The warning klaxon inside the Ol’ Five Seven screamed at the damage the fort had taken. A loud, vibrating note that rattled teeth and made the bones in Otwin’s jaw itch. He stood with his helmet sealed and visor dark, the world reduced to hard angles and glowing icons, ten security enforcers arrayed behind him in a tight line at the sally port. Their exoskeletons hummed with restrained power, pistons flexing, servos whispering as men shifted weight and checked grips. The smell in the chamber was oil, hot metal, and the faint tang of ozone from the charged systems overhead.

  Otwin braced a gauntleted hand against the bulkhead and leaned forward, peering through the narrow armored viewport. Outside, the world slid by in a blur of stone and dust as the Ol’ Five Seven closed the distance. The Western Fort loomed ahead, squat and ugly, its octagonal tower scarred by prior hits and streaked with soot. It was too competent to panic, too well-drilled to break formation. Its guns kept barking, heavy iron balls thudding through the air with a flat, brutal sound that carried through the fort’s hull.

  “Stand ready,” Otwin said. His voice was calm, even. DAC fed his words through the suit with just enough amplification to cut through the noise. “Do not jump early. Do not bunch. Follow the line, then spread.”

  A chorus of acknowledgments came back, clipped and professional. The exoskeletons made them larger, faster, and harder to kill, but the men inside them were still human.

  The Southern Fort finally found the range and fired.

  Otwin felt the impact before he heard it. The Ol’ Five Seven shuddered, not from the hit, but from the magno shield hummed its activation and skidded the iron ball away with a violent snap that made the air scream. The deflected shot spun wildly, screaming past the Tower's edge, and smashed into the Western Fort’s side tower.

  The effect was immediate and visceral.

  Stone and armored plating exploded inward. A jagged hole opened in the enemy fort’s flank, a ragged wound surrounded by cracked masonry and twisted metal. Smoke and dust belched out, followed by the brief, unmistakable flash of fire inside.

  “There,” Otwin said.

  The sally port’s internal clamps released with a heavy clang. The grappling cannon pivoted into position, its barrel thick as a man’s torso, runes along its length flickering as the artificers fed power. The grappling spear sat locked in place, a brutal length of steel with barbed fins and an impact head designed to bite into stone, wood, or armor. Thick steel cable coiled behind it, layered and reinforced, rated to haul engines and towers, not men.

  Otwin stepped up to the firing grips and sighted through the crude but reliable optical overlay. The Western Fort filled his vision. The hole yawned wide, raw and inviting.

  He exhaled.

  “Fire.”

  The grappling cannon roared. The entire sally port lurched as the spear launched, a thunderous crack followed by the shriek of cable paying out at impossible speed. The spear crossed the gap in a heartbeat and slammed into the enemy fort with a sound like a building being struck by lightning. Steel bit stone. Barbs deployed. The cable went taut with a violent snap that made the deck plates ring.

  Before the recoil dampers finished their work, Otwin was moving.

  He sprinted two steps and jumped.

  For an instant, there was nothing beneath his boots but open air and screaming wind. Then his hands closed around the cable, magnetic clamps in his gauntlets snapping tight as DAC engaged some kind of slide protocols. Gravity tugged at him, the world rushing past in a blur, the Ol’ Five Seven falling away behind him as he hurtled toward the enemy fort.

  The line sang under his weight.

  Behind him, the enforcers followed without hesitation. One by one, they leapt, heavy forms slamming onto the cable, exoskeletons compensating, clamps locking, bodies angling to reduce drag. They spaced themselves just as drilled, ten dark shapes sliding fast and silent across open ground while cannon fire cracked and thundered around them.

  A near miss screamed past Otwin’s shoulder, a heavy round tearing through the air close enough that the pressure wave slapped him sideways. DAC corrected instantly, stabilizers flaring as the suit kept him on the line.

  Incoming fire.

  “I see it,” Otwin said, teeth clenched.

  The enemy fort rushed up to meet him.

  Otwin released the line at the last possible second and dropped.

  His boots hit stone hard, exoskeleton pistons firing to absorb the impact as cracks spiderwebbed out beneath his feet. He rolled once, came up on a knee, and raised his energy rifle in a smooth, practiced motion.

  An enemy gunner appeared in the hole, bloodied and wild-eyed, trying to bring a short-barreled weapon to bear.

  Otwin fired.

  The energy bolt punched through the smoke and took the man center mass, hurling him backward out of sight in a spray of sparks and charred cloth. Otwin did not pause to watch him fall. He surged forward, boots pounding, rifle up, moving straight for the breach.

  The interior of the Western Fort was in chaos.

  Smoke hung thick, stinging eyes and fouling lungs. Shattered stone littered the deck, mixed with broken equipment and bodies. A loader screamed somewhere to the left. Another voice barked orders that cut off abruptly.

  Otwin charged through the hole.

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  Inside, the space was narrow and brutal, designed for defense, not comfort. He pivoted right and fired twice, dropping a pair of defenders scrambling to bring up a boarding shield. A third lunged with a blade, desperate and fearless. Otwin slammed the rifle into the man’s face, crushed bone, then drove a knee into his chest hard enough to cave armor.

  Behind him, the enforcers landed.

  The first two hit and rolled, weapons already up. The next came down harder, exoskeletons compensating as they hefted their crude, but effective melee weapons. A heavy shield unfolded with a metallic snap, locking into place as an enforcer braced behind it and prepared to attack.

  “Push in,” Otwin snapped. “Clear the tower ring. Do not get drawn into side passages.”

  They moved as a unit, disciplined and fast. Exoskeletons turned men into walking battering rams, punches crushing, kicks breaking limbs through armor. Shots rang out in the confined space, deafening and close, bouncing off Otwin's armor and the shield.

  Multiple contacts converging from inner tower.

  “Good,” Otwin said. “Let them come.” Part of Otwin realizes that's an incredible departure from where he was not long ago. He was willing to give up, walk away, when Harad had challenged him. Now he's welcoming the fight. DAC had changed him.

  They met in the tower ring.

  The enemy counterattack was fierce but disorganized, driven by anger and fear rather than command. Otwin took the lead, absorbing the first rush, energy rifle zipping out shots. An enforcer went down hard, his personal armor cracked, but another dragged him clear and kept firing. A defender tried to break past on the flank and caught a mace to the ribs that folded him in half.

  Somewhere deep in the fort, a horn sounded, low and urgent.

  Boarding alarm.

  Otwin smiled grimly inside his helmet at the information, provided helpfully by DAC.

  “Too late,” he said.

  Outside, the Ol’ Five Seven’s guns thundered again. The fort shuddered under the impact of light energy cannon fire, the deck beneath Otwin’s feet vibrating as more damage was inflicted from without. Dust rained down from the ceiling. Lights flickered.

  Otwin raised his rifle and advanced into the smoke, his enforcers tight behind him, the breach secured, and the heart of the enemy fort within reach.

  The boarding had begun.

  ***

  The moment Otwin crossed the tower ring, he knew the rifle was wrong for what came next. The corridors narrowed, the air thick with smoke and powdered stone, the angles too tight for clean lines of fire. He thumbed the sling release and let the energy rifle drop against his back, its weight settling there as familiar as a hand on his shoulder. His left hand came up, and the vibro sword slid free of its sheath with a low, hungry whine as the field engaged.

  The sound cut through the chaos. It was not loud, but it was sharp, precise, and wrong in a way that set teeth on edge. The blade shimmered, the vibration barely visible, and Otwin felt it resonate through his arm and into his chest. He did not hesitate. He stepped forward into the press of bodies and brought the sword around in a short, brutal arc.

  The first man never finished raising his weapon. The vibro edge met armor and did not slow. It bit, chewed, and passed through with a wet, final resistance that ended in heat and spray. Otwin twisted his wrist, and the blade came free, already moving, already seeking the next opening.

  Something in him clicked.

  He did not feel faster, not exactly. He felt smoother. Movements that should have been rusty from time and slowed by age were not. Lines of attack presented themselves before his conscious mind caught up. He stepped where he needed to be without thinking about why. His feet found purchase on broken stone. His shoulders turned just enough to let a wild swing glance off his pauldron instead of striking clean. He cut again, and again, each motion stacked on the last with an efficiency that left no room for doubt.

  This was not how he had fought before.

  The man he had been in the Wilds had survived on caution and wisdom. He wasn't even this good when he was a soldier in the Chiliad. In the fights since, the mercenaries in the TPC, the gang that had jumped them at the bank, the bandits whose STVs he had taken, all of it had been perfect. His aim. His skills.

  This was like that.

  Otwin flowed through the enemy like water forced through a broken channel. A defender lunged from the side with a spear. Otwin stepped inside the reach, trapped the shaft with his forearm, and drove the vibro blade up under the man’s ribs. He felt the weapon shudder as it met bone, then the resistance vanished. He kicked the body away and turned, blade already up to catch the next attack.

  The enforcers crashed in behind him.

  Axes rose and fell with mechanical precision, powered heads smashing through shields and limbs alike. Maces caved in helms and breastplates, the impacts sounding like dropped engines. Exoskeletons helped take hits that would have hurt unaugmented men and answered them with crushing force. The enemy had numbers, but they had nothing else. No suits. No shock gear. No way to match what had come through their wall.

  Otwin cut down another man and then another, breath steady, heart hammering but controlled. He felt alive in a way that unsettled him even as it carried him forward. The sword felt like an extension of his arm, not a tool but a decision made manifest.

  A flicker of awareness pushed its way to the surface.

  This is too good.

  He parried a clumsy strike, twisted his hips, and took the attacker’s arm at the elbow. The man screamed and fell back into his fellows, spreading panic.

  Otwin spoke without broadcasting, keeping his mouth tight and his voice low, meant only for the system riding inside his skull.

  “DAC. Are you making me a better fighter?”

  The answer came instantly, cool and without inflection, layered over his vision in clean, precise text.

  Affirmative. Motor pattern optimization, predictive threat modeling, and reflex pathway reinforcement were implemented. Intervention was necessary to maximize survivability.

  Otwin did not have time to argue.

  A defender charged him head-on, roaring, blade raised overhead. Otwin stepped to the side and brought the vibro sword across the man’s midsection. The field screamed as it met flesh and armor, the cut so clean the body seemed to pause before folding in half. Otwin moved past without looking back.

  His enforcers were deep into the fight now, driving the enemy back toward the inner tower. Blood slicked the deck. Smoke burned his lungs. Somewhere deeper inside the fort, machinery groaned and screamed as the Ol’ Five Seven continued to hammer the structure from outside.

  Otwin took a blow on his left shoulder that would have broken him once. The exoskeleton absorbed it with a metallic thud and a warning pulse. He answered with a short, savage chop that took the attacker’s head off at the jawline.

  There was no mercy here. No hesitation. He did not feel cruel. He felt correct.

  The enemy broke.

  Some tried to run, scrambling for side passages and ladders. Others dropped weapons and begged. A few fought on, driven by fear or pride, and were cut down just as quickly as the rest. Otwin advanced through it all, blade never stopping, enforcers keeping pace, the tower ring secured inch by bloody inch.

  He kicked open a control alcove door and found two crewmen huddled inside, hands raised, faces gray with shock. Otwin looked at them for half a second, then stepped past, signaling an enforcer to secure them. He did not feel the urge to kill them. That surprised him more than the ease of everything else.

  Threat assessment updated, DAC noted. Immediate resistance reduced by seventy-eight percent.

  “Good,” Otwin muttered.

  He paused long enough to catch his breath, leaning the vibro sword against his shoulder, the blade’s hum steady and patient. Around him, his people regrouped, armor smeared with blood and dust, eyes bright behind visors. They looked at him differently now. He could feel it.

  Otwin looked down at his hands, at the sword, at the enemy fort shaking around them, and understood something he had been avoiding since the Wilds.

  He was not just surviving anymore.

  He was becoming something built for this.