perch, but it also did the same for the Imps. Lights burned brighter now, and the crash of water had eased. Jerry could sense the shift as keenly as the others, all of them pressing tighter to cover, breaths shallow as the city began to wake around them.

Welkin’s timetable weighed heavily. Each tick of the clock drove home the urgency of their work. They were all waiting for the signal that would bring the whole camp down in fire, but Jerry’s mind fixed on one last obstacle: the General’s tank. Even crippled, the Imperials had enough strength to bleed Gallia white if that armored monster rolled to the front. A near‑invincible machine, bristling with firepower, could turn any assault into a massacre. That was why Jerry had made it his priority. Before the clock struck, before Welkin’s guns opened up, that tank had to die.

It had taken some time and a lot of searching on Juno's part, but she'd managed to narrow down where the personal steed of the General was hiding.  It was an old auto-body shop converted to a workshop, located in a corner almost tucked away, but embarrassingly close to where they'd entered the camp to begin with. Its broad bay doors had been reinforced with steel sheeting, and in the light spilling from the high windows, the three could make out the work crew scurrying around a gaudy monster of a machine. The sound of hammers and rivets rose and fell even above the thinning rain, punctuated by the hiss of torches and the rasp of saws. Sparks occasionally burst from the plates, flaring bright before fading. The rhythm of labor gave the whole building a sense of relentless motion, like the heart of a beast beating through the storm.

And there, in the center, sat the general’s tank. Painted in garish maroon with gilded trim, it seemed to exude menace even as it sat there, the proud standards of a bull's skull painted on it's frontal armor. Thick, angular plates of reinforced steel were being bolted on, every edge meant to absorb and deflect fire. Six mechanics clambered over it, their movements hurried but practiced, voices rising in complaint or laughter as they worked through the night, hauling one more two inch thick slab into place on a set of retention chains.

Two guards watched the side entrance, their rifles slung but eyes scanning with the discipline of veterans, their bright red armor marking them as Aces, elites. Another pair walked the perimeter in slow, deliberate passes, pausing at corners to sweep the open courtyard, before moving on. Inside, a pair of officers hunched over a table, poring over papers, occasionally gesturing as they argued over figures and notes. The air within glowed blue-white from ragnite lamps and welding torches, the workshop alive with industry. And there, as if to confirm Juno’s report, General Jaeger himself emerged from a back room, his stride brisk, as he seemed to personally check in on every soldier nearby, all smiles and easy confidence, as he checked in on them. His presence here marked this as the heart of the occupation’s strength.

Jerry pulled them into the cover of a drainage ditch, crouching low beneath the lip of stone. Water rushed past, splashing against their boots as he studied the building. His jaw set hard at the sight of the tank, its angular armor glinting with rain. It was a hard fight, trying to get in, let alone quietly, and still get the job done. But then... did it need to be? They had ten minutes, maybe, before things really started moving. The time for quiet was over.

"Juno, does Marina have a clear LOS to our position?" He radioed, receiving a quiet click of confirmation back. "Mark targets, four outside, guard on the far left, on my mark."

Jane wiped water from her brow and leaned close, whispering, “What's the play, Boss?"

“Four point takedown. You and Wendy get the roamers to the right. I'll get the leftover from the door guard. Then we pop the windows and grenade them. Wendy, infil and drop the rest of the charges down the gut of that tank.” Jerry muttered back, throwing things together almost on the fly. “Jane and I will give you cover fire, rifles free. Then we send the signal and use the chaos get the fuck out of here, same way we got in.”

Wendy leaned forward, her grin fierce even in the gloom. "Oh Boss, you know just what to say to a girl to get her going.”

"Just don't let them get a bead on you on top of that thing. I don't want to drag your carcass out of here, Wen." Jane smirked, getting a giggle from the woman in question.

"Hop to it. Watch your corners, and don't get shot." He finished, looking at them both, before clicking his radio. "Juno, prep the exit plan. Remember, we all go home-"

Jane gave a sharp nod, her pistol already in hand. “Or nobody does.” She shifted her weight, checking her mag, her eyes never leaving the glowing windows ahead.

Wendy’s fingers brushed over the last of her charges, her expression almost hungry. “Or nobody does.” She finished, and then the two were off.

Timing would be everything. Jerry waited a beat, a second, as the roving watchmen came into sight. He counted down, seconds passing as they waved to the door guards before heading to the corner, passing close enough that he could hear them breathe as they missed him, their submachine guns held at the ready. He clicked his radio three times. The two passed the corner. Twice. When they were out of sight, he clicked it once, and there was a dull, distant crack. The first guard's head snapped back, falling into the wall as the man next to him seemed to freeze for a second, and only a second, but it was enough. His pistol barked a hiss-crack, once, twice, three times, and the second guard fell.

Nearby he heard the sound of several suppressed shots, knowing that they'd probably been heard, but already moving regardless. Beside him, Jane and Wendy appeared, as they began to hear alarmed shouts inside the workshop, the sounds of chairs scraping the ground and boots hitting metal. He motioned to Jane, who prepped the first grenade, before handing it to Jerry, live and hot. It shattered through the nearby upper window with the titter of broken glass.

"Grenade!" Came a shout from inside, as the second and third went through the window, and Wendy kicked open the door to toss a fourth. There was the sound of breaking glass as someone jumped through a window before the first blast kicked off with a dull whump, then the second, third and fourth, the room filled with the sounds of pained screaming as the three burst through and swept the room with their rifles up. Several men were down on the ground, unmoving, and several more were wandering around shellshocked. The rattle of their StG-44s drowned out those men, leaving them on the ground as Wendy sprinted towards the tank, her satchel loose in her hands.

Inside, chaos reigned. Flames licked across the ground as puddles of spilled oil ignited and the room filled with the scent of bloody meat and viscera. It didn't slow them at all, as Wendy all but scaled the massive maroon beast, it's armor barred with shrapnel and blood coating it's plates, as Jerry and Jane scanned the room for survivors. There were none.

Inside, a door that lead into an adjacent building burst open, the first soldier through cut to pieces under the sustained fire, but it wasn't enough to stop the crush, several Imperials forcing their way through as Jane and Jerry took up cover behind some rolling toolboxes. The first mags were spent quickly, suppressing the soldiers that poured in, many not even wearing their armor and clutching hastily, grabbed weapons, but it was too little too late.

"We're set!" Wendy shouted, from her perch, before ducking down as bullets pinged off the plate armor of the Lupus' turret, her StG joining the din as alarms started screaming overhead. In moments the three were scrambling out the door, and as soon as Jerry cleared it, he screamed "FLASH FLASH FLASH!"

And then the world was light, and heat, and the shockwave, so much more than anyone could have guessed, knocked the three commandos flat. The fuel depots all but vaporized, belching great, flaming blue mushroom clouds into the air, and the machine shop and armor flashed in conflagration, but the worst was the two barracks buildings, all made of old wood and plaster, now doused in the glowing blue flames of burning ragnite, the jellied chemical all but crawling across any surface it could find, eager to burn and consume and grow as it consumed the bottom floors of the hotel, and gutted the warehouse in a hellish blaze.

In the distance, Jerry could hear the agonized screams of those burned, like a backdrop taken from the nine circles themselves, the din of dying men as they boiled in their skin and crisped from the ravaging flames.Then the turret of the Lupus landed a scant few feet from his head, dragging him back to reality, the dazed, ringing shock in his ears from the blasts.

Looking around, he didn't see the girls, but he heard them, the chopping rattle of their rifles, the chatter of the Erma as it joined the chaos, and the soft cracks of a sniper rifle in the distance, as a bright flare lit the sky above. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, the area around him covered in rubble and flaming debris, the workshop nothing but a gutted husk, the only thing standing of the building it was attached to was an old woodshed, handaxe still embedded in a log at its base.

But in that mix of hellfire and smoke, he wasn't alone. Across the empty lot, staring in mute shock as his whole camp burned, stood Radi Jaeger, a tall, proud man in an overcoat with the skill of a bull for it's shoulder pad, his long hair pressed flat against his skull from the dying rains above. He carried no weapon, but a drawn sword at his waist, as he slowly turned, his eyes ringed with a profound, vicious hate.

Jerry reached for his pistol, his rifle having fallen... somewhere, but it was missing. No, it was in the hand of the General across from him. The man seemed to follow Jerry's eyes, and snorted. In a swift, easy motion, he ejected the magazine, and uncocked it, before tossing it away into the smoke.

"No. No, you don't get to go like that. Not after all this, you bastard." He hissed, as he raised his sword. Jerry strode over to the wood pile, and ripped the small axe out of the stump, before drawing his knife.

"I did tell you that I'd see you soon, didn't I, Radi Jaeger?" Jerry pondered back, weighing the axe in his hand as he clutched at his knife. "And here I am."

"Here you are. Was all this worth it? All the deaths you just caused, hiding in the dark like a coward. These were good soldiers. They deserved a good fight. To live or die standing up." Radi asked, almost conversationally, the hard edge in his voice hidden under a mist of velvet. "Just like you will, Ghost."

"Is it worth it, Radi? The fight's lost before it even began, and as soon as Lieutenant Gunther reaches the bridge controls, all of Gallia is going to come pouring over that bridge." Jerry's eyes glinted coldly in the fire, his voice low, even, colder than the rain and the wind. "Surrender. Tell your men to surrender. Save what's left of them."

"...do you really think they'd listen, after this?" The General sneered, "Because if it were me, I'd want to kill you all, or die trying." Then there were no more words, and with a crushing step, he raised his sword, and charged into battle, where the Wolf of Fhirald finally met the Lion of Bruhl.

The first slash was high, probing, and wickedly quick, the massive blade in Radi's hand flying as if weightless in his grip, the control perfect, to an exquisite degree, as he slid the blade toward Jerry's eyes. He ducked back, boots skidding through ash and grit, feeling the wind of the cut skim his brow. The second came as if born from the first, a counterswing without warning that hummed toward his shoulder. Jerry twisted left, hatchet hand leading, the flat of the oak haft grazing steel as the sword hissed past. Then the third whisked low across his middle, the edge skittering along the plate carrier at his belly. The fibers bunched and held, the blade failing to bite.

"That was a kill, Ghost. I'm surprised you found something that could take a slash from my Fang, but all that means is I needed to try HARDER!" Radi snarled, moving in as his blade flew in, only to be caught on the haft of the handaxe, the old oak tough and thick, before the underhanded dagger came up, almost catching Radi in the jaw, forcing the man back as his sword sang against the axe, pulling free.

Jerry’s stance tightened, weight forward, hatchet up, knife low. He felt the flare of strength behind Jaeger’s blade and the practiced precision guiding it. The general moved like a trained duelist made for the parade ground and the battlefield both, murderous grace layered over iron intent. Jerry answered with economy. The moment the sword scraped clear, he stepped through and cut space with the axe in a tight arc meant to end things.

"You talk too much, Jaeger." Jerry growled, as he danced in again, axe coming down hard, fast, clashing against the flat of the sword, the dagger sliding in, barely missing Radi's gut, only to find the cut reversed, the sword ringing his axe and nearly catching him in the throat, as the two disengaged.

Steel met oak and iron once more, the impact running up Jerry’s forearm. Radi’s blade batted the axe aside with a practiced quarter-turn that was almost elegant, a flourish born of hours at drill. Jerry felt the kiss of air at his throat as the riposte skimmed past and dropped his center, sliding out along the line of danger instead of retreating directly from it. The ground beneath them was treacherous: shattered roofing tiles, splintered planks, the warped hulk of a workbench half-buried in debris. They circled, boots grinding, the ruin around them throwing their shadows long in the firelight.

"Come now, is this the best you've got, Ghost? Poking at me with your little toothpick? I expected more from you." Radi sighed, derisively, a frown on his lips. "How disappointing."

With those words he slid back in, coming in low as his blade came up, the cleaving slash barely missing Jerry as he threw his arms wide, rolling back and then kicking hard to dodge the reverse, downward cut. The knife came in behind it, looking to catch the General as he recovered, the cut caught short as Radi's other hand, empty and at first held behind him in a fencer's pose, wrapped around Jerry's own, his axe caught on the sword as he tried to force Radi on the defensive. The man's grip was like steel, corded tight around his wrist, as he stared with nothing but hatred at the commando. "I expected better of Gallia. I expected honorable men fighting a just war. But instead they sent you."

Jaeger’s approach had showmanship baked into it, but there was nothing soft in the power behind his cuts. Jerry felt the jar of bone to bone as their limbs collided, deflecting off one another as Radi blocked another stab. Jerry shifted back with a sharp wrench as he tried to slit the man's wrist with the reverse, only for Jaeger to disengage just long enough for the slash to miss. The sword pinned the axe, steel over wood, and for a breath their faces were inches apart. Heat shimmered between them from the fires eating the workshop’s carcass. Jaeger’s eyes burned, the hatred personal and absolute.

Jerry pulled back, ripping his arm free with a hard twist and a stomp to break contact, forcing the two apart as Radi paced the edge of the battlefield. The general’s footwork was neat and measured even then, his emotions leashed tightly, even as they bled onto his face. He used the open ground like a master, steering Jerry towards the worst of the debris while keeping his own options wide. The sword in his hand glowed a hellish red in the flaming backdrop, his eyes sparking with vicious derision.

"Rich of you to talk about honor, Jaeger. I was in Bruhl when your boys rolled through. Saw the families murdered, the children lined against the wall and shot. Is that what you called it, now?" Jerry sneered, stalking opposite the man, "Murdering children? Murdering civilians? Old men and women? Wives, daughters, sisters, mothers? All the fighters had left by then, you know? All that were left were the too old. Or the too young."

Jerry slipped in, axe cracking against Radi's blade, before the knife slid its length and almost took his fingers with it. Radi tried to disengage, but Jerry was on him, two fast slashes that nearly took his throat and a chop that left his fingers numb from the ringing strike.

Radi countered with a twirling cut that forced Jerry to disengage, before following up with two brutal cuts that left a thin line of red dripping down Jerry's cheek, the cut, not quite dodged, stinging. The two breathed for a moment, the thick smoke blocking the sky as the droplets of rain, thinned to almost nothing, still fell, evaporating before they hit the ground from the volume of fire, leaving the air humid, and stinking of death.

The exchange that came next was quick and ugly. Jerry battered at the longsword’s dominance with short, chopping blows from the hatchet, never meeting the blade-on-edge for long, always deflecting to foul the line and open a lane for his knife. Jaeger yielded ground just enough to reset, his sword flashing a bright, precise circle that turned aside the hatchet and picked at Jerry’s guard. Steel whispered past Jerry’s throat this time, close enough that he felt the wind of it, as he pushed the cleaving slash away.

"Those weren't my orders. They weren't MY MEN!" He shouted the denial, but Jerry snorted, wiping away the blood. "But they were your side, Jaeger. Don't justify it. We both know that the only difference between you and them is that you hide it better."

The words hit as hard as a blow. Radi’s jaw set, shoulders squaring as if to carry a weight. For a heartbeat his style showed its pedigree, the stance crisp, the blade held with textbook alignment. Then the grief and fury running under his skin broke the surface and he surged forward again, pushing for a decisive cut that would end the argument with steel.

They collided by a toppled tool rack. Jerry side-stepped, hatchet leading the next attack, enough to jam the sword’s path while his knife angled for the general's throat. Jaeger’s parry was clean, the longsword’s spine catching the hatchet with a resonant ring before his empty hand whipped out to slap Jerry’s knife hand away. They broke apart, boots scraping, both breathing hard. Around them, burning rafters creaked, and a shower of sparks drifted down where a beam finally gave and collapsed in the distance. The sounds of war were beginning to echo over the crackle of fire. Gunshots, explosions and the reports of tanks echoed loudly, but here, they were alone.

Jerry feinted high with the axe and cut low with the knife, a brutally efficient economy baked into the motion. Jaeger read it, steel dropping in time to stop the killing blow before it found his guts, the feint turning into a second strike that cracked off the horn of his pauldron, shearing the horn off the bullhead with a crack.

Radi’s answer was a flourish that spoke of a lifetime of training, his blade cutting a tight figure, drawing Jerry’s knife wide and smacking the axe away with the flat to clear space. Then he chopped twice in quick succession, shoulders and hips turning together. The second cut scored skin and left that line of red across Jerry’s face, to join the first, deeper, and closer to taking his ear. Jerry rolled his neck once, blinked free the sweat, and reset his feet.

They circled again, slower now, each man measuring the other’s limits. Jerry’s hatchet hand flexed once to keep blood moving in the fingers. Jaeger’s grip re-centered on the longsword’s hilt, his thumb braced along the guard for the next exchange, his mouth set in a grim line, as the two circled once more.

"Don't pretend like your side is innocent, Ghost. Did you know your General Damon was using gas on us? First thing, too. The only reason he stopped was because we had the counteragent. So don't cry to me about breaking the rules." The accusation was backed with steel, followed by a downward slash that Jerry had to catch on both his weapons, knife and hatchet crossing to take the weight. The shock jarred his arms to the sockets and ripped his footing loose; Jaeger’s follow-up haymaker crashed through his guard and caught the side of Jerry’s head hard enough to send him stumbling back three uneven steps across cinders and broken tile.

The second cut hissed for his neck and would have taken it if not for a last-second duck that shaved hair from his crown. Jerry returned the strike on instinct, driving his knife up and across the general’s side in a short, mean line that opened up his belly. It was shallow, not deep enough to spill his insides, but enough to make him bleed.

Radi cried out and checked his momentum, free hand snapping to his gut as blood seeped through his overshirt. Disengaging, he set his feet, sword angled, eyes burning at Jerry over the gleam of the edge. The two men squared, the the exchange lasting barely a moment, but neither was out of the fight.

"It was never about the rules, Radi. Soldiers die. It's what we do. But there was never any reason for the kids, the civvies, to suffer for it. The moment your side decided that there were no unacceptable targets was the moment the rules stopped mattering." Radi narrowed his eyes, the words leaving a cut across his soul. He had always known the people he ended up working with, working for, but he had believed he could be better. That something like that would matter. But it really didn't, did it. Gregors savagery and Maximilian's allowance of it had created all the justification Gallia needed to employ a sociopath like this Ghost.

They moved again, not lunging yet, testing edges with small probing strikes. Jerry’s knife feinting to his wrist, the hatchet twitching to bait a parry; Jaeger’s blade answering with a tight quarter turn, a clean mechanical motion that that would have taken Jerry's fingers if he were any sloppier. The fire snapped somewhere behind them, something going off with a sharp pop, ammo burning off, maybe, or the final groans of burning wood. Neither man spared the noise a glance.

"But that's the damning truth of it, isn't it Radi? There are no rules. There never were. Not to you." Jerry said with a cold, crushing finality. "And not to me." He didn't wait for a retort, shifting his weight, then in a move as swift as a serpent, snapped the edge of his boot through a mound of gray ash. The clump broke apart and blew up into Radi’s face.

The general cried out and rocked back. Reflex dragged his off-hand up to shield burning eyes; his sword stayed high, but the point wavered. Jerry went in without hesitation. The knife cut came short and vicious, burying itself in the meat of Radi’s thigh. The blade sank deep, hitting bone, the thrust more of a punch and a twist that put him to ground on one knee. Jerry followed the collapse with a hard driving knee into the bridge of Radi’s nose. The impact cracked loud and ugly as cartilage gave way and blood went everywhere.

A wild, panicked swing from Radi’s sword answered, one-handed and broad. Jerry had to give space, rolling away from the blind arc and taking two short steps back to reset. The underhanded trick had bought him the opening he wanted. The damage was done. Radi was on borrowed time now, as his lifeblood pumped out the hole in his leg.

Radi forced his eyes open, one bloodshot and the other tearing. His hand gripped his broken nose and came away slick and red. “BASTARD! Don't you have ANY honor!?” he cried out, enraged and appalled, voice thick with blood.

Jerry just snorted. “Honor is for dead men, and dead beliefs.” He said it as a fact, the way a man might note the rain. There was no honor is this, and they both knew it. This was revenge, on one side, and the cold calculus of war on the other.

Radi gritted his teeth. The leg he had planted on screamed at him, punctured muscle firing pain that burned up and down his leg like someone had rammed a hot poker into it. He shifted weight anyway and refused to favor it. Jerry stood across from him, like a hunter, patient and relentless, knife low, hatchet high, eyes like cold glass. For a breath they simply watched each other breathe, as the seconds ticked by.

“Now give it up, Radi. Drop the sword, surrender. I'll see to it that you get patched up. You and any of your men that have the good sense to know when to call it quits.” Jerry’s tone was something like conciliatory. Just give up, let go. Surrender, and be seen to. Time was ticking, and the bleeding wasn't stopping.

Radi spat blood onto the ground and tightened his grip. “What makes you think I'd even believe you, Ghost? No. There's only one way this goes.”

He sneered and broke into motion. Even with a bad leg, his charge came lightning quick, a trained fighter running on raw willpower alone, the pain numbed by rage. Two swift cuts barely missed Jerry’s chest as he dipped and slid along the line, the edges whispering past cloth and skin. The third came in at a cruel angle and caught him in the meat of his shin. Pain flared as his leg was pulled out from under him, and it sent him to the ground in a hard drop that knocked air from his lungs.

Jerry rolled for his life, the momentum carrying him across wet grit as the downward thrust punched into where he had been a heartbeat before. Steel bit the earth with a hard, ringing thunk. He felt the gust of it over his side as he cleared the line. The hatchet slipped free from his grasp in the tumble and skittered away. Radi stepped in and kicked it farther, the axe spinning across the ground and out of reach.

The next slash came fast and heavy. Jerry caught it on his knife alone, both hands wrenching the hilt to brace the short blade against the long. The weight of Jaeger’s sword drove him back into the dirt, grit grinding into his shoulders, the edge forcing closer and closer to his throat, Radi pressing down with all his weight. He ground his teeth and held, barely.

Radi leaned over him with both hands now, bearing down. The world narrowed to the edge of that blade as it pushed harder, and harder. Jerry’s elbows locked, the knife shivering under the pressure. He pushed up with all he had and bought an inch, then lost it again as Jaeger slammed weight forward. He needed room. He made it the only way left: a sudden, mean kick. Jerry’s boot hammered into the general’s gut.

The blow folded Radi with a grunt and knocked him back a half-step, the treads digging into the hole Jerry had left there. It wasn't much, but it was enough to let Jerry recover. He rolled to his side and then to a knee, knife still in his fist. He rose from there, leg screaming protest. For a moment the injured limb wobbled like it would fail under him, but he steadied it, set his stance, and faced Jaeger again, shoulders square.

“Is that the best you have, Ghost? Is this it!?” Radi’s arms spread wide, mocking, laughing, almost euphoric, blood bright on his mouth and chin. He looked like a man who believed the end of the road had already been lain and he had chosen how to walk it.

Jerry watched him with narrowed eyes. His leg throbbed in a steady pulse, each beat a small hammer inside the muscle, and blood dripped under him in thin, dark lines. He let the pain sit in the corner of his awareness and refused give it more than that.

He reached down without hurry and slid a long‑handled grenade from his leg pocket. He weighed it in his palm once to feel its balance, then let it hang from the wooden stem in his left hand while the knife stayed ready in his right. The axe was gone, but it didn't matter. He adjusted his stance by a half step and set his shoulders behind the new weight.

Radi stared at him with shocked disbelief. For a heartbeat his face ran the gamut from fury to astonishment and back again at the sight of a man taking the field with a live stick grenade as a club. “You can't be serious. Do you want to die?” he spat, laughter cracking from his throat, harsh and raw.

Jerry’s reply came mocking, voice cold and unwavering. “Why, are you afraid, Jaeger?”

He stared at the man unflinchingly as he said it. The grenade hung steady in his hand, it's weight the commitment that they both knew was one bad strike from ending them both. Radi let out an unhinged laugh as he stared at the explosive. In the end, this was a fight to the death, wasn't it? And the winner would be whoever wanted it more. However was willing to risk more. Back in the good old days, when Fhirald was where he called home, there had been a book he'd read, from some far eastern war philosopher. He had a lot to say, but now, in this moment, only one idiom stood out. 'When on death ground, fight.'

And this was death ground, make no mistake.

Jaeger’s hands tightened on his sword hilt. The leg that had failed him a moment ago held with renewed purpose. He drew breath through his mouth, wiped blood from his nose with the back of his wrist, and reset his guard. Jerry rocked once on the balls of his feet to test the leg with the cut and found the line he could still fight from. The distance between them held tight as a wire.

Radi circled a step, then another, testing angles, eyes never leaving the grenade. Jerry let him, countering with small pivots, knife kept inside his own silhouette, grenade hand outside it, the two weapons forming a crude cross. The world felt like it held it's breath as the two played out the fight in their minds' eye.

Jerry didn't rush to fill the silence. He let the fight play out, watching the Wolf on the prowl, a dozen, then a hundred options flashing through his mind, as Radi’s sword angled to intercept whichever response Jerry offered, the general’s stance still crisp despite pain and blood. They held there, tense, each man daring the other to go first while the battlefield waited for them, and then, with the smallest tilt, the slightest twitch, the two charged again.

The longsword cracked against the wooden stem of the grenade, the steel jarring as Jerry turned it aside like a club. Jerry’s knife followed, a quick flick across Radi’s chest, carving a thin line through cloth and skin. The second slash was faster, hungrier, forcing the general back a step. The grenade swung heavy in Jerry’s grip, barely grazing the general's head, almost the metal of the bomb gouging his forehead, but not braining him.

Radi cursed, his breath ragged. "You think this scares me, Ghost!?" His voice cracked between fury and disbelief as he pulled back, narrowly missing another blow that might have caved his skull in. The sword bit back, slicing away at Jerry, angling to dig into his soft flesh, but the knife met it. The closer in his was, the harder the fight was for Radi, and the loss of all that blood was starting to effect him. There was a ringing in his ears, a weariness to his cuts, that hadn't been there before, growing deeper with every pump of his heart.

Jerry sneered, voice icy. "Come on Radi, where's all that tough talk from before? All that fight to the death tough guy bullshit?" It made his blood boil, thinking about how this... this creature was talking down to him, mocking him.

The general’s laugh came out bitter, strained. "Oh, I'll put you down alright, you can count on that! You think some cheap tricks are enough to stop me!? I've fought through hell to get to where I am, and I won't let you or anyone else stop me now!" he roared, pressing forward again. His sword slashed in, only to pull back as Jerry raised the grenade in line. The two circled, each probing, each daring the other. Radi’s blade cutting in arcs, hunting for a weakness, a gap, anything he could use, while Jerry’s knife slashed back in quick, brutal strikes, every motion tempered by the threat of that grenade.

The leg wounds had ended the dance they'd had before.  Neither could afford any sort of fancy footwork, not now, as their muscles strained to just keep them standing, but it was a losing battle and Radi knew it. He needed to outplay his opponent, one who had been keeping him on edge since the first swipe, and had punished him for his hubris. He should have just shot the fucker when he had the chance.

Radi gritted his teeth, his eyes flicking to the grenade and back. The Wolf was calculating, his instincts screaming to disarm this madness, but every strike risked setting it off. It didn't stop Jerry, though, as he pressed the advantage, swinging the heavy head like a mace, forcing the general to keep match his rhythm, ceding the momentum of the fight. His knife darted in, cutting across Radi’s shoulder, drawing another line of blood, and Radi knew that so long as it persisted, he would wind up carved up like a holiday bird.

Then the moment came, something small, almost infinitesimal as his Ghost stepped back on his weak leg. In that moment, Radi struck. His sword met the grenade head-on, sparks flying as steel rang against steel. With a vicious twist he knocked it wide, then slammed a boot into Jerry’s chest, driving him to the ground. Jerry hit hard, the grenade tumbling free, rolling across the dirt. The knife was still in his grip, but the sword hovered inches above his heart. With the explosive disarmed, and the man down, it was then, and only then, did Radi relax. For all that they were enemies, it had been a good fight. A hard fight. He hated the man he now had on the ground, and hated him deeply, but he could respect a skilled soldier. Even in his last moments.

Radi’s voice was ragged, but triumphant, as his foot landed heavy on his enemy's chest, the weight pressing down as his Fang found the gap at the Ghost's throat. All it would take is a push, barely anything, not even a real stab, to finish the job. "And so it ends. Any last words, Ghost?" He bore down, weight behind the point, sweat and blood dripping from his chin.

Jerry stared up with those same dead eyes, unblinking, a smirk tugging his lips. His voice was flat, almost amused. "Fire."

The crack of a rifle split the air. Radi jerked, shock etched across his face as his chest erupted in a spray of blood. He stumbled back, dropping his sword, staring down at the hole punched through his torso. Another shot hit him in the gut, doubling him over, driving him to his knees. The sound echoed, thunder over the battlefield.

He lifted his gaze, realization dawning through the haze. Smoke curled away, and beyond it, above the ruins, the glint of a sniper’s scope caught the light. The truth hit him harder than the bullets had. The duel, every step, every clash, had been drawn away from the ruined building, away from the burning Lupus. This man had led him here, piece by piece, insult by insult, until the Wolf stood in open ground with no cover. Without the smoke to obscure them, the rain, the dark, he had left himself open. He hadn't even thought about it, so incensed with the desire to avenge his troops. He had been lead around by the nose, and his masterstroke, his victory, had been the last step that left him exposed.

Radi coughed, blood spilling from his lips, his voice a hoarse rasp, disbelief and horror leaked through, so thoroughly was he outplayed. His eyes fell on the man who stalked toward him. There was a glassy, dead glint to those eyes, as he took in this... this thing, this nightmare, and with his last breath, he whispered, close enough for only the man to hear. "Y-you... m-monster... h-how could... h-ho-how..."

Jerry tilted his head as if studying a specimen, then crouched in front of him. His voice was quiet, intimate. "A monster, huh?" He seemed to chew on that, and in those last moments, Radi understood just what kind of man had killed him.

The knife slid in between Radi’s ribs, straight into his heart. The general’s body jerked once, Jerry’s hand steadying him by the shoulder. For a moment, the two men stayed there in that empty silence, the duel’s end sealed in blood. Then the light left General Radi Jaeger’s eyes, and he slumped lifeless to the earth.

000

Standing, blood dripping from his blade, Jerry’s hands were raw from the fight and the heat. The storm’s mist clung to him, his breath heavy but steady, as he turned and found a dozen Imperials staring at him from the edge of the wreckage. They stood frozen, weapons loose in their hands, eyes wide. No one moved until Jerry’s gaze swept across them, and then as one, they stepped back.

The silence stretched. One soldier let his rifle fall from nerveless fingers. Another dropped his as well, the clang loud in the stillness. Then another, and another, rifles and pistols and even a submachine gun clattering against the broken ground. The sound built into a steady rhythm as more and more Imperials released their arms, shoulders sagging as they accepted the fight was lost. Bayonets, sidearms, and carbines piled in the dirt, their echoes carrying across the ruin until nearly every man stood empty‑handed. All but one. A young soldier, barely more than a boy, clutched Jerry's pistol in both hands as if it were a relic. His eyes were wide, jaw trembling, but he stepped forward. He extended the weapon toward the commando, offering it up.

“We... we surrender, sir,” the boy said, his voice breaking. His arm shook as Jerry took the pistol, slid in a fresh magazine, and holstered it without a word. The boy stepped back quickly, and the others fell to their knees, armor battered, eyes hollow. Smoke and rain coated them, mud streaking across their once-pristine armor. They looked like men at the end of a long road, defeated not just in battle but in spirit.

Moments later, Jane burst through the smoke, her rifle ready, eyes searching. She froze when she saw Jerry, bloodied but standing, surrounded by kneeling Imperials. Wendy was at her side, sweeping the plaza in the din of the dawning light, ready to strike if it came to it. They slowed as they took in the scene, Jane rushing forward with a ragnaid capsule in hand. She held it over Jerry, barely able to get it high enough, but managing nonetheless, the familiar cool sensation spreading as healing light patched his torn flesh and dulled the pain.

“Get their weapons and bind them. They're prisoners now.” He said, his voice tired, the words slurring, from exhaustion, or from blood loss, he didn't know. Wendy moved quickly, directing nearby Gallian soldiers to disarm the prisoners as Squad Seven’s men moved in, many giving him wide-eyed, awestruck looks, as they corralled the surrendered Imperials. The fighting was over, it seemed, the timing almost providence, but the truth far more simple. Their general was dead. Their supplies were gone. Their tanks were wrecked and their reinforcements had burned to a man.

Jerry grunted, sitting down heavily on a cracked stone block, the ragnaid glow fading. His eyes were still sharp, distant, as if listening to screams no one else could hear. The comms crackled to life, Juno’s voice carrying excitement. “Boss, Welkin is reporting that they secured the bridge!”

He looked over at Jane, her radio still blaring, as his sat silent. Then he sighed, and heard that too, and he reached up, flicking the unit off. He'd suspected that had been something like the problem when he stopped hearing updates after that explosion. Broken, or stuck on transmit, and he'd gambled that it was the latter through that entire fight. Still, it had been a risk. A calculated one, but a risk all the same.

The battle itself had been over in minutes. Radi’s soldiers had fought desperately, but without their commander to lead them they had been a body without a head, striking blindly until the Gallians overran them. The survivors fled into the woods, scattered, and retreating, those that made it out before things turned for the worst. But the end result was all the same. The bridge belonged to Gallia now.

Tanks rolled across as the rainclouds parted, letting through the dwn's early light, boots crunching on wet stone as Gallian troops secured the far side. The wreckage of the battle lay heavy around them: burned vehicles, shattered barricades, the charred remains of Radi’s once-proud command. Jerry sat among it all, silent, the weight of it pressing on his shoulders. The fires hissed and sputtered as rain smothered them, but the smell of ash and blood lingered. In his ears, he could hear the screams still, echoing through the air even though the flames had long since burned low. He could taste the flavor of overcooked pork, the scent of it overwhelming, and yet... he wondered if it was all in his head.

Word spread quickly, carried on whispers among the troops. They had seen the duel, seen the fight dragged out into the open. The Lion had faced the Wolf and won. And with that victory, a new name was born; The Ghost of Vasel. It traveled fast, faster than Jerry could stop it, and it tasted like something rotten on his tongue. His whole fight had been broadcast over the mainline. Even now people were quoting him, soldiers slapping him on his shoulders in starstruck awe and fearful wonder, and through it all, Jerry wondered what that meant for him.

Jane and Wendy hovered close, keeping an eye on him as Juno and Marina came down from their perch, both having watched the fight from their tower, Juno's Erma a nasty surprise as Marina picked off stragglers. Both had been there to witness it, through the smoke, the fire, as the Boss lead Radi into Marina's crosshairs. But when they saw him, they both shared a look. For all his accolades, for all his success, the man that sat heavy on that stone perch looked so much more tired than they remembered.

They joined the circle forming around Jerry, soldiers speaking in hushed tones. The respect in their eyes was clear, but Jerry didn’t bask in it. He stared down at the blade in his hands, still wet with blood, as if weighing what it meant. The four had closed ranks, shooing off the curious and invasive alike as lines of Imperial prisoners were marched by. He hadn't spoken since his quiet moment with General Jaeger, his words too quiet for the radio to pick up, Radi's last words for him alone.

That was when Alicia appeared, her uniform soaked, her rifle slung over her shoulder. Her steps were careful, her tone softer than usual, but tinged with something wary. “Jerry..." She nodded, to him, then looked t the others, "Juno, Marina, Wendy, Jane.” She greeted each of them, awkwardly, as she clutched her cargo in her arms, nervously. It took a moment for her to find her thoughts, then held something out, long and wicked. “Welkin thought you should have this. He said it would mean more to you than any medal.”

They stared at her, the four girls not sure if they should have welcomed her or told her off, but it was Jerry that silenced them. With a tired heave he lifted himself from the stone throne he'd planted himself on, and walked over to the girl, her baker's bandanna still in her hair. She looked rough, but steady, compared to him, covered in filth and grime and blood that seemed to radiate a scent she could only call "War". His eyes were hollow, his shoulders hunched, but it was still him, for better or worse.

She presented Radi Jaeger’s sword. Chipped, bloodied, still warm and yet frigid all the same, Jerry took it from her. She moved to speak, to say something, anything, but words failed her, as she saw him staring at the weapon in silence. His fingers curled around the hilt. His voice came low, barely audible, carrying only to those closest. To his Pride. To his friend. To himself.

“Monsters,” he said, the word heavy, as if it were a judgment and a confession both. “Aren’t we all.”