Back on Earth, the garbled transmission crackled to life.
At first, it was nothing more than static—fractured syllables buried beneath interference, distorted pulses of sound that rose and fell like a dying heartbeat. To most operators, it would have been dismissed as noise, another failed echo from a realm that devoured signals as easily as it devoured lives.
But Mark heard it clearly.
He always did.
The Mechaman stood alone inside the communications chamber—a circular hall of suspended consoles and hovering light panels. Steel fingers rested lightly against the primary interface as streams of translucent blue data scrolled endlessly through the air. Mechanical joints whirred softly as he leaned closer, artificial eyes narrowing while internal processors separated chaos from meaning.
Noise filtered.
Frequency isolated.
Pattern identified.
Pain.
Retreat.
Encircled.
Dark Enchanters.
S-Ranked monsters.
The message arrived in fragments, jagged and incomplete, yet unmistakable in its desperation. Beneath the static were other sounds—metal striking something wet, a controlled exhale forced through broken ribs, the distant collapse of stone.
Someone beyond the Gate was still fighting long enough to speak.
Mark's optics dimmed briefly as his processors recalibrated priority levels.
Extinction-class threshold crossed.
Without hesitation, encrypted channels opened simultaneously across military, awakened, and diplomatic networks. The transmission was forwarded directly to the innermost chamber of United Front headquarters—a line reserved only for extinction-level alerts.
In less than three seconds, the world's highest authorities were awake.
General Marcus had not slept.
He had been pacing for hours, boots echoing softly across polished stone floors, hands clasped tightly behind his back. The war room's vast ceiling glowed dimly, mimicking a star-streaked night sky meant to calm those forced to make impossible decisions beneath it.
Marcus had not looked up once.
When the signal arrived, the overhead lights dimmed automatically.
The chamber filled with broken audio.
Crackling.
Breathing.
Metal striking something wet.
A distant roar swallowed by static.
Then—
a voice, hoarse, steady despite everything.
"…encircled… hold the line…"
The feed fractured.
Marcus stopped pacing.
He listened without moving. Every broken syllable tightened his jaw. Every gap between sounds spoke louder than any report ever could. Somewhere beyond that Gate, disciplined warriors were no longer speaking in strategy.
They were speaking in last words.
The transmission ended.
Silence descended over the chamber like snowfall over a battlefield.
"We underestimated the Great Gates," Marcus said at last, his voice low and heavy with restrained anger. "Gravely."
Around the circular table sat the leaders of humanity's greatest powers, summoned the moment the priority channel activated.
Japan's Prime Minister Takafuji sat rigid in his seat, knuckles white against the table's edge. He recognized voices even through distortion—men he had personally approved for deployment. Names were already forming memorial tablets in his mind.
Across from him, the Red King of Dragon's Lair leaned back with arms crossed. His crimson hair caught the chamber's glow like embers beneath ash. His expression was unreadable, yet the air around him felt faintly heated, his aura restrained only by discipline.
Beside him sat the Sun God of Sanctify, posture upright and composed, golden radiance dimmed into solemn restraint. Where his presence once inspired comfort, now it carried the gravity of a priest who understood that prayers would not be answered today.
The Sword Saint of the Murim Union remained perfectly still. His gaze did not shift from the center of the table, yet everyone felt he had already calculated outcomes before the meeting began.
Representatives of the Merchant Union, Band of Blacksmiths, Venus, and Heaven's Network filled the remaining seats. Some commanded armies. Others commanded economies.
One commanded information itself.
In that moment, every power in humanity faced the same truth:
The Great Gates were not exploration sites.
They were killing grounds.
Marcus turned slowly, meeting each gaze in turn.
"The expedition encountered resistance far beyond projections," he said. "Survivors are surrounded and severely diminished. They are requesting reinforcement."
He paused.
"The question before us is simple—and unforgiving. Do we send more forces… or do we accept their deaths as the cost of knowledge?"
The air tightened.
Japan's Prime Minister stood first.
"We cannot abandon them," he said, his voice strained but unwavering. "They entered believing humanity would stand behind them. If we refuse now, every future expedition will walk knowing they are expendable."
Gentle Smile of Venus tilted his porcelain mask slightly.
"Emotion cannot guide policy," he said softly. "But neither can cowardice disguised as logic. Reinforcement must not become another offering to the unknown."
The Sun God spoke next.
"Technology degrades beyond the Gates. Only awakened strength remains reliable. If we intervene, we must do so with people prepared to fight entities that feel neither fear nor exhaustion."
All eyes turned toward the Sword Saint.
Marcus exhaled slowly. "Your judgment."
The Sword Saint leaned forward, resting his hands lightly upon the table.
"The expedition did not fail from weakness," he said quietly. "It failed from isolation. Humans fight best in unity. The enemy does not tire. Therefore, we must outlast them through structure."
He lifted his gaze.
He knew how strong Aizen Kisuke was.
He would not admit it openly—but he knew. Aizen was stronger than him. Only the Sword God of the Murim Alliance had ever defeated Aizen in a formal duel.
Aizen Kisuke was at least high-tier S-Rank.
If Aizen had fallen into desperation—
then the Gate was worse than reported.
Even a high-ranked superhuman would not be able to return alive.
"Reinforcements must go," the Sword Saint continued. "Not scattered heroes. Not isolated S-Ranks seeking glory. A single disciplined force."
Murmurs rippled.
"Two thousand warriors. Murim Union. Trained together. Accustomed to rotation combat, withdrawal, sustained engagement. Enough to extract survivors—or to return with certainty of extinction."
Silence followed.
Then approval.
Marcus nodded once. "Agreed. The Murim Union will lead the operation."
The Sword Saint stood.
"We depart in three days," he said. "Every warrior will be briefed honestly. No glory. No illusions. This is rescue and observation."
He bowed his head slightly.
"We prepare to die—and therefore increase the chance to live."
No one cheered.
Yet resolve spread through the chamber, stronger than celebration.
Orders moved like lightning.
Across Asia, Murim Union compounds awakened before dawn. Training grounds filled beneath lantern light. Two thousand warriors assembled in disciplined silence.
They did not practice flashy techniques.
They practiced endurance.
Wooden swords struck stone pillars thousands of times to condition wrists for repeated impact. Pairs rotated through formation drills—advancing three steps, retreating two, pivoting as a unit.
"How to fight when tired," one master barked, forcing students to spar after hours of conditioning.
"How to step back without breaking formation," another instructed, physically repositioning lines again and again until movement became instinct.
"How to recognize a battle already lost," the oldest instructor whispered to a circle of captains—the hardest lesson of all.
Withdrawal would not be cowardice.
It would be survival.
Within Heaven's Network, analysts worked without rest. Holographic models reconstructed behavioral hierarchies from fragmented recordings. They identified command patterns among Dark Enchanters—predicting summoning cycles, estimating control radius, mapping probable kill zones using probability simulations instead of certainty.
At the Band of Blacksmiths, furnaces burned day and night.
Weapons were reforged—not enhanced with electronics, which failed beyond the threshold—but strengthened for endurance. Edges were balanced for repeated strikes against chitin and bone. Hilts were wrapped in treated hide to resist blood and sweat. Armor was designed to bend rather than shatter under S-Rank force.
Each piece was inspected three times.
There would be no second forging beyond the Gate.
In Japan, news spread quietly through unofficial channels. Shrines lit candles for soldiers not yet declared dead. Families prepared meals that grew cold, untouched. Children asked why the sky near Tokyo sometimes pulsed red at night.
No one answered fully.
Nobody dared to voice what was on their minds.
And beyond the Gate—
the emergency signal continued pulsing.
A fragile thread stretched between worlds.
Three days.
Three days to prepare to walk willingly into a place already proven fatal.
Three days for humanity to decide how much it valued knowledge—
and each other.
On the final night, the Sword Saint stood alone at the edge of a training yard.
Lanterns swayed overhead as two thousand warriors moved in silent synchronization. Steps aligned like a single organism. Blades rose and fell in unified rhythm.
No shouting.
No bravado.
Only discipline.
He watched them—not as soldiers, but as lives entrusted to his judgment.
He thought of Aizen.
Of the quiet confidence in his stance.
Of the duel long ago beneath falling petals.
Of a man who had cut through steel and expectation alike.
If Aizen was still alive—
he was holding the line alone.
The Sword Saint closed his eyes briefly.
"We are coming," he said softly, to the distant unknown.
They were not friends. They had crossed swords only once. But that once was enough.
It was reason enough for one swordsman to gamble his life to rescue another.
Beyond the stars, the Tokyo Great Gate pulsed red.
And waited for what would come in due time.