Vekmir watched his men die.
One by one, cut apart by something he couldn't see.
Five warriors, his best fighters, enhanced by evolution, faster and stronger than they'd ever been.
Reduced to pieces in seconds.
He couldn't process what his eyes were showing him, men running at full speed, then falling apart mid-stride, bodies separating and scattering across the forest floor like broken dolls.
And there, deeper in the trees, standing perfectly still.
That woman.
The engineer.
Watching it happen.
She did this.
"STOP!" The word tore from his throat. Desperate. "Don't enter the forest! Stay back!"
The two fighters who'd been trailing behind froze at the treeline. Their faces went white. They'd seen it too, seen their companions getting killed.
Vekmir's chest burned. Not from physical strain but from something worse.
Rage, pure burning rage.
And beneath it, something he hadn't felt in years.
Shame.
Minutes ago, that woman had been nothing. An anomaly, level zero, non-combatant role, shouldn't have even been allowed in the sacred proving grounds.
And she'd just slaughtered five of his best warriors.
He looked at his remaining team and counted them.
Nine, including him.
Just nine left.
Their faces had changed completely. The arrogance was gone along with the drunken excitement from receiving their roles, from feeling power surge through their bodies for the first time, from knowing they'd evolved beyond normal humans.
All of it stripped away.
Replaced by shock, horror, and the beginning of fear.
They stared at the bodies and what remained of their companions.
Vekmir forced himself to look too and see what had been done.
The pieces were scattered. Limbs, torsos, heads, the black leather armor they all wore was shredded and cut through like it was paper.
But there was no blood.
That's what made it obscene. No blood meant the wounds had been cauterized and sealed by heat. The cuts were too hot and too precise.
He could see their faces. Still intact with expressions frozen in that final moment, eyes wide, mouths open. Some looked surprised while others looked like they'd started to understand and hadn't had time to react.
Dead before their brains could process what was killing them.
The smell reached him. Carried on the wind, burned meat, seared flesh, like someone had cooked them.
One of his tanks turned and vomited.
No one said anything. No one mocked him for weakness.
"Phizor." Vekmir's voice came out tight. Controlled, he was holding everything back by force of will. "Report."
His second-in-command stepped forward. A tank-class built like a fortress. They'd trained together for fifteen years, fought together, and bled together.
Phizor's face was pale with his usual calm completely shaken.
"Sir." He stopped and swallowed hard, then started again. "Sir, I'm as shocked as everyone else. We lost five, all fighters. Our speed advantage is completely gone."
He gestured to the soldiers still standing.
"Two fighters remaining. Five tanks including myself. Two kinetics including you. Nine total."
Vekmir already knew the numbers. He'd counted them himself, but hearing it said out loud made it real and impossible to deny.
Nine. Against whatever's waiting in this forest. Against other houses with full teams. Against groups of fifteen, twenty warriors.
We're crippled.
He shoved the thought down and focused.
"You two." He pointed at the surviving fighters, the ones who'd been close enough to the forest entrance to see what happened. "Tell me exactly what you saw."
The younger one spoke first. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two and his voice shook.
"They just... sir, one second they were running. Moving fast. Enhanced speed. Then they just fell apart. I didn't see anything hit them. No weapons. No projectiles. Nothing."
He looked like he might vomit too.
"They just came apart."
The older fighter stepped forward. Steadier, maybe thirty, a veteran of regular combat before this.
"No blood, sir." His voice was flat and professional, but Vekmir could hear the strain underneath. "The wounds were sealed. Cauterized. The smell is burned flesh. Whatever cut them was hot enough to cook the tissue instantly."
He paused and pointed toward the forest, toward where the engineer had been standing.
"And that woman. She was there. Standing maybe five meters behind where they fell. Just watching. Waiting. She knew it would happen."
"Where is she now?"
"Gone, sir. Ran deeper into the forest. But she was positioned deliberately. I'm certain of it. She set a trap and waited for us to walk into it."
Vekmir's hands clenched into fists and his jaw locked.
"The engineer." The words came out like poison. "The system confirmed her role. She used it. Used whatever abilities engineers get. Set something we couldn't see."
"Yes, sir." The older fighter nodded. "Has to be. We walked straight into it."
Vekmir turned back to Phizor, his second.
"Tactical analysis. Now. What's our situation?"
Phizor straightened. This was familiar ground, strategy, tactics, analysis. His voice steadied.
"Confirmed enemy is the engineer-class the system flagged. She shouldn't be here but she is. She set traps using engineer abilities. Based on how our men died without seeing anything, the traps are invisible or nearly invisible. Probably only visible to her."
He gestured toward the treeline and the forest beyond.
"Our current tactical situation is poor, sir. Very poor. Nine members. We've lost all but two of our fighters. No speed advantage anymore. Other teams entering this zone will have full rosters. Fifteen to twenty members minimum. Complete role distribution. Balanced teams with fighters, tanks, and kinetics working together."
His face was grim.
"We're going to struggle against full teams. Our survival odds have dropped significantly. We'll need to—"
The gunshot cut him off.
Sharp crack that echoed across the clearing.
Phizor's head snapped backward. A hole appeared in his forehead, perfect circle, clean. His eyes went wide just for a fraction of a second.
Then he fell.
Dropped straight down like gravity had suddenly doubled. His knees hit first, then his body toppled face-first into the moss.
Blood pooled beneath his head. Dark and spreading fast.
For a moment, no one moved or breathed.
Then everyone turned.
Twenty figures stood near the Giant's corpse. Maybe fifty meters away. They'd approached in complete silence while Vekmir's team had been distracted, while they'd been staring at the bodies of their dead.
Silver armor on every single one, polished to a mirror shine and reflecting the sunlight like they were made of liquid metal.
But it wasn't just functional armor. It was art with extravagant designs etched into every piece, gold inlay along the edges, jewels embedded in shoulder plates and chest pieces, helmets with elaborate crests, capes of deep purple hanging from their backs.
Expensive, ostentatious, and royal.
In the center of their formation stood a man wearing a crown. Not elaborate, just a simple circlet of silver, but unmistakable. He radiated authority, command, and power.
The Vorminians.
One of the great noble houses, wealthy beyond measure and armed with the best equipment money could buy. And now standing exactly where Vekmir's team had been minutes ago.
Claiming the Giant's corpse.
Vekmir dropped to his knees beside Phizor and pressed two fingers to his second's neck, searching for a pulse he knew wouldn't be there.
Nothing. The skin was still warm, but Phizor was gone.
Fifteen years of fighting together, training together, brothers in everything but blood.
Gone in a single instant.
"VORMINIANS!" Vekmir roared at his team. The word came out jagged and filled with grief and rage. "RUN! Into the forest! NOW!"
His team hesitated. For just a second, staring at the twenty soldiers in silver, at the crown, at the weapons they carried.
"I SAID MOVE!"
They ran.
Vekmir ran with them. Not toward the center where the trap had killed his fighters but toward the edge, the far edge of the treeline, thirty or forty meters to the left of where the deaths had occurred.
"Sir!" One of his tanks shouted while running. Breathing hard. "The traps! What if there are more?"
"Keep running!" Vekmir shouted. "We don't know what engineers can do! How far the traps reach! Put distance between us and that zone! Fifty meters minimum before we try entering again!"
They sprinted along the outside of the treeline, following the curve of the forest and putting distance between themselves and the Vorminians.
Vekmir risked a glance back.
The Vorminians weren't following. They stood in formation, watching.
They'd made their point, killed one man, one warning shot. That's all it took.
That zone is ours now. The Giant belongs to us. Stay out or die.
One kill. One warning shot. That's all it took.
Vekmir's team reached a point fifty meters from where the trap had been. Far enough, had to be.
"Into the forest! Go! GO!"
They plunged into the trees. All eight of them.
No invisible death waiting, no bodies falling apart. The traps didn't extend this far.
They were in.
"Keep running!" Vekmir ordered. "Deeper! Away from the edge!"
They ran, crashed through undergrowth, dodged trees, and jumped over roots. Their enhanced bodies carried them faster than normal humans could move, but it wasn't enough, it would never be enough.
Not with eight people, not against full teams, not against the Vorminians.
After two minutes of hard running, Vekmir called a halt. They stopped in a small clearing, breathing hard and looking back toward where they'd come from.
Nothing, no pursuit. The Vorminians had made their claim and let them go.
Vekmir's mind burned.
Rage.
That woman, that engineer in her torn strange clothing, her foreign face, her presence in the sacred proving grounds where she had no right to be.
She'd destroyed everything.
Years of training, not just him, but his father had trained for this, his grandfather. Generations preparing and waiting for the day the dome would open, for the chance to enter the holy ground, the place where their order's ancestors had ascended, where warriors became legends.
The most sacred trial of their faith, the proving grounds blessed by the Watching Eye itself.
And some engineer, some outsider who didn't even belong, had slaughtered five of his best.
Had reduced them to meat and ash.
I will find you.
The thought was ice-cold, crystal clear and absolute certainty.
I will find you. And when I do, you won't die quickly.
I'll make it last. Days. Weeks if the system allows it. You'll beg. You'll scream. You'll pray for death.
And I'll keep you alive through all of it.
He looked at his remaining team. Eight soldiers staring at him and waiting for orders, waiting for their commander to tell them what to do next.
But he was still breathing. Still armed.
And he knew one thing with perfect clarity.
He would make her pay in blood for what she'd done.
He would make certain of that.