CHAPTER 127 — POINT OF NO RETURN
Where moments ago a diplomat had walked, calm and confident, there was now only a crater. Smoke drifted lazily upward, curling against the night sky.
The smell of scorched asphalt and blood filled the air. Shattered concrete and torn pieces of clothing littered the ground.
Human soldiers froze where they stood. Fingers rested on triggers, but no one dared fire. Some stared at the crater, unable to believe what they had just witnessed.
Others kept their eyes on the Dreadnought, the massive armored figure that now dominated the street. Training and instinct warred with shock. Their minds struggled to process the impossible, a single strike, deliberate and controlled, had erased a man before they could even comprehend it.
Across the street, Titus remained still, the armored form almost statuesque.
His boots pressed into the pavement with subtle pressure, as if aware of every crack and shard beneath him. The three Bladeguard behind him held their positions, bolters raised but silent.
The Dreadnought towered over them, its systems humming with a calm, steady rhythm. Every servo, every joint moved with controlled precision. The soldiers' attack elicited no panic. There was only readiness, measured, deliberate, and deadly.
At the Joint Operations Center, everyone reeled at the feed. The monitors displayed the devastation, the crater, the blood, the shattered remains of Daniel Reeveson scattered across the street.
The shaking feeds mirrored the aftershocks of the Dreadnought's overwhelming power. General Reeves leaned forward, teeth gritted, eyes locked on the screens.
The President closed his eyes briefly, fingers resting on the edge of the console, struggling to suppress both shock and grief.
This was not a misunderstanding. Diplomacy had failed. A U.S. diplomat was dead. And the man who had been struck down was more than a representative, he was Daniel Reeveson, the President's nephew.
The personal loss pressed against the President's chest like a weight, but he did not flinch. Decisions needed to be made, and grief could not dictate strategy.
Killing a diplomat was legally considered an act of war. Every expert in the room knew this. But there was more to consider.
Engaging this force could provoke something far greater. A civilization capable of producing soldiers like the Dreadnought and the Bladeguard. At the same time, not responding could signal weakness, inviting further attacks, and perhaps even endangering the rest of the country.
The memory of the Kryptonian incident hung over every decision, countless casualties, buildings reduced to rubble across Metropolis, the near-extinction of life on a global scale. No one in that room wanted history to repeat itself. Every officer, every soldier, every political leader understood the stakes.
General Reeves' voice was low, careful, as if speaking aloud might make the situation worse. "We don't know their intentions beyond this street. But diplomacy has failed. We need to think carefully."
Orders were sent: all units were to hold fire. Defensive posture only. No one was to act without explicit authorization. The decision weighed on everyone, but it was measured, cautious. The alternative, reckless engagement, could destroy the city before anyone could react.
On the street, the armored units began subtle movement. Titus gave no verbal commands. His presence alone guided the Bladeguard, who shifted automatically into a tighter formation. Shields interlocked, bolters raised, firing lanes established. Their formation tightened like a single organism preparing for the next step.
The Dreadnought halted its advance. Its reactor energy output increased slowly, a deep hum vibrating through the street. Weapon systems remained idle but fully active. The sheer power it projected demanded attention. This was not panic or aggression yet. This was readiness.
Titus stepped forward, voice calm and deliberate. "Negotiation has failed. The original plan resumes. This city will be conquered. The country will be forced to provide supplies." Each word carried authority, a reminder of the orders behind him. It was clear, professional, and terrifyingly controlled.
Inside a SAM control room, Lieutenant Aaron Keller stood frozen for a moment, the images replaying on the main monitor. Twelve years of military experience had taught him to react to threats quickly and decisively, desert deployments, counter-terror exercises, missile defense drills. Yet nothing in those years had prepared him for this.
He watched the feed of Daniel Reeveson stepping forward, speaking in calm authority, and then disappearing under the Dreadnought's blow.
The man had no chance. No warning. No time for defense. Only a flicker of panic before death claimed him.
Keller's eyes flicked to the radar. A spike appeared, registering from the Dreadnought. The energy output was climbing steadily, a controlled escalation.
Unknown weapon signatures appeared on the screen, energy levels that did not match any database the military had. Nothing was familiar.
The Bladeguard shifted formation again, bolters ready, shields interlocked. This was not confusion. This was preparation.
Keller keyed the radio to command, reporting the escalating power output and the activation of weapons. His voice was steady, but tension threaded through every word. The response came slowly, strained. "Hold fire. Authorization pending."
He exhaled slowly. Pending meant lawyers and diplomats reviewing protocols. Pending meant political hesitation. Pending meant fear. And yet, he knew the threat was real. Every second of delay could cost lives.
Doctrine review ran automatically in his mind. The threat was imminent. Hostile intent had already been demonstrated.
A heavy weapons platform was in the engagement zone. The calculations were clear, if the Dreadnought fired first, control of the street would be lost.
Then the block. Then the city. Waiting meant civilians in nearby buildings could die. Waiting meant soldiers could be slaughtered before they had a chance to respond.
He did not hesitate. Keller invoked the imminent threat clause. Authorization could not wait. There was no time, and he did not believe these aliens, encased in their walking-tank armor, could survive a missile anyway.
"Missile away," he commanded.
The missile launched from the SAM mobile, streaking downward like a line of fire against the dark night. Impact followed almost instantly. The explosion erupted with a deafening roar, engulfing the Dreadnought in fire and smoke. Windows shattered from the shockwave, cameras toppled, and debris rained across the street.
For a fleeting second, hope sparked in the Joint Operations Center. Perhaps this had worked. Perhaps the city could be defended. Perhaps Earth had a chance.
Then the smoke began to clear. A shape emerged. Dark at first, outlined against flickering flames. Slowly, the full figure became visible.
The Dreadnought stood exactly where it had been. Its armor was scorched, plates glowing faintly, fragments of debris sliding off as it straightened. Servos whined softly, then settled into a steady hum. Aside from some surface scorching from the missile, it showed no damage at all.
"Its energy output… is stable," a technician whispered, eyes fixed on the scanners constantly monitoring Titus and the others, voice hollow. "No drop. Nothing."
The room fell silent, the weight of reality settling in. Conventional weapons were irrelevant. Human soldiers on the street instinctively lowered their weapons.
Not surrender, disbelief. The mind seeking rules that no longer applied. One infantry officer whispered into an open channel, voice tight with fear, "What the hell are we supposed to do now?"
And the answer was clear. Whatever these things were, Earth was not ready.
in the street of Metropolis, Titus and the Bladeguard Attacked after the missile fired. Their formation broke into an assault pattern. Bolters fired with deadly precision. Infantry soldiers visible on the street were eliminated almost instantly.
Rifle rounds, bullets, even heavier firearms bounced off the Ultramarines' armor harmlessly. Their shields deflected attacks without effort, their coordinated aim cleaned the street with efficiency.
The Dreadnought, focused now on the mobile SAM launcher that had fired at him, raised its Heavy Onslaught Gatling Cannon. The barrel spun, the hum of its energy resonating through the street.
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