Crack… crack… Pebbles on the forest floor quivered. A synchronized cadence rolled through the open woods. Grass swayed with the breeze—yet in that calm, a single blade bent the opposite way for the briefest instant, then settled as if nothing had happened.
The anomaly passed too quickly for anyone to notice.
The marching drew closer. Gleaming spearheads slipped into view between trunks, cold metal flashing. Follow the hafts and you saw a faceted gem set in silver-white breastplate; within the gem, the faint outline of a snarling gun barrel. Above, a massive metal helm masked the face, red optics flickering in the visor. On each back, a bold insignia—an orange-red sun disk with eight triangular rays—the very pattern of Tai's Crest of Courage. These were the Steel Empire's standard troops, the Mechanical Huntsmen: bodies of Chrome Digizoid, armored to the teeth and studded with weaponry.
File after file of Mechanical Huntsmen advanced, weaving through trunks and skirting thorn thickets. In their wake, teams of smaller robots trotted up to the trees, popped open chest plates, and swung out razor axes—one blow per trunk, timber crashing down.
Thump—thump—. From above, the forest thinned in swaths. Behind the axe-bots, other models leveled the ground. Then came a colossal train; robots spilled from its cars hauling rails, laying a track for Locomon to haul troops. The line stretched arrow-straight toward the horizon, as if stitching itself to the sky.
Not far ahead of the Huntsmen, in the crown of a tree, a purple-capped, monkey-like Digimon peered through wind-parted leaves—Makuramon.
A Perfect-level Holy Beast of the Data attribute, the Deva of the Shen branch, Makuramon usually appeared as a strange mascot doll. Subordinate to Baihumon among the Four Sovereigns, it never spoke and kept a blank face—yet its whole body mimed mood and meaning, posing out joy, rage, sorrow, and delight. Observers said it was often in good spirits, curious, and quick to lose interest. It loved to bottle up "favorites" in its treasure orb to collect them; even mid-battle, it would seal a foe away and call the matter closed—a pacifist at heart.
To the left perched a red-crested, gold-winged Digimon: Sinduramon, the Rooster Deva—Perfect-level Holy Bird of the Data attribute, representing the You branch. Another of Baihumon's underlings, it relished quarrels and rumors. Provocative by nature, it goaded enemies to fight, then tucked its head and wings into a sphere-armor shell; the hardest of the Divine Generals' gear, once inside it achieved absolute defense and would spin to smash through lines. Its finisher, Ryunō, blasted a searing electric shock from the vajra-like staff on its back.
On the right crouched Caturamon, the Dog Deva—Perfect-level Holy Beast of the Data attribute, also serving Baihumon. He doted on Makuramon and Sinduramon like a big brother (though the two rarely looked grateful). Fiercely just, he wouldn't rest until right and wrong were decided. When friends clashed, he acted as chair and judge, transforming into a great hammer—his "judgment mallet"—to render verdicts of guilt or innocence.
The three hid deep in the foliage, but their eyes—through leaf-gaps—never left the advancing Huntsmen. In the brush below them, a knot of Digimon lay in wait, barely daring to breathe for fear a single sound would spook the enemy and ruin the ambush. Around them, a faint magnetic field smothered the Huntsmen's scanners.
What they couldn't know: far, far above, a satellite orbited just like those of the human world, filming everything and relaying it across the distance.
In Tai City's control center, the giant wall screen showed the scene in crisp detail. The satellite rendered Makuramon, Sinduramon, and Caturamon's carefully crafted jamming field meaningless—their every move lay open before Tai. The satellite had been Tai's idea; Datamon had infiltrated human networks for reference designs and built one.
A child of the 21st century and its data deluge, Tai understood satellites. The Digital World had no native experience with them, but humanity's databases had plenty. And Digimon had an edge: no rockets needed. Chaos Megidramon simply carried the payload to orbit and set it where it needed to go. Now, the Digital World lived under Tai's watchful eye.
Watching the trio and their troops eye the Huntsmen inch closer, Tai sighed and murmured, "Couldn't help yourselves at last, huh?" He shelved the thought and turned to Datamon. "Status on Thunder? Can it deploy?"
Datamon's voice whirred, precise. "Hull fabrication: complete. Basic weapons and structural tests: complete. However, combat trials remain incomplete; the main gun has not been live-tested. Actual performance values in battle remain unknown."
"That's fine. We've got a perfect live target to pull main-cannon data from. Sortie Thunder—and log everything."
"Understood, Tai." Datamon spun to the consoles, fingers clacking. Command strings rippled into the depths of Tai City, rows of indicators flaring to life. Hagurumon swarmed around a massive warship, prepping Thunder for launch.
Tai tapped a sequence on the console. A red button rose; he flipped the safety and slammed it. "Thunder—launch."
Vrrrrm—. The colossal ship shuddered. Below, a transfer cradle glided Thunder toward the exit berth. Locking clamps irised; the forward blast doors yawned wide to a dome of blue sky.
Back in the forest, with the Huntsmen now ten paces out, Makuramon, Sinduramon, and Caturamon chopped their hands down. Hidden Digimon sprang up and snapped together a ring of Transfer Gates.
Beep—beep—beep—. The Huntsmen's red visors flared warnings. They halted as one, spears raised, tips leveled at the brush. Chest-gems opened to bare snarling barrels; light gathered as the cannons charged. Farther back, track crews dropped their tools and marched toward the flashpoint. Locomon hissed to a stop, disgorging ranks of mechanical soldiers.
The three Devas plunged into the Huntsmen's formation with a tide of Digimon at their backs, intercepting the opening volleys to buy time for reinforcements to stream through the gates.
By then, the Huntsmen's chest cannons were hot. A forest of lasers lanced out, spearing the onrushing Digimon. Screams ripped the air; struck bodies burst into data—but still the charge came on, heedless of death.
Behind them, casters and gunners planted their feet and unleashed techniques in sheets. A storm of color crashed over the Huntsmen's lines; units sparked and staggered, slowed just enough to be buried under the next wave and collapse into heaps of scrap.
Arcs of light scratched the sky, and where they fell, they cast a pall of death. Machine and beast alike dropped by the dozens—only for new lines to surge up, fill the gaps, and fire again, then fall in turn.
Assault teams pressed hard, narrowing the range with every step. Huntsmen toppled in rows, and Digimon were deleted in kind. Lines buckled, reformed, and buckled again as both sides paid in steel and data.
Then a bass note rolled in from behind the Huntsmen, and both armies lifted their eyes.
A vast shadow swallowed the clearing. A warship slid overhead, sunlight skittering across armored plates.
Weapons—large and small—studded every span of its hull, and on the spine, a single titanic main gun loomed. Mechanical soldiers scurried along its decks. The whole ship gleamed in orange-yellow, and on its belly, an orange-red sun with eight triangular rays blazed wide.
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