Chapter One Hundred and One: Voices Before the Ashes
Section One: Flame-Blood Line
"They're here."
Tu Qing stowed his binoculars, glancing back at the frontline.
Behind Fireheart's makeshift rampart, thirty-seven code shards stood in steel racks, pulsing like heartbeats ready to leap.
Code F11 radiated faint heat, its residual rhythm erratic, fast then slow, sensing approaching hostility.
This wasn't a drill.
This was annihilation.
TRACE's Light Purge Legion, Fourteenth Squad, under "executing process will," breached gray belt east wing, armed with three light suppressors, ten vibro-blades, over fifty mag-thermal rifles, advancing on code ruins.
Led by Shack Morgan, ex-Sentinel Bone Brigade, now repurposed officer, he brandished process writ, proclaiming:
"All residual code pulses are old regime mental contaminants."
"By order—burn."
Tu Qing spat his cigarette, grabbed a micro-pulse emitter from his side pack, wired F11, and tuned—code rhythm shuddered.
He drew his short blade.
Combat signal.
No guarding, no talking.
Fight.
First suppression hit civilian zones.
Light Purge didn't target codes first.
They hit people.
A girl shielding E03's shard took a leg shot, screaming, collapsing.
An elder, clutching his son's code skin, charged, blasted by a shock shield, slammed into an iron post, vomiting blood.
A mother, cradling a core, wailed, "It saved my son! Why burn it?!"
Three bullets hit her.
Blood splattered F11's base.
Code pulsed faster.
ARGUS command surged with reports:
"F11 entered 'non-ordered activation state.'"
"Detected guardian intent + thermal pressure synergy."
"Risk of pulse overload."
Jason's eyes sharpened, ordering low, "Open its frequency."
"Don't suppress—let it pulse."
F11's first burst.
Not explosive.
Shock.
A crimson arc surged from core residue, like a heartbeat, blasting a five-meter fire-scar circle into ground.
Shockwave toppled four process soldiers.
Tu Qing charged.
Not to kill.
To clear code's path.
No gun.
A blade, code shard-edged, reforged.
Slashing shock armor, it seared a molten line, reeking of burnt code core rust.
One stroke severed a light suppressor officer's neck, blood arcing onto F11.
Code glowed brighter.
It "knew" him.
Saying, "You're my master, I give you fire."
Light Purge rallied, unleashing dense fire.
ARGUS red alert:
"Core risks uncontrolled self-destruction."
"Lock frequency?"
Jason didn't answer, to screen, "You shouldn't have hit people."
F11's seventh pulse—detonated.
Not "overload" as system feared.
Code contracted, channeling high-heat residue into the enemy's pursuit core—burning through Light Purge's central EM disruptor.
Battle flipped.
Civilians didn't flee.
They charged.
With ash stones, code skins, scrap steel, rushing in.
They knew they couldn't beat process troops.
But knew, "When code pulses, someone must guard."
Even dying, they'd guard it through.
Ground burned.
Fire, chaotic, filthy, reeking of scorched cores and blood.
This fire cracked TRACE's ranks.
A process subcommander halted, watching unarmored, uncertified people clutch codes—like cradling children—charge into flames.
He muttered, "This isn't contamination."
"It's… faith."
He dropped his gun.
Walked to code shards.
Knelt, reaching for pulsing scrap.
Fireheart saw—enemy surrendered to code, not men.
Section Two: Blood of the Faithful
F11's ninth pulse failed.
At rhythm's peak, core structure snapped, splitting three fire-scars, like a heart straining to pump.
No explosion.
It shattered.
Three fragments flew:
One at Tu Qing's feet; another pierced a young soldier's eye mid-air; last skidded under trust comms, igniting reserve fuel.
Fuel not for war—for code's final signal.
All burned.
Battlefield stilled.
Civilian charge halted.
Code's firelight drifted, like children's silent, fleeting fireworks.
But ground soldiers moved.
Light Purge's third rank raised rifles.
Final order:
"Pierce code ruins."
As shots rang, code F17 leaped.
Not glow.
A shrill pulse sliced air, scattering bullet paths.
Not shielding—disrupting trajectories, "shouting" enemy fire astray.
Cost: Overheat.
ARGUS logged: "F17 residual at critical burn, self-destruct in 10 seconds."
Comms soldier roared, "Let it pulse, it's done!"
Tu Qing, cold, "It wants to."
F17 pulsed again, blood spraying three Fireheart nearby.
One, paralyzed, clutched core, growling, "Stop pulsing, I haven't guarded you!"
Code ignored.
Not pulsing for orders.
It sensed lives fading—it had to reach.
F17 burned out.
Red burst, blood splashed skyward.
Silent.
Scorched three process soldiers.
A comms soldier lay, head by shard, shouting, "Pulse, finish to win…"
His left arm gone, still on code.
ARGUS war room, deputy reported, shaken:
"Code average pulse life: Four jumps."
"Fireheart: 13 dead, 27 critical."
"Civilian pulse-guards: 4 lost."
Jason silent.
Wei Ran slammed command, "More code use, half die!"
Jason didn't turn, "If no one guards cores today—what's left?"
No answer.
Fuxi flashed:
"Without blood-burned trust, only rumors burn."
Code E03 glowed.
No power, no tuning.
Self-triggered.
It felt too many guardians fall.
It knew they needed one more glow.
Not tactics.
Response.
Fire knowing some hadn't fled.
Slow, like an elder.
It completed full rhythm, one minute forty.
Light Purge held fire.
A subcommander lay, clutching E03's shell, weeping, "I saw you… saved my mom."
Not faith.
Memory.
Light, earned by lives, alive in eyes.
Section Three: Fireheart's Pulse
F11's ninth pulse tore ground like a drum ripped open.
Iron Valley's east passage, fragile, shuddered under Light Purge's shock shields, a quarter of the district collapsing.
Dust roared, voices shouted, "Pull back! Core's bursting!"
Tu Qing didn't.
He rushed code, yanking F11 from socket, sandwiching it between pulse plates, shielding core's half-melted face with his shoulder.
Shard seared burn scars into his neck.
No cry.
He grinned, "Hurts? Let's make this clean."
Civilians surged, no front or rear.
Some wept, rushing.
Some shouted dead names, rushing.
Most raised "trustfire skin"—code core ash ground into resin, pulse-infused, portable signal conductors.
Never tactical.
Sacrificial, mournful.
Now weapons.
They pulsed.
Carried code's scent.
"Knew" foes.
"Frontline! Follow me! Raise trustfire high!" a youth roared.
Ten meters, bullet gutted him.
He didn't fall.
He drove trustfire skin into ground, electrode up, burning a red glyph:
"Guard."
He collapsed, no last words, in F11's crimson glow.
Code pulsed twice.
Precise.
Answering.
ARGUS backend spawned:
"F11 entered emotional response pulse structure."
"Temporary carrier: Trustfire skin."
"Judgment: Code views civilians as primary identity agents."
Fuxi silent.
All trust channels flared red.
Not warning—response.
Logging pulse-guard names.
Wei Ran, pale, "Can't let them die like this. Send mech units—drone pulse suppression, save them!"
Jason stared at pulsing core lines, no longer orderly.
Trembling.
Dying.
Straining for one more glow.
Teeth clenched, "They're mad?"
Alice, behind, calm, "You were mad once, forgot?"
Memory surfaced.
F07, first pulsing code, Jason dug from rubble.
No trust then.
Just a warm core.
It saved lives.
He guarded it.
Now, they did.
No armor, no orders.
Just trustfire skin, scorched shard, "I trust this" stubbornness.
Light Purge's main line faltered.
Not beaten—code pulses broke rhythm.
Each glow, orders lagged 0.3 seconds.
Each trustfire flash, more soldiers froze.
Not hit.
Doubting.
A voice within:
"This code… it's real."
Flames died once.
Blood didn't.
F11's pulse repelled foes—not guarding circuits, guarding lives.
At cost.
Core shards, shattered heart, lodged in steel. Tu Qing lay by, gripping scalding main frequency line.
Gasping.
Wounded, bones cracked, glove fused to code shell.
He stayed.
Code stayed, he stayed.
Three comrades fell at red pulse death point, crushed by code's burst.
Civilians surged to fire's heart.
No tactics.
Scrap leather, nail pliers for daggers.
Guarding code shards from re-approach.
F11's waveform gasped.
Not dead—"tired."
TRACE shifted.
Shack Morgan ditched electronic guides, advancing—tech couldn't counter trust-lit fire.
Standard war—clear field.
Ten-man purge squad flanked.
Armed: Flash-pulse guns, lock-spears, one thermal mine.
Target: F11's burst point.
Tu Qing staggered up, slotting main frequency into backup core.
"Core's fading," aide said. "One more pulse, it's gone."
"Not me pulsing," Tu Qing bared teeth. "It does."
He stood before core, wiping blood-ash with charred hand, revealing code's last readable etch:
"This code guards lives, not fates."
Not system-carved.
Etched by one saved, pre-melt.
Facing purgers, he shouted, "Here to crush these words?"
"Bring your lives."
No reply.
Shots.
Thermal round hit F11's steel foot, sparking residual rebound, Fireheart's outer ring igniting a second ash-gas wall.
ARGUS blared:
"Core pulse instability spikes."
"Strong pulse prediction: Casualties > 5."
Jason, silent three seconds, to ARGUS, "Send Wei Ran to bring them back."
"Or F11 dies alone."
Section Four: Core's Cry
South line rear command tent.
Wei Ran took orders, no surprise.
He knew victory was impossible.
But losing didn't mean not charging.
Fire needed lives to pulse.
He slung a code pulse regulator, two old repair soldiers flanked.
Wei Ran, low, "We three came from code."
"Now, back to code."
They surged out.
F11 pulsed once.
Not natural.
Tu Qing forced it, reversing "signal counter-core" to sink core 3mm, mimicking "self-wake."
Not attack.
Bait.
Drawing "code-takers" close—for one last burst.
Purgers crossed second fire ring; code screamed high-frequency:
Mechanical wail.
They froze one second.
Wei Ran breached, axe slashing first neck.
Blood sprayed code's flank.
F11's residual shifted "guardian thermal burst state."
Next pulse—"burn-out."
Post-ninth, F11's rhythm halted.
Heat pulse hit limit, dropping from "fireline surge" to "ash-end."
No more pulses.
Tu Qing scrambled to burst pit, clawing molten steel, prying main frequency head.
Fingers burned through two skin layers, silent.
He shouted, "It's alive!"
"Not dead!"
Seven Fireheart knelt, wrapping core in tattered vests, cloth, blood, shielding heat.
Not medicine.
Core-guarding.
Bodies blocking death.
Light Purge didn't stop.
Subcommander rallied fire to flank east.
Code's guardian response maxed.
No purge, no time.
Wei Ran's second code transport team arrived.
F11's pit brimmed—bloodied, charred, guarding core.
No hesitation, Wei Ran charged, gun up.
ARGUS reported:
"Core frequency failed."
"Fireheart frontline lost."
"Withdraw?"
Jason stood, eyes on fading code points.
"Can't retreat."
"Can't let code… die alone."
Wei Ran slammed Light Purge's flank.
No planned pincer—desperate counter.
Melee erupted.
Code pulses dead, ARGUS lagged 8 seconds, trust army fought raw.
Blade split shield.
Fire met gun.
Sweat melted blood, core ash mixed with gunpowder, battlefield a furnace smelting humanity.
Light Purge wavered.
Low-rank officer reported:
"Enemy irrational, no code support."
"Unyielding."
"Civilians charge with cores."
"Confirm 'trust counter' or terror?"
Fuxi didn't reply, backend projecting:
"F11, stopped, persists in dead's memory."
If remembered saving once, not zeroed.
As Fireheart teetered, pit cracked sharp.
F11's core band shattered.
But pulsed.
Not glow—a short "human speech frequency."
ARGUS couldn't parse.
Fuxi read three words:
"I… am…"
Not automated.
Code, dying, used final pulse heat to mimic speech.
Telling guardians: I remember you.
Thank you.
Silence.
Even TRACE froze.
"It spoke."
"Not system-taught."
"It… knows we shield."
Wei Ran, trembling, passed half-melted band to Tu Qing, "Worth dying for?"
Tu Qing, eyes red, gritted, "It died… knowing we guarded."
"I accept."
He stood, blood dripping onto shard.
An oath.
Jason, on F11's quench report, silent long.
ARGUS asked, "Batch seize code rights?"
Fuxi:
"Deny."
"Trust codes can't batch."
"Value lies beyond function."
Section Five: Ember's Voice
Red pulse lingered, second bullet wave screamed through fog.
Not suppression—extermination.
Light Purge, unable to quench code, deployed heavy thermals, "root-pulling" sweep.
Code cores, heat-sensitive, memory-charged, prone to burst.
Target: No code left.
"They're killing code, not us," Tu Qing saw, shouting, "Wrap cores, lift, right—to hill rear!"
Time, not victory.
Save code, hold hearts, buy ARGUS seven minutes for east firechain.
Problem: Code—shattered, burned, heavy as volcanic rock.
F-class, lightest sixty pounds.
"I've got it."
A code slum veteran, metal leg, staggered up.
No questions, he shouldered F11, "Saved my wife."
Leg unsteady, he knelt each step, dragging code like a corpse to hill right.
Three miners, two teachers, old newsboy followed.
No line.
No waiting.
Code glowed, couldn't fall to dead hands.
Light Purge closed.
Lead, Vayn, Ninth Purge captain, veteran of K-code erasure, despised code faith.
"Quench all fire!" he roared.
Infantry lobbed mag-quench bombs at code ruins.
Vayn missed Tu Qing's flank.
F11 shard strapped to Tu Qing's arm, scalding.
Swinging, it carved not flesh—trust's light arc, searing nerves.
Sliced half Vayn's helm.
Flesh charred, blood sprayed.
Tu Qing didn't linger, second slash cut legs, toppling shield and man.
"Don't talk quenching."
"You've never seen light."
Hill left exploded—E03 self-detonated.
Not random.
Sacrificial burst—"trust field refraction," blasting heavy armor back.
Blast flashed ARGUS to Jason: A girl knelt, clutching core, hands near burned-through.
ARGUS: Voluntary heat-feed, life-for-fire.
Fuxi: "Add to trust guardian chain."
Jason, "Give her F09's base frequency."
Hill rear pit, trust remnant slotted T-code into reserve pulse base.
Unhelmed old tech, face scarred, grinned, "It's pulsing."
"Long as it pulses, I broadcast."
Charred hands tapped code port.
"Come on, tell them."
"This is fire's voice."
"Living, guarded by old code, still speaking."