And just like that, Invicta, chaotic, smug, flip flop wearing AI bombshell was gone.
What stood in her place now was a living avatar of war, her form refined, wrapped in shadows and steel.
Her voice came through the mask, modulated but still unmistakably hers.
"Enough gawking and lets go or did you think Id let you go alone and go scrap that new body of yours."
"Tch. Was hoping you'd take the hint,"
I muttered, falling in beside her as we started down the corridor toward the hangar.
"Aww, and miss the look on your face when you realize you're outclassed by your own waifu? Not a chance."
"You're not my waifu,"
I shot back instantly.
"Yet,"
She said with a casual, infuriating sway in her stride.
I let out a sigh that had the emotional weight of a man questioning every decision that brought him to this exact moment.
As we rounded a corner, the distant hum of engines and hydraulics grew louder, echoing down the corridors.
"Hey…"
I squinted at her armor as we walked, doing a double take.
"Why does it look like your height didn't increase one bit? I mean, with the whole body upgrade of mine and all, I expected you to be smaller."
Invicta rolled her eyes so hard I could practically hear it.
"That's because I built myself a bigger body, genius."
"Oh. Of course you did."
I muttered under my breath.
"Did you expect me to remain a pipsqueak? Or are you telling me youre Into that kind of stuff?"
She shot me a mocking glare.
"Please shut up."
"Not in your dreams, Commander Daddy."
I groaned.
"I regret so many things."
By the time we reached the hangar, the air was thick with the scent of fuel, ozone, and steel. There it was our ride.
A dropship, its black painted hull glinting under the hangar's floodlights, engines already idling, side and tail laser gatling guns manned by clone gunners with impassive expressions behind full visors.
The boarding ramp was lowered, and at its base stood the squad, two neat rows of elite shock troops, armor polished and sealed, each holding their weapon at parade rest.
At the front stood the commander.
Helmet tucked under his arm, posture ramrod straight. His armor bore etched red and white markings on the pauldrons and chestplate.
Upon seeing me, he snapped to attention with a precision that made my Inner drill sergeant from hell weep in pride.
He raised a crisp salute, voice sharp and loud enough to make the hangar echo.
"First Legion. First Cohort. First Century. First Contubernium. Centurion 1111 reporting for duty, sir!"
The whole unit turned as one and slammed a boot down in synchrony, saluting in unison with the kind of discipline that made my skin buzz.
This wasn't just a squad. This was a weapon with a hundred triggers, all waiting for me to pull one. Invicta crossed her arms beside me, head tilted.
"Told you. I don't do half measures here."
I returned the salute, crisp and steady, the motion automatic but this time, it felt like more than just habit.
"Board the bird!"
I barked. Without missing a beat, Centurion 1111 echoed my command, his voice a rolling thunder through the hangar.
"BOARD THE BIRD!"
He slid his helmet back over his head, a hiss of air and the snap of locks punctuating the command. The moment it sealed, his HUD lit up.
The entire squad turned in one fluid, synchronized motion, weapns still held tight to their chests.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Boots hit the dropship's ramp in perfect rhythm, a twelwe strong metal symphony of discipline. Each clone took their assigned seat, not a millisecond of hesitation, not a single glance sideways.
A well oiled organism of war.
Invicta and I followed behind, and the moment we stepped inside the hold, I could feel it the air had changed. It buzzed. Tight. Focused. Primed.
We sat down on the utalitarian crash seats lining the inner walls, magnetic clamps automatically lowering themselves down and securing us.
Across from me, a clone pointed his rifle to the floor and rested his hands on the stock, his face unreadable beneath the mask but his body radiated tension, readiness. War was routine to them. Just another protocol.
At the rear, the dropship's master chief In In a space uniform, back and chest plates with knee and elbow built in guards and a hose connected to the oxygen tank on his back slammed the ramp control.
The heavy metal door thudded shut, sealing us in with a hiss and finality that settled deep in my chest.
Then he turned, gripping a handrail overhead, and bellowed like thunder.
"EVERYONE ON BOARD! LET'S GO!"
From the cockpit, the pilot and co pilot threw up a pair of thumbs up, their visors reflecting nothing but HUD glow and vengeance.
They immediately turned to their consoles and began flipping switches in rapid fire precision the dropship's systems humming to life, red interior lights blinking, laser canons warming up, deflectors cycling.
A low rumble shook the floor under my boots.
"Flight deck clearance confirmed. Nav locked. Weapon systems green."
The master chief glanced back, gave me a nod.
"You give the word, sir."
I gave a short, firm nod. That was all he needed.
"GO, GO, GO!"
He roared like a man possessed. The engine pitch screamed higher, and a heartbeat later, I felt the dropkick of gravity punch into my chest as the pilot floored the thrusters.
The bird shot up, slamming everyone back into their seats. G-forces squeezed my ribs as the armored beast tore through the same tunnel I came In and after exiting It screamed through the atmosphere like a spearhead on fire.
The world tilted. The roar of engines filled every corner of the hold. We were en route.
...
Meanwhile In an undisclosed location.
A steel table, stained, dented, and bolted to the floor, stood in the center of a dimly lit concrete room.
Seated around it were five very pissed off past their prime uncles in faded orange prisoner garb. They didn't speak. Didn't need to. Each one had just been handed a slop tray, if it could even be called that.
Lukewarm, grayish mush. Rubbery protein bricks. Unseasoned vegetables so overboiled they might've come from a chemical plant.
The five battlebrothers stared down in dead silence, unmoving. The tension was thick enough to be used as armor plating.
Finally Julian growled first, poking the food with a plastic fork that bent on impact.
"This... isn't food."
His voice was low, disgusted.
"This is a spit on g*neva convention."
Paul leaned over his tray and sniffed once. His whole face twitched.
"I'd rather lick the floor of a latrine."
Darius stabbed a clump of it with his fork.
"This sh*t just hissed at me. I heard it. It's alive."
Robert raised his tray, looked underneath it like he expected a hidden camera.
"We pay our taxes, and this is what they feed us? Swear to g*ds, I'm bringing this place down the moment I find a spoon that doesn't brake the moment I touch It."
While Airid just stood up and screamed toward the ceiling like a tortured anime protagonist mid flashback.
"KAMI-SAMA WHYYY?! EVEN PRISON FOOD IN ISEKAI COMES WITH RICE AND WAIFUS!"
Everything went to hell.
The table erupted in a cacophony of pure military grade rage, years of bottled up betrayal and institutional slop finally detonating like a pressure cooker made of curses.
"I hope Drac steps on a f*cking landmine wearing flip flops!"
"That no good emo bastard left us in this g*dsdamn concrete coffin to ROT!"
"May every beer he drinks from now on be warm and flat!"
"I swear, I will headbutt his teeth into his skull sideways if I ever see his mug again!"
"Dracula Von Dipsh*t, biggest disappointment since powdered mashed potatoes!"
"He better pray I don't get out of here first, I'm gonna rip his spine out and staple it to a f*cking flagpole!"
"He's probably sipping cocktails in that hacker chicks lap while we get beat for farting too loud!"
Cezar jabbed his fork into the rubbery protein square so hard it bounced. Fishman tried chewing his but gave up halfway and just stared at it like it had betrayed him personally.
Robert held his tray like he was debating whether it was better used as a shield or a weapon.
Darius, fist clenched around a plastic spoon, whispered a curse so old it probably summoned something.
Airid was already drafting a haiku of rage under his breath. From the catwalk above, a bored looking security guard in plate carrier finally had enough.
He leaned over the railing, his assault rifle lazily hanging from his shoulder like a drunk uncle's regrets.
"YO! You five shut the f*ck up and eat your food!"
He shouted down, voice echoing through the mess hall.