Amidst the storm of panic sweeping the Command Bunker, Aira sat like a little queen enjoying an opera performance from the VIP balcony.

  She leaned back in the plush black leather chair reserved for high-ranking officials, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. The contrast with the chaos surrounding her was stark. While dozens of analysts down below shouted with messy hair and sweat-soaked shirts, Aira looked calm, neat, and—most unsettling for Garreth—amused.

  The Minister of Defense sat in the chair next to her. Or rather, tried to sit.

  Garreth was like a worm on a hot skillet. The sturdy body of the former general was incredibly restless. He was trapped in a very awkward position: having to entertain the palace's guest of honor "entrusted" to him, while trying to save the country literally and metaphorically burning on the front screens.

  "Ahem..." Garreth cleared his throat, his voice raspy. He pulled at his uniform collar which felt suffocating. "Does... does Lady Aira need anything? Tea? Or... a blanket? The temperature here is a bit..."

  PING! PING! PING!

  The notification alarm sound from the Northern Sector screamed loudly. Garreth’s eyes instantly darted away from Aira’s face, staring sharply at the monitor in front of him.

  "Sector 9 report incoming, Sir! Heat intensity increased by 200%!" shouted one of the staff.

  Garreth almost jumped up, his mouth already open to shout a command, but he remembered the girl beside him. He swallowed his shout, turning stiffly to Aira with a forced and pathetic-looking smile.

  "...a bit cold," Garreth continued finishing his cut sentence, his tone messy.

  Aira giggled. She covered her mouth with the tips of her elegant slender fingers.

  "I'm fine, Uncle Garreth," Aira answered lightly, her tone casual as if they were sitting on a porch in the afternoon, not in a doomsday bunker. "Uncle doesn't need to bother. Just take care of your fire stars."

  Garreth nodded stiffly, looking relieved yet pressured. "Ah, yes. Of course. Stars... right."

  "By the way," Aira tilted her head, looking at Garreth’s side profile bathed in the blue light of the monitor screen. "Uncle looks very tired. Your eye bags are thick. Do you never go home?"

  Garreth blinked, confused by the trivial question at a critical time like this.

  "I... uh, this is duty of state, Lady. I slept here for the last three da—"

  "WESTERN SECTOR BREACHED! BROKEN BOW CONSTELLATION FULLY ACTIVE!" a hysterical shout cut off Garreth’s words.

  Garreth’s head snapped to the left lightning fast. Veins in his neck bulged. His hand reflexively pressed the intercom button on his desk.

  "Isolate frequency! Don't let panic spread to the public!" he barked fiercely into the microphone, his general aura returning instantly. "Block all internet access from the western region! Now!"

  After turning off the microphone, he turned back to Aira. His fierce face instantly softened into an awkward expression again. He realized he had just shouted in front of the King's "niece".

  "Sorry... forgive me, Lady. I was saying... uh..." Garreth lost his words.

  "Slept here for three days," Aira reminded with a sweet smile, eyes squinting mischievously.

  "Ah, yes. Right," Garreth wiped cold sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. "Right."

  Aira laughed softly seeing how pathetic this powerful old man was. She saw how Garreth’s eyeballs moved wildly like a broken metronome. One second looking at Aira with forced politeness, the next second glancing wildly at hundreds of monitors displaying the map of Carta burning redder.

  Aira could feel how tortured Garreth was. The man wanted so badly to go down, curse his staff, throw chairs, or do anything to control the situation. But Aira’s presence in this VIP seat forced him to stay seated and behave "civilized".

  "Uncle Garreth," Aira called softly.

  "Yes, Lady?" Garreth turned again, this time with a slight start.

  Aira pointed to the giant screen in front of them, right at the fire points forming the Great Triangle Constellation pattern in the Capital.

  "In Uncle's opinion..." Aira asked with an innocent tone, as if asking for a weather forecast. "Will the fire reach here? To this bunker?"

  The question froze Garreth. He looked at Aira, trying to find signs of fear on the girl's face. But nil. The beautiful face was calm, there was even a slight glint of enthusiasm in her eyes.

  "It won't," Garreth answered firmly, though Aira could hear doubt in the tremor of his voice. "This bunker is designed to withstand a nuclear explosion. You are safe here."

  Aira just smiled mysteriously. She leaned back again, enjoying the view of Garreth busy cursing again through the headset as a new alarm rang.

  So funny, Aira thought, her eyes shifting to look at the star patterns lighting up on the screen. He thinks concrete and steel can hold back what is coming.

  Garreth swallowed saliva that tasted bitter and dry. His throat was constricted, as if desert sand clogged it.

  On the giant screen, he saw a dot in the Southern Sector blinking wildly.

  It was the digital icon for Duke Alhassar.

  Garreth knew him personally. The old man was an impressionist painting collector, whose hands trembled violently holding a porcelain teacup at a state banquet a few months ago. Garreth even thought the man was nearly crippled.

  But data on the screen told a different horror story.

  Duke Alhassar’s dot moved at Mach 0.5 speed over the ground, cutting hill contour lines with zigzag maneuvers impossible for any land vehicle. Then, the thermal graph spiked to blinding white.

  BLIP.

  An area the size of a football field on the map was cleared in an instant. The temperature at that point spiked for a micro-second, then returned cold.

  "Target Southwest Sector!" shouted a female analyst below, her voice cracking from suppressed hysteria.

  "No residue! Total clean!"

  Garreth felt cold creeping from the soles of his feet standing on the grating steel floor. The cold pierced up his spine.

  He looked at his own hands gripping the railing. Hands holding direct control over 500,000 active military personnel, 2,000 tanks, and 5 fifth-generation fighter jet squadrons under command. As his private army.

  But tonight, he realized. All his iron and steel toys... were just useless junk.

  If he deployed an entire armored division to that meadow right now, they would need three hours to arrive, and maybe a full night to neutralize the threat.

  Duke Alhassar—that trembling old grandfather—did it in forty-five seconds.

  "Minister..."

  Hannes’ voice, the Head of Operations, shattered his dark reverie. The man stood beside Garreth, the tablet in his hand trembling, same as his hands. Hannes’ face was deathly pale, his eyes reflecting the light of that terrifying map.

  "What should we record in the official report, Sir?" Hannes whispered, afraid his voice would be heard by analysts below.

  "Logistics is asking... what type of ammunition are they using? Satellites detect no gunpowder residue, no missile propellant traces, no shell casings."

  Garreth laughed. A short, dry, humorless laugh. The sound felt alien to his own ears.

  "Ammunition?" Garreth turned, looking at Hannes with tired and red eyes.

  "You think they need bullets, Hannes?"

  He pointed to the giant screen with his chin.

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  "That isn't technology, Hannes. That is Ancient Metal Weaponry, Cold Metal..."

  Garreth looked back at the map. The red dots began to decrease. One by one, threat indicator lights went out, replaced by peaceful safe green color.

  The green spread from north to south, like miraculous healing on a sick body. But to Garreth, that green color felt threatening.

  It was proof of how efficient these old monsters were.

  He saw the icon of Marquis Ferdinand in Sector 12 stop moving. Still. Maybe the old man was re-sharpening his sword, or maybe smoking a victory cigar atop a pile of enemy ash.

  Garreth felt a sickening sensation of smallness.

  During his tenure as Minister of Defense, he felt he was the gatekeeper of this country. He signed the budget, he arranged defense strategies, he felt the most powerful.

  Tonight, that illusion shattered to pieces.

  He wasn't the guardian of this house. He was just a security guard hired to watch the front fence.

  The true owners of the house—old nobles with ancient blood and weapons capable of slicing reality—had just come out of their bedrooms disturbed by noisy sounds in the yard. They handled it themselves, without needing his permission, without needing his help.

  And most terrifying for Garreth wasn't their strength.

  But their obedience.

  Garreth glanced toward Ironseat, the King's Palace on the digital map. The center of all centers.

  These hundreds of lethal nobles... monsters capable of burning a tank battalion with a wave of a hand... they all submitted absolutely to one figure.

  King Lavin.

  The thought made Garreth’s stomach churn. If King Lavin snapped his fingers and ordered a purge of the ministry...

  Garreth wouldn't have time to scream.

  "Sir?" Hannes called again, more urgent.

  "Main screen... all targets... gone. Finished."

  "Leaving a few dots... and one experimental dot of Lord Rajendra Sagara."

  Garreth sighed long. The smell of stale coffee in the air felt increasingly pungent, making him want to vomit.

  The room below suddenly fell silent. Analysts' shouts stopped. The bee buzzing died. They all stared at the screen now clean, green, and silent. They were confused. They were relieved, but also afraid.

  Garreth straightened his body. He had to remain Minister. He had to remain the face of sanity amidst this madness.

  "Close operation logs, after everything is truly clean," Garreth ordered, voice flat echoing on the iron platform.

  "Classify all thermal data tonight as Top Secret Level 0. Delete visual recordings. Keep only text data."

  "And convey to the Minister of Information regarding light and vibration anomalies tonight..."

  Garreth stared at the digital map of the Kingdom of Carta now looking calm and innocent.

  "...Tell him it was atmospheric side effects of celebration fireworks. Tell them the parade was a huge success."

  He turned, walking away leaving the platform. His footsteps heavy on the steel floor. He needed a drink. A very strong liquor to forget that tonight, he realized he was merely a plastic pawn on the chessboard of gods.

  Low hum of thousands of cooling servers filled the cold, dry, sterile air.

  The Navigation and Investigation Room vibrated subtly under Garreth’s feet, busy and tense like a giant beehive in survival war mode. This bunker was designed for total isolation. No sunlight entered, only bluish-white artificial light blinding tired eyes, and the glow of hundreds of monitors.

  Below the balcony where Garreth stood, dozens of analysts sat hunched in front of their workstations. Pale and greasy faces illuminated by blue screen light, like ghosts inside an aquarium. Their voices overlapped, creating a cacophony of monotonous yet lethal military reports.

  They were still monitoring the Cosmic Chessboard—the satellite defense net and magic sensors currently burning shadow remnants across the kingdom.

  On the small screens before them, dozens of silver-gold fire dots blinked. Those were traces of the old nobles. Garreth watched with mixed feelings; awe yet disgust at the state's dependence on those old people.

  Beep... Pop. One dot extinguished.

  Beep... Pop. Another gone.

  "Sector 044, clear," reported an analyst with a raspy voice, eyes red from 48 hours of sleep deprivation.

  "Negative energy residue trace zero."

  "Sector 109, confirmation... clear," answered another from across the room.

  "Eagle Team stood down. They request medical team."

  It was exhausting, repetitive work, yet clinically satisfying. They were winning. But this victory felt bitter to Garreth. This wasn't his ministry's victory. This was the past's victory.

  Suddenly.

  WIIUU... WIIUU... WIIUU!

  Priority alarm sounded low but sharp on the main console. The digital siren sound cut Garreth’s concentration like a hot knife slicing butter.

  On the giant map screen mapping anomalous signals, a digital wound appeared.

  One dot lit up. But this was different.

  Not a small and tame silver-gold spark like before. It was a massive digital stain. A neon green dot pulsing steadily like a giant heart pumping poison, radiating spectral energy surpassing standard graph scales.

  Garreth narrowed his eyes, reading the coordinates.

  Location: Sagara Temple, Eastern Side of Iron Mountains.

  Around it, small silver-gold signals looked pathetic, dim like fireflies trying to challenge a lighthouse.

  "Type-Five Signal in Sector 009!"

  The senior data analyst's shout broke the room's monotony. His voice cracked from pure adrenaline surge. He pointed at the screen with a violently trembling index finger.

  "Largest signal so far! Energy exceeds safe limits! This is equivalent to Leviathan in Mirror Canyon!"

  Other analysts around him held their breath in unison. Hhhh...

  Garreth gripped the balcony iron. Twin signals. Equally large, equally terrifying.

  The Department Head downstairs just opened his mouth, perhaps to order emergency evacuation or request useless airstrike support, but the Sector 009 analyst—who had been monitoring Rajendra team's audio channel with headset pressed tight to ear—suddenly ripped off his headset roughly.

  Rip!

  He jumped up. His chair pushed back hard until hitting the desk. BANG!

  His eyes widened in horror mixed with absolute awe, as if he just heard God whisper directly in his ear.

  "Sagara Family Temple..." he shouted, voice trembling violently, defeating the siren alarm sound.

  "Exterminating largest point!"

  He swallowed, throat bone dry.

  "Report request incoming... from Sergeant John Foster."

  Total silence.

  Quiet.

  The entire beehive froze. Keyboard typing stopped instantly. Breath held. The Wunggg sound from servers sounded louder and pressing on ears suddenly deafened by shock.

  "What did you say?" Hannes whispered in disbelief, face pale.

  "John Foster, the Sniper?"

  "Play Sector 009 audio! Now!" Garreth ordered from the balcony. His voice sharp slicing the silence, demanding proof.

  The audio analyst pressed the broadcast button with a trembling hand. CLICK.

  Crackle... hiss... zzzzt...

  Rough radio static hiss filled the control room, like the sound of heavy rain on a tin roof.

  Then, the voice appeared. Broadcast to all speakers in the dead silent control room.

  It was a young man's voice. Calm, professional, cold—yet there was a subtle tremor there. A tremor Garreth recognized. It was the voice of someone who just stared death in the eyes and survived to tell the tale.

  "Sector 009 Mission Report. Experimental assault weapon Type C-001 has been used..."

  John’s voice sounded clear amidst static. Every syllable weighed carefully.

  "...with 5.56mm caliber bullets jacketed in Cold Karpharah Metal."

  Pause for a moment. Sound of deep breath drawn via radio heard. Hhhrhh...

  "We... shot target in Sector 009. Mission led directly by The Elder Lord Rajendra."

  Analysts in the Navigation Room looked at each other with wide eyes. They turned to the giant screen. The green dot still pulsed mocking. That was a Type-Five classified subject. That wasn't something fightable with standard assault rifle bullets. It needed heirloom swords. It needed blood sacrifice.

  John’s voice heard again, this time firmer.

  "Shooting successful. Target shot in one single trigger pull."

  Thump.

  Garreth’s heart seemed to skip a beat.

  "Impossible..." he mumbled.

  "One bullet?"

  Then John’s voice delivered the final verdict, a closing sentence that would change Carta military history forever:

  "Target... eliminated. Sector 009 declared clean."

  Beep.

  Connection cut. Replaced by constant low static hiss. Zzzzt.

  All eyes fixed on the giant map. To that neon green dot.

  One second. The green dot was still there.

  Two seconds. The dot blinked, frequency chaotic.

  Three seconds.

  Poof.

  The giant green dot vanished. Dimmed. Gone from digital existence.

  Map in Sector 009 now black. Clean. Empty.

  "Target... eliminated," murmured a young analyst, voice weak like someone just waking from a nightmare.

  Silence for a moment.

  Then the room exploded.

  BOOOOM!

  "YEAAAAAH!!!"

  Suppressed cheers of joy exploded instantly, shaking bunker walls. Analysts previously pale and tense jumped from their chairs. Report papers thrown into the air like confetti. Headsets slammed onto desks.

  Bang! Thud! Clap! Clap! Clap!

  Sounds of applause, hysterical screams, hugs, and whistles echoed wildly. This was their first victory measured by pure science. This was the first good news in the last 24 hours that felt like endless hell.

  Tears flowed on cheeks of several young analysts. They slumped to the floor, crying in emotion, releasing tension that had crushed their mental spines.

  But the loudest, wildest, and most emotional scream came from a secluded corner of the room.

  Corner belonging to the Ministry of Defense research team.

  There, a small group of men and women in white lab coats—rumpled, messy, and coffee-stained—were experiencing pure ecstasy.

  They were ballistic engineers and mystic metallurgists designing "Project Type C-001". For the last ten years, they were laughing stock in military canteens. 'Toy Division'. 'Silver Bullet Laboratory'. Their project nearly had its budget cut three times by Garreth himself.

  Now, they hugged each other tight, jumping like little kids, sobbing shamelessly.

  An old gray-haired technician pounded the console in front of him with a trembling fist.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  "IT WORKED! DID YOU HEAR THAT?! IT WORKED!" he shouted hysterically, tears wetting his fogged thick glasses.

  "ONE SHOT! DID YOU SEE THAT! THEY NEED ONE OF OUR BULLETS!"

  Validation, humiliation, and hard work for a decade paid off in one second of that radio report.

  However, on the platform, Garreth didn't join the screaming.

  He stood frozen. His eyes glued to the empty spot on the map where the green monster was.

  The sentence rang in his head, repeated like a mantra: "One single trigger pull."

  His hand resting on the iron guardrail slowly tightened.

  Creeeeak...

  Sound of metal against metal heard softly as his grip strengthened. Veins in his hand bulged blue.

  Not from anger. It was the release of a mountain-heavy burden lifted from his shoulders.

  He had just bet the entire fate of the kingdom, all defense protocols, and his political career on an untested prototype weapon in the field. And that gamble won big.

  All this time, they fought this supernatural plague the old way: Swords. Spells. Rituals. Noble Blood. Expensive. Slow. Inefficient. It was medieval war forced into the modern era.

  But this...

  5.56mm.

  A bullet. Small object produceable in millions per day in ammunition factories at cheap cost. Something shootable by even a stupid corporal from a safe distance.

  Garreth’s tired and dry lips slowly curled.

  Not a friendly smile. It was a thin, stiff, and sharp smile. Smile of a predator who just found his new sharper fangs.

  Eyes previously dull, red, and filled with defeat, now glinted sharply. Blue light from the giant screen reflected in his pupils, igniting a new dangerous fire of ambition.

  He no longer depended solely on arrogant feudal nobles with their heirloom swords. He no longer had to light fake fireworks to lie to the people about safety.

  He now had Fangs. He had a weapon that could tear darkness industrially.

  Garreth turned slowly, looking at his assistant standing trembling behind holding a data tablet.

  "Prepare production," Garreth whispered softly.

  His voice cold, flat, yet full of unshakable steel determination.

  "Prepare... everything. We will mass-produce death."