“Hah. There’s too damn many.”

A mountain of piled bodies.

Only minutes ago, these dozens of individuals had been alive, but now they lay cold and still. In the midst of it all, in the control room stained with blood, a figure slumped into a chair, smoke drifting from a pistol in his hand.

It was Edwin Serkins, a section commander of Team Dagger. With a fresh tally of 31 kills, he glanced down at his aching abdomen. His armor plating was cracked. While Eugene had caused havoc on the ground, Serkins had infiltrated the upper floors of the museum, eliminating every enemy he encountered.

It had been a slaughter, pure and simple.

“So much for letting that guy handle the tough stuff…”

He checked his remaining rounds, taking in the control room’s layout.

Powering down would likely disrupt the jammer, halting its interference signal. But to be sure, more definitive measures were necessary; if power were restored, the jammer could be reactivated at any time.

Taking a bag of explosives slung across his back, he ascended the stairs. Bloody boot prints dotted the floor, and sticky, viscous sounds echoed as he stepped. Fortunately, the sharp smell of blood faded the higher he went.

Opening the door, he was met with the salty breeze unique to San Francisco’s coast—far more refreshing than the stench of blood.

Facing the unsightly makeshift jamming tower, he set down his bag.

-[Notification: Explosives placement marked.]

He positioned several 500-gram blocks of C4 around the structure. No need for tape; the flexibility of Composition 4 allowed for easy shaping and placement.

He attached the detonators, transforming the harmless blocks into powerful explosives. But it wasn’t time to set them off just yet; the timing had to be perfect to maximize impact.

At that moment, a voice came through his Icarus Gear.

“Explosives set at both Foster City and the Interpretive Center. Oakland and San Francisco teams, report when ready.”

“San Francisco team, explosives set. Preparing to detonate and deploy drones with laser designators.”

“Confirmed. All teams hold until Oakland is ready.”

And so, he waited.

It wasn’t boring, though; gunfire echoed from below. No need to look—it was obvious that Eugene was tearing through every enemy in his path.

But seeing the endless stream of warnings on his HUD was undeniably unsettling.

-[Warning: Ally vital signs, zero.]
-[Warning: Ally shield fully broken.]
-[Warning: Ally in incapacitated state.]

“Is he really okay?”

The same message had repeated at least seven times. While he knew Eugene wouldn’t fall so easily, the fact that he kept facing death left a bitter taste in Serkins’ mouth.

But regardless, with all the noise Eugene was making to draw attention, there was no chance of the skirmish ending peacefully. It was simply a matter of which side would collapse first. And the outcome was all too predictable.

Heavy, rumbling noises reached his ears. Looking over the balcony, he saw armored vehicles firing their cannons below.

But then—

Ping!

A bright crimson streak cut through the air. Serkins, a veteran of Icarus, recognized what Eugene had fired instantly.

“A miniature thermite round… he really brought everything.”

Technically, it wasn’t a “thermite” round. It contained a special reactive compound that melted through the target’s armor on impact, theoretically even piercing a tank.

Bringing such a specialized round to counter armored forces showed just how prepared Eugene was. Serkins watched from the balcony, impressed.

But not for long. Prolonged watching was starting to sting his eyes.

“He’ll make it up here eventually.”

Muttering to himself, he looked away.

“Way too damn many.”

The crackling sounds of burning armored vehicles filled the air. Amidst the corpses piled around him, a seemingly lifeless figure emerged. His body, leaving traces as if rebuilding from ashes, was regenerating.

Panting heavily, Eugene scanned the surroundings, releasing a pulse. He’d taken down around ninety enemies. The BMP-3 had forced him to use about ten rounds of miniature thermite ammo, targeting drivers and squad leaders.

Part of him wished he’d been given a more versatile rifle, but the M14 had served well enough so far.

“Ground cleared. Entering the museum.”

He wondered how much news of his supposed “immortality” had spread inside. Frankly, the mental exhaustion was heavy, and he hoped to avoid further fighting.

The moment he entered through the revolving door, bullets rained down. He rolled quickly, taking a few hits, but ignored the now all-too-familiar shield warnings as he systematically picked off enemies hiding behind the ticket booth, stairs, and balcony. Well-hidden ones he took out with sticky bombs.

Even before entering the exhibit hall, the walls of the modern art museum bore splatters of blood, covering what might have been abstract graffiti.

Dududududu!

“He’s invincible! Fall back, fall back!”

“Lower the partitions! Lock the fire doors!”

He’d hoped for surrender, but instead, they chose a more clever defense.

So he decided not to hold back.

Ascending the stairs and eliminating enemies, he searched for a way to the upper floors. The long hallways, sharp turns, and seating areas had all turned into cover for his enemies. But his seeker mines, pulse scans, and various other skills shattered every defense they attempted.

Naturally, more obstacles lay in wait. Metal gates and shutters dropped repeatedly, blocking his path.

Unfazed, he drew his tactical tomahawk.

“Huff…!”

With an ominous crunch, the ax blade tore through the barricades. It was more like demolition than cutting, but as long as he could get through, that was all that mattered.

Beyond the steel shutters, a firmly shut fire door awaited him.

It had a door lock similar to one he’d seen at his home. Normally, he’d just break the handle and push through, but there wasn’t even a hint of give—someone had likely welded the door shut.

If breaking was the only option, then break it he would.

He clenched his fist.

Visualizing a chambered bullet, the striker hitting the primer.

And then—

Boom!

A massive impact echoed.

The fire door crumpled, a bullet tearing through it moments later. He felt rounds puncturing his body, but his wounds soon healed. Instead, each impact only weakened the door’s structure further.

Two hits, three, four—and finally a kick. Within seconds, the door collapsed, twisted and shattered. Without his current resilience, his bones might have shattered—but now, he could push through anything.

That was the result.

Soon, some of the defenders began surrendering.

“We surrender… assuming you understand us…”

“Understood. Discard your weapons.”

When some just stared blankly, Eugene grabbed one soldier’s gun, twisting the barrel until it bent completely.

Realizing he meant business, the others salvaged any valuable optics from their rifles, set their weapons against the wall, and crushed them under their boots. He debated confiscating their grenades but decided against it.

Everyone there had just witnessed the bullet holes in his body close up like a jigsaw puzzle fitting back together.

“For anyone considering a suicide attack, I assure you, it won’t work.”

Approaching a man who looked like a squad leader, Eugene tapped the man’s radio, signaling him to relay a message to any remaining enemies to surrender.

The man sighed, then nodded.

“We surrender. So… what now?”

“Wait at the main entrance. We’ll have you transferred to San Diego within two days.”

Thinking back, perhaps it would’ve been less trouble if they hadn’t surrendered. But leaving them there would mean they’d be vaporized along with the bridges when the laser hydrogen bombs hit San Francisco.

The squad leader relayed the surrender message over the museum’s comms. Reactions varied, but it didn’t matter; those who surrendered would be spared, while the rest would meet their end in the Styx.

And so it happened.

About five minutes later, he’d finished clearing the museum, and Serkins called over the radio.

“Detonating the jammer. The two in Oakland are running late. Want to watch the fireworks?”

“Sounds good.”

Reaching the rooftop, he found Serkins waiting, detonator in hand, waving cheerfully.

With a click, blinding flames erupted in the sky. With a metallic groan, the tall tower slowly collapsed. The blast notifications quickly reached the other team members, and explosions rose all around.

The simultaneous demolition of the four jamming towers cleared interference over parts of the U.S. West Coast. Though some jammers remained throughout San Francisco, they wouldn’t pose much of a problem.

And soon enough—

-“Trident III launch imminent. Laser hydrogen warheads, approx. 3 kilotons each. Ensure maximum distance from the bridges. ETA 20 minutes.”

“Close timing.”

“Let’s get moving.”

Rappelling down, thanks to Serkins’ prior setup, they descended swiftly.

It wasn’t over, though. The newly surrendered soldiers stood outside the museum, their expressions unreadable, but they’d have to be evacuated too. Fortunately, they’d learned the location of a GAZ Tigr from them.

Then came a new message.

“To the two operatives in San Francisco, based on your recon data, we’ve set the bombing coordinates. In 20 minutes, LGM-35A Sentinels will hit every park in San Francisco. Avoid friendly fire and evacuate swiftly.”

“Roger. Escorting seven surrendered personnel.”

A question in Russian followed.

Luckily, both Serkins and Eugene spoke basic Russian, so answering wasn’t difficult.

“What are they saying?”

“They’re asking why every park in San Francisco will be reduced to ashes in 20 minutes.”

Expressions turned wary, but that was war.

And after all, they’d been the first to drop a nuke on American soil.

Their vehicle was packed, though thankfully, Owens and the Foster City team had taken a separate ride, avoiding the need to cram eleven people into the Tigr.

By the time they reached southern San Jose—

“Wow.”

Explosions erupted, visible even from afar.

The impact zones, once residential neighborhoods, had been long abandoned. A university was unfortunately caught in the blast, but that couldn’t be helped.

Oakland, too, had been bombarded. The Alameda military airport, a key supply hub for the enemy coalition, was leveled. Though they hadn’t seen it firsthand, their UI had notified them of the impact.

Even the USS Hornet Museum had been wiped out, though at least the ground zero would be free of radiation for now.

“Only Stockton and Sacramento left.”

“They’re further north; a little downtime would be good.”

“Agreed.”

Sure enough, Owens radioed in.

“Two Blackhawks inbound to the designated location in an hour. Prepare for extraction.”

“Quick wrap-up.”

“Thankfully.”

It truly was.

Eugene glanced at two of the surrendered soldiers, still staring blankly.

“Ever been to San Diego?”

They shook their heads.

So, for them, this would be their first visit to San Diego as prisoners of war.

And with that, the vehicle moved south, toward San Jose.

It was a day near the end of winter.