Alarms flared across the entire planet as every military base in Batuzane received the same simple, absolute order: by any means necessary, retake control of the situation in the capital. The long-standing ban prohibiting ships and orbitons from flying over the sacred continent of Carcas was lifted without ceremony, a tradition centuries old undone in the space of a single command, and warships and orbitons alike launched by the dozen, all bound for a single destination — Fansilia, the royal capital.
Back at the palace, Johan made his way down toward the war room, buried at the lowest level of the building, a fortress within a fortress. He turned to the guards flanking him. "Is the Empress safely secured in the dome, along with my heir?"
"Yes, sire," one answered. "They were escorted the moment you gave the order."
Johan kept walking until he reached a massive set of doors ahead of him. A scanner swept over him head to toe, and a moment later a synthesized voice confirmed his clearance — authorization granted, welcome, sire — before the doors parted to let him through. His footsteps echoed inside the cavernous room beyond, its walls sheathed entirely in metal and rising high enough to fit a full-sized orbiton standing upright. Despite the sheer scale of the space, the room itself was otherwise bare, save for a single massive triangular table at its center, ringed by eight chairs. Every general stationed on Terria was already present and waiting.
Johan crossed to the long, solitary head of the table, where a throne stood waiting for him exactly as it always did, and lowered himself into it with none of his usual ease. He glanced first to his left, where only two of four seats were occupied — Charles Vartellis and Mikhail Rozasar, both seasoned generals, both wearing the same grim expression. Then to his right, where all four remaining seats were filled: Dimitry Lang, David Bach, Gandel Dalvaren, and Cornel Mosiho, each of them recently promoted and, whatever their rank suggested, clearly still short on real experience. Even so, their faces mirrored the same grim tension worn by their two more seasoned colleagues across the table, fear apparently not caring how long a person had held their commission.
Johan rested his hands on the table and leaned his chin against them. "What's the situation out there?"
Mikhail took the lead. "We're under enemy attack, my lord." He drew a slow breath before continuing. "We've lost all communication with Central Command entirely, and based on what we've gathered so far, the debris striking the capital is confirmed wreckage from Central Command itself."
Johan's brow lifted sharply. "You're telling me they destroyed Central Command."
"It appears so, my lord," Mikhail said. "Once mobilization was ordered, we sent a unit up to confirm the situation directly. It seems the Tartarusios isn't operating alone — our forces in orbit are currently engaged with another known renegade crew, the Tarstenia, and they appear to be fielding an entirely new class of orbiton." A massive holographic projection of Hyperion flickered to life above the center of the table. "From what we've managed to piece together so far, this single unit is responsible for destroying Central Command entirely on its own," Mikhail added, sounding almost unsettled by his own words.
Johan studied the projection. "Do we have anything on this unit beyond what it's already done?"
"No, my lord. The only thing we've confirmed is its designation — Hyperion."
Johan sank back into his throne. "And how many more of these unknown units are we facing?"
Four more projections bloomed into view alongside Hyperion's, filling the room with cold light. The second was nothing like the first — its frame lattice-thin and sharply angular, armor plating honed down to blade-like edges along every surface, with wing-like appendages unfurling from its shoulders and back, bulky at a glance but revealing, underneath, a frame just as slim as Hyperion's own. Its head was sleek and narrow, crowned with two horns curving back from the skull, and its armor ran deep red where Hyperion's ran green. Its designation came through as Oceanus.
Beside it stood another, previously unseen — clad in sleek white and gray plating, its arms and legs reinforced with extra armor that gave its limbs a heavier, more deliberate silhouette than the others. A single massive wing-like structure rose from its back, flanked by two smaller ones mounted at the shoulders, and its head took the shape of a knight's helm, crowned with a narrow green visor that caught the light strangely. This one carried the name Atlas. Beside Atlas stood the last of the unfamiliar units, designated Themis — its armor gleaming in deep shades of purple and black, plated across every visible surface without a single gap, though what set it apart from the rest was the enormous cannon mounted across its back, nearly matching the orbiton's own size, flanked by two smaller wings at its midsection. Its head was narrow, framed by a pair of curved horns at the back. And standing beside Themis, completing the set, was Theia.
Johan studied the five mysterious machines arrayed before him, his expression darkening further with every passing second he spent taking in the scale of what they didn't know. "So the sum total of what we know about these machines is their names."
Mikhail lowered his gaze. "I'm afraid so, sire."
Johan rose from the throne and slammed both hands flat against the table. "You're telling me we're under attack, and we have absolutely no idea what we're actually facing?"
No one at the table spoke.
"I see," Johan said, lifting his head high, his voice gone flat and final. "Then I suppose I'll have to handle this myself." He tilted his gaze upward toward the ceiling. "Artemis. Activate."
The walls of the war room flickered to life with slow, spreading light, seams of illumination tracing outward from some unseen source, and a mechanical voice cut through the silence. "Voice recognition activated. Voice recognized. Welcome, Emperor. I am at your command."