Incursion (IV)

Cyril's position gave him a near perfect view overlooking the port district, and from there, it wasn't hard to make out the mounting wave of chaos that was about to be let loose inside the container yard. The procession of military vehicles had already arrived at the main gate, and it wouldn't be long before they waltzed right into the container yard.

The main gate rumbled from a thunderous impact. Shortly after, the entire thing was promptly torn from its hinges by a blast powerful enough to leave a searing trench in the ground.

Anyone from outside the city's walls would have found the scene unfolding to be fictional. If not for the very real flames catching alight and the trail of bodies on the ground, it wouldn't be impossible to pass the whole thing off as a scene from an action film.

A small group of Longinus operatives stood their ground, their weapons aimed in an attempt to deny the destructive advance of a mechanical unit standing at ten meters tall, a relic from the previous age of innovation when mankind sought to conquer Ziggurats dungeons through sheer technological might.

It was shaped like an insect, with two jointed mechanical legs reminiscent of a goat's. A missile rack and an auto cannon were mounted on either side of its insectoid cockpit, which featured a monitor-like display with a single large red scope at its center—an unblinking eye that seemed to watch everything.

Seeing it up close, Cyril was reminded of its original purpose: dungeon exploration. Its low center of gravity and articulated frame made it ideal for traversing unstable terrain, and mounted atop the machine was a three-dimensional sensory module—another relic of its past design philosophy.

"A Macewalker?!"

The lack of a pilot was evident from the presence of the sensory module, but Cyril knew it even without that clue. His deep-rooted fascination with M.I. technology made the recognition instant.

Once it was accepted that technology would never be able to dominate Ziggurat's dungeons, these machines, the Macewalkers were instead repurposed for real world applications, namely by Longinus as a means to 'subdue' rogue deviant elements inside the city. Their operational costs and the fact that they required a depleted dungeon core made the bipedal weapons something of a rarity, a trump card that was only invoked when lethal force was necessary.

At present, that was exactly what the iron sentinel was doing, there was no better representation of the word 'lethal force' than the scene unfolding now. An earthen magician fitted in Longinus' uniform gave a roar, he slammed both fists into the ground, cratering the earth and unleashing a wave of spiked protrusions at the lone Macewalker.

His attack had sent the earth into a heavy rumble, shaking the surroundings as the protrusions closed in on their iron target, but the blow never found purchase. The sound of a loud metallic click came from the missile rack grafted on to the Macewalker's cockpit, it swiftly popped open with the grating sound of an old iron gate being unlocked and once the lid was off, the machine engaged its targets immediately.

All at once, over half a dozen guided missiles streaked toward the kneeling magician. Cyril's expression darkened as he watched the resulting fireball swell, engulfing its target and tearing the asphalt apart.

All deviants possessed the ability to strengthen their bodies with an aura, but the extent of that enhancement depended on their individual level. In that sense, surviving a volley of missiles wasn't impossible—but your chances hinged entirely on your Index.

Besides MP rounds, Macewalkers weren't equipped with any clever offensive mechanisms to bypass aura. Their modus operandi was far simpler. The columns of code wired into them could be summed up in one directive: "Crush the enemy with overwhelming force. Nothing more, nothing less."

Overall, the machines themselves were about as effective as MP rounds, but with one key difference beyond their size—Macewalkers were designed specifically for crowd control with the singular objective of terminating whosoever their programming deemed fit.

Soon enough, the procession came marching into the container yard—Macewalker leading in front, guarding the large bus that would otherwise have no place on a battlefield like this. By now, most of the workers had fled, there was little point in trying to stand up against such an overwhelming force with their level of strength.

Cyril glanced around, a sense of déjà vu settling over him as he recognized his position—this was the exact same setup that had sparked everything in Ravenspurn. Dropping to his stomach, he crawled to the edge of the container, ears straining to catch even the faintest sound beneath the steady rhythm of pouring rain.

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He couldn't afford to miss a single word of their conversation.

Thankfully, the 'guardian' he'd seen earlier had no qualms about any intruders eavesdropping in on his conversation. The door to one of the armored vehicles popped open, and a man with slick black hair stepped out wearing the same military grade uniform as the others.

Cyril couldn't guess his exact age—even now, it was impossible to tell. Beyond the cold mask of indifference that left no room for ordinary expressions, what stood out most was his piercing amber gaze, sharp and frigid enough to be felt even through the downpour. The moment he appeared, everyone instinctively rallied around him—including the Macewalker, a literal death machine.

"Alright, you all know what to do." the man said, his gruff intonation leaving no room for assumptions.

This guy.... he seems important. Cyril thought, creeping a bit closer.

"What's going on with the dummies? Where are they?" he hadn't asked anyone in particular, but one of the lackeys in the assembly snapped to attention, terrified by the piercing look in his leaders eyes, and began rattling off an answer that somehow managed to stay coherent.

"I-I just heard from them a while ago, Victor It looks like they're having some trouble with the hunters that were hired to assist with the situation, but a few of them should be here soon!"

Victor clasped his face with a hand. He didn't say anything, but the man clearly wasn't pleased by the news. Cyril on the other hand, didn't care for his plight, what caught his attention was the operating device in Victor's hand, and the snowflake bracelet hanging off his wrist.

"Fine, so be it then. Get the boats ready, I'll open the gates once everythings in order but for now—we'll hold our position here. It won't be very convincing without the dummies, but we're out of time. Longinus is already recovering from the hack, so we can't count on any more Macewalkers—not that they were all that useful anyway," he scowled, punctuating his frustration with a kick to the machine's leg.

"Three of you go secure the boats, and the rest...well just fan out and make sure no one gets in our way. If anyone tries to interfere kill them, it won't be long before both Longinus and the hunter association are back on our asses." Spinning on his heel, Victor frowned again and walked towards the large bus, paying no heed to the synchronous "Yes Sir" echoing at his back.

He entered the vehicle, and a short while later, something truly peculiar happened. The bus—seemingly built for public transport—began to transform. Cyril heard the clatter of metal bolts and hinges shifting as the vehicle split apart, opening like a bivalve mollusk. In moments, it resembled a small storage truck more than a passenger bus.

It became clear the design had been purely cosmetic; it was never intended to carry large groups of people. As the rear halves finished unfolding, a strange sight emerged beneath the fog billowing out from the depths of the machine.

That's....!! Cyril's eyes went wide. He had to force himself not to shout out of reflex.

Once the escaping fog cleared, he was sure of it. The mechanisms inside the bus started again, and before long, it had propped up its cargo with something that resembled a tipper bed. The object being hoisted into full view cemented Cyril's certainty.

The cargo in question was a large, translucent cylindrical pod almost three meters long, its reflective surface making it stand out in the shadowy container yard as rain poured down. Perhaps it was because of the fog from earlier, but he couldn't quite make out the exact features of the creature inside from his position, especially when factoring in the distance between himself and the large pod.

He was certain of only one thing.

There was a monster sealed inside that pod—humanoid in shape and terrifying beyond all reason. The next shiver that crawled up Cyril's spine had nothing to do with the rain or thunder.

A few minutes passed, and during that time, three more automated vehicles arrived—ranging from trucks to buses, though they were the standard, non-military kind. All of them were repurposed solely for the sake of transporting more pods identical to the one he'd seen just a few minutes ago.

"So that's what those guys meant by dummies, the other pods are just diversions." Cyril muttered to himself, unsure of how to proceed from here. He tried contacting Alice numerous times in the past few minutes, but for some reason, his messages weren't getting through. Her last message to him simply read :"Help is coming your way; I'll be there soon." As reassuring as that was, he still wanted to update her on the situation.

That was when he realized something, and instantly, his eyes returned to the domineering machine sheltering the armed men from the rain. Upon closer inspection, he noticed a small blinking light flickering on and off on the Macewalker's insectoid cockpit.

That was when it all made sense to him.

The small units Longinus had stationed in the container yard had long been decimated, but even after causing such a commotion, there were still no signs of any reinforcements arriving.

"ATG missiles, the four-meter-long MP-round autocannon, a body built from titanium alloy... and, of course, it can act as a signal jammer too, how could I forget?" Cyril said, scratching his head with a groan. "Ahh! This just got a lot trickier! I would rather not take any chances with that thing when it's in assault mode."

There was no need for him to assess the odds—he didn't even try. MP rounds couldn't be called a reliable method for deviant suppression, but that only applied to those above a certain threshold. A D-rank like himself was an easy target, something the Macewalker could shoot down without hesitation—long before the intervention of all the other armed men wielding submachine guns even became a factor.

Still, the situation left him no choice — action was his only option.

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