Posted on March 17, 2026

CHASE 7: POTENTIAL (part 3)

At noon the following day, we entered the arena, bringing along Fil — who was now barely clinging to life. We were there for the four-way “Battle Royale” match that the military police officer, Chakol, had assigned us. However, my true objective lay with the next bout scheduled on the program: the match featuring Grey Berserga.

I intended to crash that match and challenge him to a duel. To do so, I had to win my current fight while conserving as much of my strength as possible.

Just then, two massive figures strode into our waiting room. It was Bogle and Ganial, the pair who had attacked Ronni out in the city. They were our opponents for today’s match.

“Heh, so you’ve brought a trio along this time?” Bogle bellowed, his voice dripping with murderous intent. “I’m gonna beat the living hell out of you, and then I’m taking those women for myself!”

“Listen up!” Ganial roared, his face a mass of red, festering flesh — now encased in a stark white cast. “I’m gonna make you pay for what you did to my jaw!”

Bogle thrust out his thick, red lips and let out a savage war cry. “Yeah! We’re gonna squash you flat, just like the worthless little bugs you are!”

Ganial slapped his massive, log-like arm with the palm of his equally massive hand. “You probably wouldn’t know this, but our muscles are forged from solid iron and copper. The blood we bleed? That’s just camouflage. I’m gonna use this arm to crush your skull into dust!”

He then pounded his massive chest — clad only in thick leather suspenders — over and over again. It produced a dull, heavy thud — the sound of solid, dense mass. The muscles across his chest rippled violently, surging up and down.

Bogle pointed a gnarled, calloused finger at me. “And I’m gonna rip out your guts and devour them!”

“When it comes to humans, the intestines are the tastiest part!”

Ronni finally snapped, unable to take any more of their taunts. “Shut up! Get out of here!”

Ganial let his long, red tongue loll out. “Feisty little thing, aren’t you, sis? But before long, you’ll be gasping and panting beneath me.”

“Get lost, you moron!” Ronni swung her fists wildly, trying to shoo them away.

“Don’t bother with them, Ronni. The match is about to start.”

The moment I said that, the siren blared to announce the fighters’ entrance.

“Listen up! We’re number one! You guys are going down!”

Spitting the words out with disdain, they retreated to the paddock on the opposite side. From the stands, objects came raining down, accompanied by wild screams.

“You damn idiots!”

“Go to hell!”

It seemed they were playing up their role as the villains.

“GAAAAH!” They let out a roaring war cry that reached to the heavens, completely cowing the crowd. The entire audience fell silent in an instant.

“What’s the deal with those guys? They do nothing but sing their own praises,” Ronni said, her eyes wide with astonishment. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen anything like that.”

“That’s just how it has to be. At least for now,” I said, zipping up the front of my pressure suit. “If you don’t pat yourself on the back, who else is gonna give you any credit?”

“Now even you’re doing it, Kaine?” Ronni asked as she climbed into her A.T., Fatty.

“I was just thinking that if my act was half as flashy as theirs, maybe I’d have found the Black A.T. a lot sooner.”

Ronni chuckled softly. “Oh… so you do realize how plain you are.”

At that moment, a particularly loud roar erupted from the crowd. Bogle and Ganial’s A.T.s had entered the ring. One was a red Beetle, its limbs equipped with massive claws; the other was a green Tortoise, sporting heavy machine guns mounted on both shoulders. They arched their chests toward the sky, spread their arms wide, and let out another earth-shaking roar — loud enough to threaten the very collapse of the arena.

Then, it transformed into a death cry. It was a sound steeped in the scent of blood. A gale swept through the air, as if to pay its respects to fallen A.T.s. A silver gale. It was Grey Berserga.

Stripped down to its bare metal frame, the unit’s silhouette was nearly identical to my own Berserga. The only exceptions were its head — where, unlike my unit’s compound sensor array, three distinct lenses were arranged individually. A fin-like ornament jutted vertically from the back of its head like an aircraft’s tail stabilizer, and then there was the distinct configuration of its left arm.

Its left shoulder bore no armor plating. Instead, the square, box-like drive unit was left fully exposed. Furthermore, the shield mounted on its left elbow was a slender, elongated plate resembling an ellipse sliced neatly in half. Along the central axis running from the shield’s curved apex, a long lance and a pile bunker were mounted in tandem.

The machine halted directly in front of my paddock. Behind it, two A.T.s erupted in explosions. Silhouetted against the towering flames, the Grey Berserga loomed over me.

“So you’re…the Blue Knight?”

Accompanied by that heavy, raspy voice, the cockpit hatch hissed open. From within emerged a man whose helmet was adorned with a pair of thick, curved tusks that coiled forward from either side of his head. He was massive, easily standing over two meters tall. Yet, among the Quentians — a race of giants — he would likely be classified as rather small. Compared to the likes of Bogle or Ganial, whom I had faced earlier, he was a full size smaller.

“Mudi Rokkor?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

The man removed his helmet. His face was gaunt and bony; only his deeply sunken eyes stood out with an eerie intensity. A jagged scar — marked by several deep, intersecting gashes — marred his forehead, and his silver hair hung limp and matted against his scalp. He appeared to be around forty years old, and his entire demeanor exuded an air of quiet, settled composure.

Chakol, the officer of the Military Police, burst into the dressing room. “You lot! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Rokkor fixed Chakol with a stern glare. “Now, hold on. I’ll fight this man myself. We’ll settle the breach-of-contract penalty for this match that way.”

Chakol replied with a formal bow. “If that’s what you say…very well. We’ll double the stakes and switch the matchup.” Though his words held a tone of respect, it was merely a verbal affectation.

“It starts in thirty minutes. Got it?”

Wiping the sweat beading on his forehead, Chakol exited the dressing room.

After a brief silence, I asked. “So… you want to fight me?”

Rokkor spoke in the flat, dispassionate tone characteristic of the Quent people. “Indeed. I heard that you were eager to cross blades with me. I came here to verify. To see if you truly possess the Berserga. Do you object?”

I grinned insolently as I spoke. “No…it’s exactly what I wanted. However, I have a condition. If I win, I want your Pile Bunker.” If he accepted my terms…

“Very well.” Rokkor replied in his usual monotone, then added: “However, I must examine your body right now. Do you consent?”

“Yeah,” I answered. There was no longer any time for hesitation. The blood within my veins was slowly drying up. My left arm had already begun to rot, turning soft and pulpy, and a foul stench had even begun to emanate from it.

“Get the women out of here.”

With those words, Rokkor climbed down from his A.T. Ronni cast a worried glance in my direction, then took Fil by the shoulder and led her out of the dressing room.

Once he had confirmed they were gone, Rokkor spoke. “So, the owner of this Berserga was Sha Bak, wasn’t he?”

I fixed him with a suspicious stare. “How do you know that?”

“I…I have been hunting him for a long time.” The words escaped Rokkor’s lips in a low murmur.

“Because he was a ‘superhuman’?” I stated it as a fact. It was an undeniable truth.

“Did you hear that from him? If so, then you must also know that the Quent people detest them — and that they abandoned the mechanical civilization that served as their very symbol.”

“Yeah.”

Rokkor spoke with a completely expressionless face. “In that case…you, too, must die. And for that very reason, I shall tell you everything.”

Enveloped in an aura of sanctity that brooked no intrusion, Rokkor began to speak.

“The superhumans possessed an unnaturally rapid compatibility with machinery. Furthermore, their physical bodies were incredibly robust. They possessed metabolic functions fully one-and-a-half times greater than those of modern humans. Sha Bak sought to uncover the secret behind that power. He did so two years prior to the ceasefire, during a brief return visit to the planet Quent. During an operation conducted by the unit he had once served in, he managed to uncover a vital clue regarding the nature of the superhumans.”

I protested vehemently. “That’s absurd! He was with the ‘Corpse Squad’ the entire time. That was a mop-up unit; they would have had absolutely no dealings with superhumans!”

“Is that so?” Rokkor remained perfectly composed.

“I, too, once served in that very unit,” I added. “And while I was there, I never heard so much as a single word spoken about superhumans.”

“Yet…Sha Bak sought to seize their power. Yes, the very power that holds the entire Astragius Galaxy in its thrall. And that’s why I find myself here, on Melkia, today.”

“He is no longer among the living.” I declared this to Rokkor in no uncertain terms.

Leave this planet — but leave the Pile Bunker behind. That was the unspoken message I intended to convey.

“But you are here. You possess knowledge of the superhumans — those with latent abilities — and furthermore, you may well be in the process of transforming into one of them yourself.”

“So that’s why you want to examine my body?”

“Precisely. Six months ago, the last bastion of the superhumans…”

I repeated exactly what Fil had told me. “You mean that computer they transferred all their memories into?”

“Yes. That ‘Wiseman’ — and with it, the entire planet Quent — was destroyed. Yet, their power is immeasurable. There may still be another stronghold hidden somewhere. If they were to make contact with it and attempt to seize control of the galaxy, it would be an absolute catastrophe.”

I smirked. “Do as you please.”

Thanks to my neural link with Berserga, my body should indeed be beginning to manifest the powers of a superhuman. But whether Rokkor was shocked by that revelation or not made no difference to me. The fate of the Astragius Galaxy was none of my concern.

“Sit down over there.”

Doing as Rokkor instructed, I took a seat on a small round stool. Immediately, he began muttering some sort of incantation under his breath. Fixing his pitch-black, childlike eyes upon me, he held his hands out over my body. Wherever his hands passed over me, I felt a distinct sensation — as if that part of my body was burning with fever.

After scanning every inch of my body with his hands, Rokkor’s face contorted with shock.

“Who — or what — are you? You are most certainly not one of the superhumans. Yet, neither are you a normal human being of the current Astragius era.”

I shot up from my seat. “What the hell do you mean?”

“I just examined your body using an ancient diagnostic technique passed down on Quent. It is true that, just like the superhumans, your body’s metabolic functions have been vastly accelerated. In fact, they exceed even theirs. And yet… there is absolutely no sign of mechanical integration. Not even a trace. Furthermore…that left arm of yours — the one you believe to be dead — is, in fact, still faintly alive.”

Gasping in surprise, I reached down and touched my left arm. But to me, it felt no different than before. Certainly not as if it were alive.

“Within you, there is no trace of that refined consciousness — the kind possessed by the superhumans. Instead, something primal — something akin to a savage ferocity — has taken root deep inside you. It does not belong to the people of Astragius, who have pushed their species to its limits through three thousand years of repeated warfare…so what is it?”

Rokkor’s voice grew harsh as he shouted the question. “Could it be…?”

Suddenly, as if struck by a realization, his tone grew quiet. “Could it be…the Berserga?”

“The name of the ones who gave rise to Quent A.T.s?”

“It is. The legendary figure credited with driving the superhumans — the ‘Gifted Ones’ — out of Quent. Though your manifestation of it is still incomplete, it bears a striking resemblance to the savagery of the ‘Berserker’ — the one said to have faced down the superhumans’ weaponry with nothing but his bare hands, even after losing his own weapons.”

I let out a wry chuckle. I certainly possessed a destructive impulse. But this was a wild goose chase. A complete misunderstanding.

“Didn’t the superhumans bring about their own extinction?”

“That does indeed appear to be the case. Yet, they were merely a single tribe among the people of the Astragius Galaxy. A tribe that happened to emerge on Quent. There is a theory that those humans living on Quent at the time — the ones who failed to undergo the transformation into superhumans — came to be known as the Berserga. They are the ancestors of every human across the entire galaxy.”

“Wiseman feared their savagery and their sheer vitality. And so, Wiseman set a manipulation in motion — a scheme designed to wipe them out while simultaneously breeding a successor race of his own. A scheme known as war. Whether or not a true successor was ever successfully bred remains uncertain. But there is no doubt that this manipulation pushed humanity to the very brink of its biological limits.”

“I’m certain that the reason you were removed from the same unit as Sha Bak was that Wiseman detected within you that very same power — the power of the Berserga. And that is why he tried to have you killed, time and time again…”

I had to admit, it all made perfect sense. A sudden reassignment, deployment to the front lines, and then — six months spent confined within the Balarant sector. And now, the Last Battalion — a force that could be described as a second generation of superhumans — has begun to make its ominous move.

“Even this very act — my attempt to kill you right now — may well be nothing more than a program left behind by the late Wiseman.”

Just as he uttered those words, the siren announcing the fighters’ entrance blared.

Rokkor climbed into his Grey Berserga. “No matter who or what you are, I will kill you. That is my duty.”

“I’m taking that Pile Bunker of yours — even if I have to rip it off with my bare hands.” I shot back my own retort, then leaped aboard my own Berserga. Bringing the mech to its feet, I followed Rokkor’s unit up into the ring.

In the center of the arena, he turned to face me.

“Let’s settle this!” Rokkor roared. Yet, there was not a single opening in his fighting stance; he stood utterly motionless. With his hips sunk low, he remained constantly poised for combat, ready to engage his Gliding Wheels at a moment’s notice. The same went for his arms. The instant I closed the distance, I knew his Arm Punches would ignite.

We each waited for the other to make the first move. Amidst the palpable, razor-sharp killing intent hanging in the air, the spectators began to growl in anticipation. But I couldn’t let myself be rushed. I had to take him down — and take him down for good.

Inch by inch, Rokkor began to creep forward.

I opened fire with my heavy machine gun. It unleashed a continuous roar, jets of flame spewing from its muzzle. He dodged the attack. Sparks flew at his feet. Using the recoil to spin up his Gliding Wheels, he executed a lateral roll, moving with such fluidity that he seemed to float through the air, and surged toward me. He was moving at blinding speed.

I, too, engaged my Gliding Wheels. Holding my gun at the hip, I charged forward to meet him.

Rokkor’s unit bore down on me.

— Here comes the Arm Punch.

I stomped down on the side pedal, sending Berserga’s left arm shooting out. With a mechanical roar, the forearm extended outward, aiming straight for his torso. He dodged it with effortless grace. Berserga’s left arm sliced through empty air. Slipping past it, the bastard slid inside my guard.

With that same left arm, he knocked the heavy machine gun right out of Berserga’s grasp.

— Damn it.

I took two or three steps back and glanced down at the heavy machine gun. With a flick of his toe, he kicked it away. The gun slammed against the fence.

— So, am I just fodder for his gun now?

But then, he discarded his own heavy machine gun as well. Flinging both arms wide to the sides, he lunged at me, reaching out to seize me in a downward strike. I thrust my arms out to block him. But only my right arm responded; it caught his left hand in mid-air.

His right arm — studded with heavy rivets — slammed into Berserga’s left shoulder. I cursed the fact that my left arm refused to move. I rerouted the control systems to my left arm and swatted his left arm aside. Then, I locked my fingers together in a vice-like grip. We were in a full-on grapple, a head-to-head power struggle.

My stance was all wrong to utilize the power of my gliding wheels to shove him over. If I tried it now, I’d undoubtedly end up falling myself. He began to pour all his strength into his arms. Keeping both side pedals fully depressed, I shoved the control stick forward. Berserga began to push back against his arms. He pushed back even harder.

Rokkor’s voice rang out, cool and dispassionate. “Just get crushed right here. A man like you wouldn’t feel a shred of regret unless you were physically overpowered and broken. Die regretting that you ever learned the secrets of the superhumans.”

His arms bore down on me with a force akin to the crushing weight of a heavy-class tank. Berserga’s elbows and knees began to creak. My joints groaned in protest as they were forced to bend backward.

“Ooooh!” The roar of the spectators surged with renewed intensity. The more power Rokkor’s unit mustered, the higher its voltage surged.

— I can’t afford to lose here.

I slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor, pushing back with Berserga’s maximum output. Its elbows spewed plumes of white smoke. Shuddering and groaning with every minute tremor, Berserga slowly forced Rokkor’s unit upward.

A particularly loud roar erupted from the crowd. The sound of rhythmic clapping joined the fray. As if drawing strength from that very energy, Berserga heaved Rokkor’s unit even higher. The forces balanced out, and the two A.T.s stood locked in a standoff. Both our units remained perfectly vertical, though our stances had shifted ever so slightly.

A deafening roar shook the arena.

“Let’s cut the stalling, shall we?”

I activated my Jet Roller Dash. Blasting thrust only from the nozzles on my right calf, I closed the distance in an instant. I drove straight into his right arm, throwing him off balance.

Rokkor’s unit tilted precariously. Still gripping his right arm, I spun Berserga around once and hurled him away. He went flying backward, hurtling toward the fence. I gave chase, engaging my Roller Dash to speed across the ground.

However, he spun the wheels on his legs to generate traction, bringing his unit to a halt while executing a smooth, gliding pivot across the ground. He thrust his right arm forward. But my right arm was faster.

That Pile Bunker is mine!

The right arms of both our units shot out, crossing paths in mid-air. With a deafening roar, a cloud of dust billowed up from the ground.

— Gunfire!

Sensing the presence of a new enemy, I brought Berserga to a screeching halt. Rokkor, too, retracted his extended arm and assumed a defensive fighting stance. The hatch on the Grey Berserga burst open.

A bullet had pierced straight through it.

Rokkor came into view. His right arm was severed, the area around his shoulder reduced to a mangled, bloody pulp. Yet, he didn’t let out so much as a single groan. He was a hell of an old soldier. Sharpening his senses to catch the faintest trace of the enemy, he remained utterly motionless.

Then came the sound of thrust flames tearing through the air as they erupted from thruster nozzles.

— Above us?!

I brought Berserga to a low crouch, snatched up the heavy machine gun that had rolled away, and cast my gaze upward.

Hovering overhead was a single landing craft. It bore a silhouette strikingly similar to the standard Gilgamesh design — a trapezoidal hull with wings extending from its four corners. Or rather, strut-like frames, each tipped with a massive propulsion unit. But this one was colossal. It was in the sixty-meter class. I had never seen anything this huge before; it was easily three times the size of the vessels I was accustomed to.

The lower hatch slid open to the left and right, and Armored Troopers began their descent. These were not Gilgamesh A.T.s. They were black-bodied A.T.s featuring a design dominated by sweeping curves — the mass-produced units of the Last Battalion: the Pot Belly.

That A.T. — the one from Kevec’s data – had returned. No — at long last, the main force of the Last Battalion had revealed itself to the public eye. Holding heavy machine guns, each sporting a pair of protruding barrels, casually balanced against the gently curving armor of their left forearms. They descended while unleashing a wild spray of fire.

Go ahead — try and kill me if you can. I won’t let myself be slaughtered helplessly at your hands now.

I had my Berserga take aim at them and opened fire with my heavy machine gun. Rokkor, too — having retrieved his weapon with his remaining left arm — began to return fire. Streams of tracer rounds reached out toward the Pot Bellies. But the enemy units simply flared their rear thrusters, evading the fire with what seemed like a mocking gesture, before touching down in a swirling cloud of dust.

There were seven of them. Extending their bent legs with explosive force to complete their landing, they caused their bodies to bounce upward by a mere few centimeters. As jets of flame erupted violently from the rounded thruster nozzles on their backs, they kicked against the air and charged forward — their movements fluid and lightning-fast.

Three units charged at Rokkor; four headed straight for me. I slid backward, unleashing a barrage from my heavy machine gun. Yet, the enemy units effortlessly shrugged off the fire, the rounds merely ricocheting off their bodies as they closed in.

My back slammed against the fence. There was nowhere left to retreat. One of the Pot Belly units surged forward. The camera eye mounted on its head glowed with an eerie light.

I activated my Jet Roller Dash. Behind my legs, the fence seared black and crumbled away. A sharp, crushing G-force slammed through the cockpit. Infused with explosive energy, my unit lunged forward, charging straight at the Pot Belly looming before me.

I drove my left Arm Punch straight at its camera eye. CRUNCH! Smashing the camera eye to shards, my left fist buried itself deep into the unit’s head. At the exact same moment, the enemy unit slammed its own left arm into me. Ignoring the impact, and with my fist still embedded in its skull, I used its head as a leverage point to slam the entire unit down into the ground.

The ground cracked and split as the enemy unit’s chassis plowed deep into the earth. The pilot inside was undoubtedly dead on impact. I wrenched my fist free and assumed a fighting stance, turning my attention toward the remaining three units.

Beneath my feet, the Pot Belly — still half-buried in the ground — gave a creaking shudder. Planting both arms firmly into the earth, it pushed itself back up, shedding clumps of soil as it rose. Even with its camera eye destroyed, it continued to advance toward me.

Are these pilots immortal!?

I guided Berserga back — one step, then two. I was left aghast at the sheer power of the Last Battalion. The ability to mass-produce A.T.s of this caliber.

Rokkor felt the same way. Although he feigned composure inside his cockpit, the movements of his unit betrayed his inability to fully conceal his astonishment. Seizing the split-second of hesitation from the Grey Berserga, one of the Pot Belly units closed the distance and lunged into close range.

The Pot Belly’s Arm Punch slammed into the Grey Berserga’s right shoulder. Along with the entire right arm assembly, the armored plating on the side of the cockpit was sheared clean off and went flying. Rokkor’s right side, too, was brutally crushed in the clamp.

“Guh…” Rokkor groaned.

The Grey Berserga’s chassis began spewing white smoke. With a battle cry — and internal organs spurting from his flank — Rokkor fired his Pile Bunker. The long lance mounted in the center of his semi-elliptical shield shot out with blinding speed. It pierced through the Pot Belly’s cockpit and slammed deep into the arena’s perimeter fence.

“Blue Knight! This is the weapon I spent ten years forging on the battlefield. I give it to you. Use it well!”

As Rokkor shouted these words, the Pot Belly exploded right before his eyes. The Grey Berserga was caught in the blast. Engulfed in flames, Rokkor rose to his feet inside the cockpit. Tongues of red fire licked voraciously up and down his entire body.

Then, he crumbled into ash.

I activated my gliding wheels. Five Pot Bellies blocked my path directly ahead. The remaining unit — the one that had lost its head-mounted camera — reached out toward the long lance embedded in the fence.

At that moment, an Armored Trooper burst out from the direction of the waiting rooms. It was a squat, stocky unit painted in a black-and-yellow scheme — Ronni’s Fatty.

“Stop, Ronni! That’s not an opponent you can handle!”

I wanted to rush forward in my unit immediately. But the enemy A.T.s surrounding me wouldn’t let me.

With its thrusters at full throttle, the Fatty leaped at the Pot Belly that was reaching for the lance. It grappled with the enemy unit around the waist, then pressed its heavy machine gun directly against the Pot Belly’s flank.

A sphere of blinding light erupted — accompanied by a deafening explosion. A catastrophic backfire. The Fatty lost everything from its shoulder outward; severed cables sparked and spat electricity.

However, the Pot Belly had also suffered critical damage — its armor plating had been blown wide open from flank to belly. From there, the pilot’s severed leg hung limply from his torso. It was impaled right around the knee by a jagged, splintered armor plate.

Next, Fatty unleashed a left-handed Arm Punch. Pot Belly’s frame shuddered violently, and the long spear slipped from its grasp. Fatty lunged for it. In that instant, Pot Belly’s left arm whirred into motion, slamming deep into Fatty’s left shoulder.

Fatty’s movements ground to a sudden, dead halt. As if an explosion had detonated from within, the left shoulder burst outward, and the cockpit hatch flew open.

Shards of debris pierced Ronni’s body. Blood gushed forth, streaming from her eyes. Yet, through that crimson-stained vision, Ronni’s gaze remained locked on the long spear — shimmering silver amidst the smoke.

As the fragments rained down, glinting in the light, Fatty pivoted around its left elbow to retrieve the spear that had fallen to the ground. Then, Ronni began to advance toward me.

Only twenty meters separated us. With the Jet Roller Dash engaged, I could close that distance in an instant. But the Pot Bellies encircling my Berserga wouldn’t allow it. They attacked in coordinated pairs — two units striking as one.

They closed in from both the left and right edges of my vision. I thrust both arms forward. Pulling back on the control stick, I parried an Arm Punch coming from the Pot Belly on my right. The very next instant, a shockwave slammed into me from the left. My pilot’s seat rattled violently.

— If only I could use this left arm…

A surge of rage coursed through my entire body. Yet, my left arm remained utterly unresponsive.

Steam began to billow from Fatty’s joints. Inside the cockpit, Ronni gasped for breath, her body trembling uncontrollably.

A Pot Belly’s head unit loomed directly before my eyes.

— Get lost!

Simultaneously with smashing the camera eye, I activated my Arm Punch. The enemy’s head caved in, and it toppled backward as it slammed into the ground. But just as the spent cartridge ejected from my elbow hit the earth with a dry clatter, the thing slowly — laboriously — heaved itself back to its feet.

The Fatty was advancing — slowly, yes, but with absolute certainty; indeed, stomping forward one heavy step at a time.

Ronni’s voice crackled through my throat mic. It was muffled and hard to make out — perhaps choked with bloody phlegm.

“Kaine…if you have the Pile Bunker…the Pile Bunker can take down the Black One…it can beat him, right? I won’t hand it over…not to scum like them. With this…you’re gonna defeat…the Black One…”

“Ronni!”

Blood surged through my veins. Inside my body…

“Get lost, you small fry — !” I roared. Yet they continued to close in, fearing death not in the slightest.

Behind the Fatty, a Pot Belly — its right flank already crushed — aimed its gun. The muzzle locked onto Ronni. Right before my eyes, an undamaged Pot Belly was bearing down on me, arms spread wide.

— Get out of my way!

I flipped the switch for my Muscle Cylinder Amplifier. There was a 0.3-second lag before it kicked in. Would I make it in time? I slammed the accelerator pedal to the floor.

— Move!

My gliding wheels screamed in protest. Jets of flame erupted in straight lines from the nozzles on my calves. I smashed my shoulder into the Pot Belly. Knocking it flat, I vaulted right over it. Five meters left to reach Fatty.

In that instant, a gunshot rang out. Fatty’s back erupted as it took a direct hit from a bullet. Black smoke billowed upward, shrouding Ronni from view. And the Fatty, too. A human figure sprinted past.

The Pot Belly’s gun muzzle spat fire once again. The shots continued to ring out. With a heavy crash, the sound of Fatty’s frame hitting the ground rang out from within the black smoke. Its cockpit hatch had been shattered to splinters. The Pot Belly’s muzzle continued to spit fire without pause.

From the billowing black smoke, a geyser of blood erupted. It quickly transformed into a crimson mist. Shredded fragments of flesh rained down, and a slender, pale woman’s wrist landed right before my eyes. It twitched violently once, then its fingertips dug into the earth.

But Pot Belly blasted even that to pieces. Bone and flesh were instantly reduced to a mingled pulp.

The gunfire ceased.

From the wreckage of Fatty — which was still spewing thick plumes of black smoke — Ronni’s shoulder pad tumbled out. It rolled right up to the feet of my Berserga, then — losing its balance — it toppled over.

“Ro…nni…”

I clenched my fists. If only my left arm were still working, none of this would have happened. A searing, sorrowful rage surged within me.

“…Ronni!”

A scream tore itself from my throat. In that instant, my left arm gave a sudden, violent jerk.

— It moves? My left arm…it actually moves?

My fingertips began to burn. A warmth spread slowly through my palm. As if attempting to claw energy from the very air around it, my fingers reached out and grasped at the sky. Energy from my entire body began to flow into the core of my left arm.

It burns. My left arm feels as if it is being consumed by fire.

A power — so immense it felt ready to burst — surged through me.

— I don’t care if it tears itself apart, or if it snaps in two. As long as this left arm still moves, I will grind you bastards into dust!

With a guttural roar, I reached my left arm toward the control yoke. I seized it with a vice-like grip.

The Berserga’s left arm — brimming with newfound power — sprang into motion. With my mech groaning in protest, I snatched up the long spear lying at my feet with my left arm; sweeping aside the surrounding A.T.s, I charged straight at the Pot Belly that had shot Ronni.

“I’m gonna kill you!!”

Something snapped inside me. Perhaps I had become possessed by a demon. Hoisting the long spear I held high above my head, I thrust it straight into the cockpit of the Pot Belly. The sound of rending metal, the cracking of human bone, and the gasping breaths of a dying man — all of it resonated through my hands. When I yanked the spear free, clumps of flesh matted with blond hair clung to its tip.

Stripped of everything, and having resolved to fight solely for the sake of survival, the destructive impulse within me began to howl for total annihilation. For me now, nothing remained but destruction and slaughter. And in that moment, I transformed into a bloodthirsty beast — a Votoms pilot consumed by rage.

The Pot Belly exploded.

I pivoted my Berserga to face the remaining five Pot Belly units, fixing them with a steely gaze. They flinched. They recoiled from the long spear, still dripping with fresh blood — and from the Berserga itself, now resembling a demonic apparition. Until this moment, the word “defeat” had likely held no meaning for them. But now, right before their eyes, they had just witnessed a comrade’s unit being utterly shattered.

Not a single one of them dared to charge at me. They merely stumbled backward in retreat.

I grinned — a twisted, predatory sneer.

Even if you fall, wave a white flag, or offer no resistance whatsoever…your fate is already sealed.

I sent my Berserga charging forward. I seized the shoulder of the nearest Pot Belly. The pilot tried to bring his machine gun to bear, but it was too late. I slammed my long spear straight into his cockpit. With a sickening crunch, the armor plating cracked open, and crimson blood erupted outward. Berserga was drenched in the bloody spray. Its chest plating, in particular, was stained a vivid red.

Witnessing this, another Pot Belly pilot — driven mad by terror — charged blindly toward my Berserga. He wasn’t using his thrusters; he was simply running at me on foot.

I ripped my spear free and dodged his charge by mere centimeters. As he rushed past, I grabbed hold of the thruster nozzle protruding from his back. I could hear the pilot’s scream. By now, he must have resigned himself to death. I drove my long spear deep into his back.

A thick, black propellant began to ooze from the tank embedded within the unit’s chassis. It made contact with a crackling electrical spark from the internal circuitry. Spewing a geyser of crimson flame, the machine crashed to the ground.

But even before that happened, I had already spotted my next target: a Pot Belly unit turning to flee. I engaged my Jet Roller Dash and gave chase. Even as the continuing jet exhaust scorched my own armor, I closed in on the enemy from behind and impaled it.

The remaining two units met the exact same fate. In the blink of an eye, five A.T.s — pilots and all — were reduced to nothing more than scrap metal.

High above, the hatch of the landing craft opened once again.

— Are they planning to drop more Pot Bellies?

I executed a rapid Roller Dash and exited the ring. Bursting through the wall I had demolished the previous night, I piloted my Berserga into the ruins of the warehouse. Inside, various pieces of A.T. equipment — including Log Guns and Missile Pods — lay scattered across the floor.

And extending from the depths beneath the warehouse floor was a railway track bearing the sign: “Direct Line to Arg.” If I took this route, I could reach Arg — the location of the Black A.T.

But my “destruction bug,” having already locked onto a target, would not allow that. Shouldering a massive Log Gun — a cannon easily four meters in length — I burst back out of the warehouse.

The landing craft had drifted to a position roughly thirty meters overhead. From its open hatch, more Pot Bellies were poised to descend at any moment.

— Will it work?

I initiated the Log Gun’s energy charge sequence. Deep within the barrel, a projectile began to form. I aligned my sights with the landing craft’s hatch, then disengaged the safety lock.

The Pot Bellies leaped from the landing craft’s hatch. With their thrusters blasting at full power, they began their descent. At that moment, the audio monitor on my injector signaled that its output had reached maximum capacity. I squeezed the trigger tight.

A ferocious beam of energy erupted from the muzzle of my Log Gun — a blinding, dazzling light. The descending Pot Belly vaporized into ash within that radiance. Yet, the energy spewing forth from the Log Gun’s muzzle showed no signs of diminishing. Like a vulture swooping down upon its prey, it pierced straight through the landing craft’s hull, entering through its open lower hatch.

The landing craft swelled violently. Then, as if purging the pent-up energy through its still-gaping hatch, it belched forth a torrent of flames. Listing precariously, it descended toward the outskirts of the city, leaving a trail of black smoke in its wake. It smashed through a couple of oil tanks before slamming into the ground. Then, erupting with a blinding flash from within, it disintegrated into a thousand fragments.

With a resounding roar, the fire spread to the surrounding area. Crimson flames surged skyward, and the rows of warehouses began to explode in rapid succession. One after another, their triangular roofs were flung high into the air. Had the fire spread to the underground pipelines? In the blink of an eye, the flames transformed the entire warehouse district — which occupied half the city — into a veritable sea of fire.

I felt the visceral reality of destruction. Never before had I experienced such profound emotion in the face of death or ruin. But now, a sensation of pure pleasure welled up from every fiber of my being.

With that surge of exhilaration still coursing through me, I returned to the arena, now bathed in the flickering glow of the distant inferno. The spectator stands were utterly deserted; nothing remained but the mangled wreckage of several A.T.s, reduced to nothing more than twisted scrap metal.

Ronni’s Fatty, too, remained. Though only its back plating and legs were still intact. Its surface was riddled with countless embedded rounds, leaving it utterly motionless. Incapable of even the slightest twitch.

I positioned the Berserga beside the trailer and swapped out its muscle cylinders for the FX-series units Mima had left behind. I withdrew the pile bunker’s lance, then fitted the spare lance — the one Rokkor had left behind — and performed a dry fire test.

With a light, smooth whir, the pile bunker activated. The lance instantly surged with energy, glowing with a pale blue light. Having thrust out with razor-sharp speed, the lance retracted to its original position. The firing grip hidden beneath the shield flipped up. The pile bunker was now primed and ready for its first strike.

Perfect — I smirked to myself. Just then, a faint, barely audible female voice called out.

“…Kaine…”

A jolt — like an electric current — shot through my entire body, leaving me numb.

“Ronni…? Is that you? …You’re alive?”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Somehow…yeah.”

I slowly turned my gaze toward the source of the voice. There stood a blood-soaked Ronni, swaying unsteadily on her feet.

She spoke, her breathing still ragged. “…Fil shoved me underneath Fatty just in the nick of time. That’s how…”

“Don’t…say another word.”

Ronni suddenly slumped forward. I caught her firmly in my arms, cradling her slender shoulders.

She gave me a faint smile. “Kaine…your left arm works now…and the Berserga, too…”

My voice was softer than usual. “It does… Thanks to you.”

“I’m so glad… that I could help.” Ronni let out a long, slow breath and spoke. “Execution…that’s the perfect grade name for your Berserga. Execution.”

“Yeah… I suppose so.” I didn’t object to Ronni giving the Berserga a name.

Ronni’s face was etched with determination. “Now… we can finally go to Arg.”

“We can… but you’re staying here.” I spoke those words quietly.

“Why? Am I… just getting in your way?” Ronni asked, her voice pleading.

“No…” I said the word, yet I held a firm resolve of my own. “If you come to Arg, you’ll die.”

Ronni smiled faintly. “Even so… I don’t mind.”

“You just stay alive. I will come back here. Until then — ”

“But…”

I shook my head gently from side to side. “Ronni…you’re the only one. The only one who can turn me back into a human.”

That’s right. Ronni was the only one who could restore me — transformed as I was into a berserker — back to my human self. I didn’t know why that was the case. But I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was true.

“Kaine…I hate it when you beat around the bush like that. Just say it…say that you love me.”

“Yeah…I guess so.” I muttered the words, then climbed into the cockpit of the Berserga. “Wait here. Let Fil’s final wish be fulfilled.”

“Understood.”

I had Berserga pick up the broken lance, then brought the A.T. to its feet. With fluid grace, the new-model muscle cylinders extended upward. There wasn’t a single creak in the entire drive system.

I walked Berserga over to the wreckage of the Fatty, then brought the broken lance — still clutched in its left hand — crashing down. The sheer force of the impact gouged a bowl-shaped crater, roughly a meter deep, into the ground, staining the earth with Fil’s blood. The destructive power of the FX-series muscle cylinders was truly staggering.

— Just you wait, Black A.T.

I turned Berserga toward the underground warehouse where the railway lay waiting.

“Kaine…I’ll be waiting for you…right here in this city…”

Ronni’s voice echoed from behind me…