The dawn at Horizon blazed in hazy golden hues, reflecting across the calm sea like a vast, flawless mirror. From the central tower, the bell signaling the new day rang out steadily—three short, crisp chimes, heralding the start of another morning. As always, Kael dragged himself wearily from his creaking iron bed. He was still exhausted from yesterday's storm, his hands calloused and aching from hauling nets. He touched his back, where a strange tattoo—swirling lines interwoven with circles and triangles—had been etched since he was found adrift on a boat at the age of three. No one in Horizon understood its meaning, not even old Lena. At first, Kael had tried to unravel its mystery, but as the years wore on, consumed by labor for the Council, he'd all but forgotten the tattoo's existence.
Before five in the morning, dozens of trading boats had already gathered outside Horizon. The weathered vessels, their wooden hulls patched and scarred, were laden with tightly secured goods. Today was the day Horizon sent out signals to nearby trade ships to come and barter. From scraps of plastic to fresh water, weapons, and dried food—anything essential was exchanged on this day.
The main steel gate, ten meters tall and weighing dozens of tons, speckled with rust, slowly groaned open, leading to the primary dock. The pulleys and gears screeched like an old beast nursing its wounds. Seawater rushed through the first cracks, swirling into murky brown eddies below the harbor. Light streamed through the gap, casting silver streaks across the decks of the ships. Soldiers waved signal flags, directing the flow of boats with the usual orderly precision.
Kael stood at the edge of the dock, clutching the rope tied to the fishing nets, his eyes narrowing as he watched the line of ships approach the harbor. Some were familiar—the red-striped flags of Drift Artic. But one stood out, unfamiliar: a sleek, steel-hulled vessel coated in glossy black paint, devoid of any name or regional markings. "Iron Fang," a whisper from somewhere reached his ears, sending a chill down his spine. But moments later, the people of Horizon slipped back into their familiar rhythm. No one questioned. No one suspected. Horizon had lived with fear too long to know that sometimes, silence was more terrifying than a scream.
At exactly 7 a.m., the floating market sprang to life. Merchant boats began displaying their wares, and the docks buzzed with activity—people haggling, children darting through stalls of dried fish, occasionally bumping into a vendor's stand and earning a scolding from an irate stall owner. The air was thick with the chaotic scent of engine oil, spoiled fish, and sweat, a raw blend that defined life on the water. Yet, amid the bustling scene, unfamiliar faces slipped through the crowd, quietly peeling away from the commotion as if following their own hidden agendas.
They moved in small groups—three or five at a time—never forming a conspicuous crowd. Some carried large sacks labeled as "filter components," while others pretended to barter for knives, fish, or dried rice from the northern seas. A tall, burly man with a square jaw and a coarse canvas sack slung over his shoulder approached the technical station near Turret 3. He leaned in, politely asking a young engineer how to "check the stability of an energy battery." As his left hand reached for a pen and paper, his right hand drew a small syringe, thin as a welding rod—a single jab to the neck was enough to make the Horizon engineer collapse without a sound.
Elsewhere, three "smuggler mechanics" were granted entry to the energy distribution station. No one suspected them—they had forged permits, goods in tow, and the convincing banter of seasoned traders. One of them placed a signal jammer on the control desk. The device blinked silently, unnoticeable but potent enough to cripple long-range communications.
Within the first hour, Iron Fang had seized two strategic positions inside Horizon—without firing a single shot.
7:43 a.m.
A muffled explosion echoed from Turret 3, not loud, more like a fuse short-circuiting. Kael had just descended into the boat's hold to start roll call when a plume of deep red smoke shot up from the turret's peak.
Everyone turned to stare at the signal—a straight, crimson streak rocketing into the sky. A Horizon guard nearby, his face taut with tension, muttered, "That's not one of ours."
gmen to swarm in. Now, their numbers exceeded seventy. Smoke billowed from three directions, mingling with screams, pounding footsteps, and the piercing wail of alarms.
On the horizon, where the light still blurred through the sea mist, a steel shape emerged. Not a massive Drift, but a mid-sized Iron Fang warship—sleek as a blade and the terror of smaller Drifts. Its black hull gleamed, its pointed bow like a spear, armed with two mid-range cannons and fully armored plating. Atop its mast, a steel wolf's head flag with serrated jaws flapped defiantly, announcing its presence. A low, ominous horn sounded, a declaration of war.
From the ship's belly, five armored skiffs slid into the water, each carrying four vanguard soldiers—helmets on, shoulders clad in bulletproof plastic armor, armed with pistols and grappling hooks. They sped toward Horizon's main gate, already partially opened by spies within.
Deep below Horizon's steel layers, in the command center accessible only to the Council of Leaders, emergency comms lit up with frantic signals. On the monitors, red blips marked the enemy skiffs closing in on the docks. Market cameras flickered with interference, but the images were clear enough to reveal the chaos engulfing the trading hub.
The Council had no time to discern the attackers' motives. Soren, the Council's chief, gripped the steel railing of the control desk, his white hair damp with sweat, his voice hoarse: "Iron Fang… those bastards actually dare to strike in broad daylight…"
A communications officer burst in, pale-faced: "Chief, the water reservoir is under attack! The warning signal from Turret 3 has been cut off. We can't reach the auxiliary radar stations. The energy sector reports a pressure loss! The situation is critical!"
Soren bowed his head and pressed a button on the main console. A sharp click echoed. "Activate Omega."
Immediately, a distinctive alarm blared across Horizon: four short blasts, one long. No one could mistake it—Omega protocol, issued only when "Horizon faces a high-level armed invasion from external forces, with the risk of losing local control."
Soren took to the intercom himself: "All Horizon residents, this is the Chief of the Council. We are under attack by Iron Fang forces. They've infiltrated, sinking their claws into the steel framework of this fortress. I order all Scout units to deploy immediately. Prioritize defending the water reservoir, energy station, and command center. All engineers, militia, and residents—form self-defense groups. Evacuate women and children to the central level and seal the auxiliary resource vaults. This is Omega protocol. No retreat. No surrender. Anyone who flees will be shot."
Within three minutes, Scout units 1037, 1023, and 989—Horizon's elite—assembled at Dock 1. Their battered, scratched canoes, fitted with makeshift guns, slid into the sea at unprecedented speed.
Rhea, deputy leader of 1037, stood on the second-level railing, her face steely, eyes dark. She wasn't joining the fight—Council orders mandated half the Scouts remain inside. "Trust them out there. We stay here to secure the water reservoir. Move out," she told her urban team, tucking an old pistol into her belt and adjusting her worn, recycled plastic armor.
Across Horizon, residents formed self-defense groups. War didn't discriminate by trade—engineers worked side by side with laborers. Corridors were barricaded with iron nets, ropes, and scraps of old containers. Boys pitched in, hauling essentials to the central vault. Adults scrambled to build fortifications, makeshift walls cobbled together from whatever could slow the enemy's firepower. An old man, gripping a spear, muttered, "You kids don't know I was a Scout once, do ya?" That was Aden, a retired veteran of the first Scout team, who had seen Horizon through countless storms.
At the docks, Kael's heart pounded as he ducked into a shadowy corner, clutching a rusty knife. A spy, face masked by a scarf, was pouring oil from a crate, aiming to torch the pier—targeting Cold Wave first, the boat Kael had hauled nets on for years, filled with memories, unglamorous but cherished. Kael took a deep breath, crawling across the slick steel floor, and looped a coil of rope around the spy's legs. With a hard yank, he sent the man crashing down, head slamming against the railing. "You bastard!" the spy snarled, but Kael grabbed a rusted steel bar and smashed it into the man's shoulder, knocking him out cold. Shaking, sweat mixing with seawater, Kael tied him to a steel post instead of finishing him off.
Out at sea, Iron Fang's warship fired a cannon from its right turret, targeting Horizon's main gate. The blast rocked the forward outpost. On the water, the two sides' vanguard clashed—Iron Fang's sleek skiffs, carrying armored soldiers with pistols and grappling hooks, quickly overwhelmed Horizon's Scout teams. A Scout took a bullet to the chest and fell into the sea, his blood spreading in a red stain, drawing sharks to the fray. From Horizon's watchtower, makeshift rifles proved woefully inaccurate—ten shots fired, only one hit.
Inside, Kael received orders to defend the water reservoir. He quickly joined a security team and headed toward it. Five enemies appeared ahead, and both sides charged into close combat. Kael, untrained in battle, grabbed a lead pipe and, in the chaos, managed to take down one foe. Blood splattered his shirt. Rhea appeared, firing five precise shots to drop the remaining enemies. Together, they rushed to fortify the reservoir's defenses.
The battle raged across Horizon. Frogmen continued infiltrating, while Scout teams were pinned down by Iron Fang's vanguard, allowing their landing ship to dock and reinforce the attackers. By now, over 200 well-equipped enemies swarmed the fortress.
Soren, Chief of the Council of Leaders, stood resolute before the control desk, his icy gaze scanning the flickering monitors tracking the red blips of Iron Fang's skiffs offshore. The roar of their mid-sized warship's cannons thundered, but Horizon held firm. "Enough," he growled, slamming his fist on the console and rising. He turned to Tom, Horizon's battle-scarred supreme commander, a survivor of countless wars.
"You—take our elite guard, the Black Caps. Open the armory, grab the automatic machine guns. Wipe out every enemy on this Drift."
"But who'll protect you? If we send them all and the enemy breaches here—"
"I'll handle it. Orders are orders. If we can't hold Horizon, protecting me is pointless. Go."
Tom's eyes blazed with resolve. He saluted sharply and rushed out, rallying thirty warriors in gleaming steel armor, armed with rifles and rare automatic machine guns reserved solely for the Chief's defense. They split into five-man squads, fanning out to reinforce the defenses.
At the rusted steel fortifications, grenade smoke choked the air, mingling with the stench of blood and sea salt. Horizon's security teams and militia, clutching makeshift spears crafted from screwdrivers and wildly inaccurate homemade guns, gritted their teeth against Iron Fang's spies. The enemy, in glossy plastic armor and wielding sleek pistols, pushed the defenders to the brink. Metal clashed, screams echoed through the steel maze of the market. Iron Fang's reinforcements, fresh from armored skiffs offshore, surged in like a tidal wave, threatening to crush the barricades. A militiaman fell, blood pooling on the floor, his spear snapped in two. Horizon, though defiant, teetered on the edge of collapse.
At the central front, Kael's heart pounded like it would burst, crouched behind a shattered crate alongside Rhea and the urban Scout team. The crack of Iron Fang's pistols tore through the air, mixed with shouts and clanging metal. Rhea, a whirlwind of steel, charged two spies with a gleaming dagger. One slash ripped open the first's chest, blood spraying like a fountain; a shot from her battered pistol nailed the second in the forehead, dropping him in a crimson pool. But the enemy swarmed like wolves, their glossy armor and flashing knives and pistols overwhelming the urban team. "Fall back!" Rhea roared, blood dripping from a gash on her arm onto the rusted steel floor. She rummaged in her coat, tossing Kael a jury-rigged revolver, its rusted metal heavy in his hands. "Take it, kid! Aim carefully—ammo's scarce!"
"But… I don't know how to shoot!" Kael stammered, sweat and seawater streaming down his face, hands trembling as he clutched the revolver, eyes stinging from grenade smoke.
"You'll learn by shooting!" Rhea shot him a glare sharp as her dagger, then darted back, leading the team through a narrow alley littered with debris.
"You, blondie, stick with me. The rest of you, split up and cover the flanks!" Rhea barked, pointing at Kael and issuing orders to the urban team. The group swiftly divided and moved toward their defensive positions.
Suddenly, a spy in a black scarf leapt from a container roof above, swift as a phantom. He locked Rhea in a chokehold, his dagger pressed against her artery, its blade glinting in the crimson dawn. Rhea thrashed, kicking his shin, but he tightened his grip, growling in an alien tongue, his hot breath grazing her neck. Kael's heart seemed to stop. He raised the revolver with shaking hands, aiming at the spy's head through the thinning smoke. Each second stretched into eternity, the sounds of gunfire and screams fading around him. Bang! The shot tore through the air, the bullet striking the spy's forehead dead-on. He collapsed backward, blood spraying across Rhea's face, warm and vivid, streaking down her cheek. Rhea broke free, wiping the blood with the back of her hand, her eyes flashing with a mix of shock and approval as they met Kael's. "Not bad, kid," she rasped, yanking him toward the water reservoir's fortifications, where militia were piling up fishing nets, rusted oil drums, and sandbags for cover.