“I want to go home…”

The voice was weak and it crackled on the peaks like dried husks of corn. The flames of the wreckage kept climbing along the hull of the Ground Arsenal, like a strange ivy, growing on an even stranger, metallic tree. Its wreckage lay in an urban area that had been devastated by an orbital artillery strike.

Nearby, flames crawled up the side of a ruined hospital.

A dark-blue liquid dripped from severed cables of the wreckage.

“I know,” Arnel replied, his voice low and vacant of all light.

Around them, the buildings crumbled. Flashes in the distance lit the burning sky up brighter, followed by the rumbling thunder of bombs and artillery. But the distant battlefield could not cross the threshold of this holiest of places.

The place where good soldiers die.

“I want to live, major,” the man spoke, his voice cracking — although, to call him a man was wrong, for he had not yet stepped into manhood. This year, he was only seventeen years old. An ember of flame was caught in his tear.

“I know,” Arnel whispered and lowered his head. He also was not a man yet. This year, he was also only seventeen.

His comrade sobbed, his chest rose and fell with all the unvocalized wishes he held in his heart. Then he coughed up blood, spilling his lifeforce onto his torn uniform and oil-smudged neck and chin. A splattering of blood marred an otherwise pristine, wayward paper leaflet that said "For the Consolidation".

In the low light of fires, the blood looked the same as water, or oil, or anything really. Blood was cheap. Life was cheaper. Those were the basic principles of this battlefield. Such was the fate of Battalion 19, the Lost.

“I want to go home, major,” his comrade whispered in between sobs.

“I know,” Arnel said.

“I don’t want to die,” his comrade said and whined as the sky flashed again.

“I know,” he replied, reaching for his sidearm.

There was a long silence then, a dozen seconds at least.

“Are the others waiting for me?” his comrade asked.

“They are,” he said.

“Are they happy there?” his comrade asked.

“Happier than here,” he said.

His comrade chuckled, and then wheezed, coughing up more blood.

After a moment, his comrade whispered weakly, “I am ready.”

A shot rang out through the crumbling streets. Seemingly, it echoed for an eternity as it became the same as the sound of Arnel’s heartbeat — the heartbeat that echoed dozens of sounds like that one, and that remembered hundreds of fallen comrades.

“Remember us, Code,” the major whispered, looking up at the burning sky towards where Mars would be if it were visible. “Tell them: In this place, we died, for the Commonwealth of Mankind.”

___

Aren snapped out of his dream, and he could still hear the echo of that gunshot pounding in his ears. He could still feel the ghostly heat of the flames glide across his skin. His eyes still remembered the flashes of light on the horizon.

Even though the hand with which he was holding the gun was trembling, he felt surprisingly calm.

The dream felt so real. The memories of whoever that person was — the major — were still fresh in his mind, but fading away so quickly that only the feel of them remained. Like the feeling of strong brotherhood and friendship, and sometimes loneliness. Or the feeling of fighting for his life and for a cause that was greater than anything Aren could even imagine. There were things so important in those memories that they felt like they would change Aren on a fundamental level.

But now, he could no longer remember them. They disappeared from his mind the moment his eyes opened.

The Lost Battalion or Nineteen, Aren had never heard of those things before. Judging by what he could remember of the dream, and the buildings, it either happened in the old world or during the Consolidation War. Certainly, that Ground Arsenal — an old, autonomous tank that inspired the modern Machine Arsenal — was from that era.

Why was he having these strange dreams? Not the cause — he could already guess that it was because of Leviathan — but the meaning. Why was Leviathan showing him these things? Was there even a reason or meaning?

“Hey, look who is up,” he heard Fang’s weak and tired voice.

Lots of shuffling and the clank of heavy gear being moved crawled into Aren’s awareness. Quickly, he realized that they were not in the resting point anymore and that everyone had a faintly glowing white aura around them.

Cassandra was chanting quietly, fulfilling the vocal component requirement of her group healing spells.

The situation that Aren woke up to could be summarized with the word “traumatized”. Even Ame, who could fall asleep while sitting down, could only lean against his new sword — the one left in the crater next to the vestige core — and breathe heavily, half-passed out. Estella and Damien were the lucky ones, managing to sleep through the worst of it.

They were on a ledge of some sort, and the walls were illuminated by more of those crystal formations, although the light was much weaker. It was just enough to see the winding, treacherous path, but not much beyond that, or the abyssal darkness that was beyond the ledge.

Nissa’s coughing drew Aren’s attention and she had seen much better days. Her eyes were red, and she looked like she had a light fever.

“Aren,” she whispered, heaving a sigh. “What the hell did you do?”

Aren sat up and quickly realized that he was the worst off. The light-headedness he felt wasn’t just from heatstroke. He felt sick.

“Acute radiation syndrome,” Aren said.

There was a poignant pause and silence for several seconds. Utter disbelief showed on the faces that registered those words.

“No wonder the Goddess of Nature hates us,” Nissa muttered.

Fang’s expression went from disbelief to satisfaction. “I see,” he whispered, and then coughed into his hand. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. “How?”

Aren shrugged, leaning against the wall next to Fang. He felt nauseous. Every motion felt like he was on a swaying boat, riding monstrous waves.

“Bremsstrahlung,” Aren said. “Probably,” he added.

“What?” Nissa asked.

“Braking radiation. An electric field can accelerate electrons,” Aren explained, wiping sweat from his forehead. “When these electrons hit a molecule, they deflect and emit high energy photons.”

“You are such a nerd,” Nissa said, smiling wryly.

“X-rays?” Fang asked.

Aren frowned and then shook his head.

“Gamma-rays?” Fang asked, eyes wide.

“I got a message that I violated some anathema code. Also, Ytra is really angry with me. And with you too, it seems,” Aren explained.

“So?” Nissa asked. “What does that have to do with gamma rays?”

Aren shrugged. “Maybe I am wrong about this, but I am guessing that what happened and what made you sick was not the short gamma-ray burst, but the radioactive carbon dioxide.”

“Carbon-14 is a radioactive isotope that is naturally generated during thunderstorms,” Ame spoke without looking at the trio, implying at the same time that he understood the nature of Aren’s class. “It is relatively harmless unless you swallow it or breathe it in.”

Aren glanced at Ame.

Perhaps feeling Aren’s curious gaze, the blademaster looked back at him. “The Anathema Code is a set of rules that all living creatures — good and evil — follow and obey, universally. The fact that you are not an enemy to everything under the sun means that you are a Calamity — the Anathema Code does not apply to them.”

Aren swallowed. The air became tense. “You know what I am?”

“You don’t have to make that face,” Ame said, looking away from Aren and closing his eyes as if to rest again. “I could tell you were different the moment I saw you. You also got Fang and Nissa to join your clan. It is kind of obvious when you think about it.”

“You don’t care about the reward?” Aren asked.

Ame shook his head. “I don’t care about the reward. Or that unique class of yours,” Ame said.

Aren glared with a healthy dose of doubt at Ame.

“It is true,” Nissa said, noticing Aren’s look. “He could’ve taken it from you.”

Aren glanced at Nissa, eyebrow raised quizzically.

“He went back for you,” Nissa said. “We both did. We dragged you out of that glowing crater, but you were out of it and kept asking about the rose. So he went back for it.”

Aren checked his pockets and released a sigh of relief when he found Priscilla’s rose.

“He gave it back to you,” Nissa said, offended.

Aren pondered Nissa and her motives behind defending Ame so strongly. It was one thing to defend him on principle, but another thing entirely to be offended that Aren suspected Ame could’ve stolen it.

“All right, all right,” Aren said, holding his hands up defensively. “What do you want, Ame?” Aren asked, dropping all signs of politeness. Perhaps it wasn’t politeness, but deception. At least Aren thought it, but he was sure some of the others suspected as well. Why did Ame join them in the first place? Did he really not want anything from them?

Ame shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Everyone is so serious about Singularity. I just don’t feel the same way. I don’t care about money or fame. I just want to have fun.”

Aren blinked. “You just want to have fun?”

Ame nodded. “You don’t have to believe it,” he said. “But there is a reason I joined you. The alliances operating in Leone blacklisted me on the market. I want to chop their heads off. And I found the sword to do it with,” he said, and patted the sheathed sword he was using for support. “However, picking it up also made me a Calamity. Rank G.”

A stunned silence lingered in the area for a long time. Then Ame spoke again. “So, what about you, Aren? Do you care about rewards?”

Aren thought about the question. He didn’t have to. He already knew his answer. But he thought about it anyway. Maybe as a thought experiment. Maybe just to come close to understanding how Fang and Nissa must’ve felt. But he just couldn’t see the same way they did. Rewards? Fame? None of those things mattered to Aren.

Sure, Aren was poor in the real world, and his life was in ruins — although, seemingly recovering — thanks to the cybernetic implant, but that was not what he wanted. What he wanted, just like the lightning blade, he already had.

He wanted friends. He wanted an adventure. He wanted something special. Now, he just had to find and save Priscilla.

Aren smiled, after a moment. “I don’t care about rewards or fame, either. We just want to have fun and see how far we can go,” he said and sent the invitation to Ame. “Do you want to come with us, Ame?”

Ame cracked a small smile. “To see how far we can go?” He tilted his head, his smile growing larger. “I like the sound of that. Count me in.”

[Clan: Ame has joined your clan as an officer.]

Fang and Nissa looked happy. Until recently, Fang was so opposed to being in the same alliance as Ame that the eastern warrior made a lot of alliances angry with him. But now, he seemed to be happy that Ame was one of them.

Cassandra seemed to be the happiest of them all. She has seen what greed can do to friendships, and how ugly it could become, but perhaps this clan was different from the one she was in. Only time would tell.

“All right,” Fang said, throwing an arm around Aren’s shoulder. “Now, while we slowly melt from the inside, I want to know every detail of your fight with that thing. What happened?”

“Are we really going to melt?” Nissa asked.

Cassandra shook her head and paused her chanting for a brief moment. “It’s na’ fatal. I am jus’ treating your symptoms. It will take a while, though.”