2077/5/13, night.
Smoke and dust filled the air, the roar of armor and the constant flashes of explosions illuminated Omaha.
Just as the tide of battle was turning in favor of the New United States, without warning, the hardened pavement in the eastern part of the city suddenly bulged and swelled.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!!!
A deafening series of blasts followed.
Concrete, steel, and asphalt erupted like fireworks. A massive luminous fireball tore through the earth and soared skyward above the eastern CBD. The tremor rippled across several kilometers.
The blazing radiance spread like cherry blossoms in full bloom, turning night into day. Razor-sharp waves of heat surged across the horizon.
...
20 kilometers away.
Amid the howling winds and sandstorms, the Arasaka Army's Omaha frontline command had quietly entered full lockdown.
Tonight was a sleepless one. The clouds were faint, the moon bright, the desert endless.
Surrounded by Rahm Hessman and several generals, Vela ascended the lookout platform, gazing eastward to observe the results of the test detonation.
In that direction—under the glow of the Sakuradite bomb—the entire Omaha skyline shimmered in a strange pink hue, like cherry blossoms under moonlight.
After a moment—BOOM!!
"This... is art," Vela murmured, tapping the high-powered telescope mounted on a tripod. Her lips curled slightly as she hummed and said with heartfelt satisfaction, "If only I could see it up close."
Her words left the officers exchanging wary looks.
Your art... is an explosion?
"The fleeting beauty of destruction—magnificent," one Arasaka general affiliated with Kang Tao finally said, forcing a poetic tone as if quoting ancient literature. "Ephemeral life and death—true art indeed."
For a moment, the previously grim atmosphere—taut from the near-reversal of the battle—softened.
His colleagues stared, dumbfounded, their eyes clearly asking: The hell are you talking like that for?
The general merely smiled, saying nothing. Sharing interests with one's superior was a survival skill—and everyone knew Vela's fondness for classical culture. He wasn't going to waste that advantage.
Ambition burned quietly.
Finally, Rahm stepped forward, coughing lightly. "Let's not celebrate mid-battle, gentlemen." He swiped at his PDA, carefully choosing his words before turning to Vela. "The results of the test detonation exceed expectations. Preliminary calculations suggest the blast yield far surpasses the MOAB sub-nuclear class, reaching over 500 tons of TNT..."
He paused, then—this man who had spent his entire life killing, or perfecting ways to kill—spoke solemnly: "The future belongs to you, Director Vela. That's precisely why you mustn't take unnecessary risks. Avoiding all danger is the first condition to fulfilling your ambitions."
He bowed deeply—three times.
Seeing this, the other generals followed suit.
Vela fell silent.
"I understand," she finally replied.
She exhaled softly, straightening her posture—spine tall, chin high.
Inwardly, she knew what it meant: her authority was rising. The first field test of the Sakuradite Bomb in the Cyberpunk world had further cemented her power and the worth of investing in her vision.
No one wanted such a weapon to fall upon their own heads.
Forget that talk about 'dishonor in victory by bombs.' To a military realist, victory was all that mattered. They wanted more of these weapons—enough to crush their enemies into ash.
True, compared to nuclear bombs, its destructive force was modest.
For example, the San Francisco and Santa Fe nuclear blasts from half a month ago each measured around 20 kilotons of TNT.
Compact nuclear arms, portable enough for a single soldier's pack, carried both persistent radiation and EMP effects—ideal tactical weapons.
The reason they weren't used frequently now was simple: everyone had something to lose.
The four Corporate Wars of the early 21st century had burned that lesson deep into humanity's bones.
Now, no one dared use nukes recklessly. They used them, yes—but cautiously, with excuses ready to save face.
Arasaka and Militech's early exchange of one each before calling a ceasefire proved it well enough.
But really—such a fragile balance was itself a tragedy of this world.
As for sub-nuclear weapons—they were still sizable by nature.
For instance, the New United States' continuation of the old MOAB series: ten meters in length, one meter in diameter, and ten tons in weight—these are the basics. Its explosive yield ranges from twenty to over a hundred tons of TNT.
Mobility for a small team? Impossible. Any land or air carrier capable of deploying such a bomb is listed at the top of every major command and intelligence surveillance chart.
In such circumstances, a conventional bomb with destructive power rivaling tactical nukes—yet without nuclear fallout and far smaller than sub-nuclear weapons—held obvious strategic significance.
As the generals flattered her, Vela accepted their praise with calm composure, reminding herself silently: I am merely the universe's courier.
Sometimes, by introducing new materials or elements into old designs stuck at a developmental bottleneck, one could reap unexpected surprises. That was the true charm of the interconnected worlds.
Material science—this was the discipline through which she could most perfectly manifest her divine gift of interaction.
"All right, enough flattery," Vela said, waving her hand dismissively. "I only came to add the finishing touch. Victory must still be won by the courage of our soldiers."
"Back to business—order the entire army to prepare for a counterattack." After speaking, she turned slowly toward the fading glow over Omaha. "The welcoming ceremony I've prepared for them... has only just begun."
Vela silently opened her retinal display.
[Codename: Pangolin]
[Directional Beacon Network – Activated]
[101 Hybrid Sakuradite Cracking Bombs – Placement Complete]
[Test Detonation – Successful]
[100 Bombs – On Standby]
[Encrypted Interface – Developer Mode]
"David, begin." Her gaze turned cold as she clasped her hands behind her back.
...
After the test explosion—east of the Missouri River—in the tense and silent city of Council Bluffs.
In the trembling underground drainage and railway network of the abandoned city, David and his team, having placed all the Sakuradite bombs, were making a desperate, light-equipped sprint eastward.
"Holy shit... that was intense," Suneo muttered.
"There are still dozens more," David said, suppressing his nerves. "Move faster! While the seismic waves still mask us and the New American forces above are distracted by the explosions—we need distance, as much as possible!"
As early as midnight on May 12, he had already installed his batch of Sakuradite bombs and beacons, sealing the tunnels behind to avoid pursuit or detection. The following day and a half had been spent purely on widening their distance from the blast zone.
After all, their lives were on the line.
In matters like this, there was no such thing as 'good enough.' Everyone pushed beyond their limits.
What if they got buried alive?
BOOM—
In the next instant, a new tremor came from the west—the sound of collapsing skyscrapers. Rusted rebar and concrete chunks fell intermittently from the tunnel ceiling.
[02/32]
Glancing at the red countdown on his display, David pushed harder. "Faster!" He stopped caring about concealing their trail.
The previous shallow-buried Sakuradite test blast was merely an appetizer. Linked detonation—two minutes and thirty seconds left!
Charging headlong like a boar, David had never felt time drag this long in his life.
Beep-beep—
The system alarmed.
[00/58]
At that exact moment, his onboard heat sensors detected a sharp rise in air temperature.
The drainage system connected to a Missouri River tributary in Iowa!
...
Meanwhile, back at the Omaha blast site.
As the light faded, a massive circular crater nearly a hundred meters wide emerged amid the smoke and dust.
Crackle...
Scorched and fragmented remains littered the collapse zone—charred human bodies fused with exoskeletons, robots, and drones.
Dozens of armored vehicles lay overturned, torn apart, or burning against shattered walls.
Nearby combustibles ignited, sending thick black smoke spiraling into the night sky.
The closer to ground zero, the greater the devastation.
Within 150 meters, all structures were obliterated. High-rises were reduced to skeletal concrete frames.
Every so often, an unstable building groaned, its steel frame softened by heat until, unable to bear its own weight, it collapsed with a low rumble.
Creak—
At the crater's edge, the Militech Offices—once a critical strongpoint of the New United States' defensive line—were riddled with holes.
The building's signage groaned as its central support snapped, the glass-and-steel facade giving way under pressure, shattering and collapsing in a cloud of debris.
The surviving soldiers were pale-faced, frantically searching for their fallen comrades. One NUSA officer crawled out from a ruined bunker, staring blankly at the hellish landscape before him, mouth agape in disbelief.
With trembling hands, he pulled out his Geiger counter.
Hmm. No ticking?
Broken? No—it worked fine.
He exchanged a stunned look with another soldier who had done the same.
The wind howled. The ground trembled. Their heads rang and their eardrums screamed—but there was no doubt. This wasn't a nuclear strike.
"Arasaka's new MOAB-type sub-nuclear weapon?"
"Ammunition depot detonation?"
"Tunnel demolition?"
"Why... is it pink and purple?"
Soon, all reports were compiled and transmitted to divisional HQ, army command, and the Pentagon.
At the western bridge fortress of Council Bluffs, a NUSA mechanized infantry division major general turned from a shattered building nearby, his right eyelid twitching as he listened to the updates.
"Not a tactical nuclear strike?"
"I see. Request reinforcements from Barkawi and Benjamin. Tell them to be wary of Arasaka's counterattack. Half of my infantry regiment's been wiped out—I need an immediate reorganization for equipment and casualty recovery. Also, determine the cause of the explosion as soon as possible."
"Connect me to army command. I request a temporary—"
The man's composure under pressure showed his professional discipline as a NUSA officer. He issued orders methodically.
Just then, one operations officer stood up sharply. "Sir! Frontline recon reports that Arasaka forces appear to still be retreating."
"Retreating? Suspicious... there's something wrong—something we're missing." His expression changed abruptly. "No! Order all units to withdraw from Omaha! Notify Barkawi and Benjamin—retreat! Immediately!"
Before his words could fully leave his mouth, another officer rose. "Sir! Iowa National Guard patrols report Arasaka infiltration units behind our lines! They're emerging from abandoned drainage systems—engagement has begun—"
He never finished.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!
Everyone in headquarters felt the violent tremor surge up from beneath their feet.
The last thing the major general saw was a pinkish glow seeping up from the ground.
Then, the world spun. His vision went black.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Fire and shockwaves consumed the earth. A chain of deafening explosions roared from Omaha to Council Bluffs, echoing across a hundred kilometers along the Missouri River.
In moments, the city was gone. The ground collapsed. The division was annihilated.
"To victory," Vela said, raising her glass high. "Advance."
The radiant firelight reflected her graceful figure—and the blooming flowers of death.
The destruction of three entire divisions crushed the morale of the New United States Army along the front.
Arasaka, having been on the brink of defeat by Militech's counterattack, once again turned the tide—this time, breaking into Iowa.
The NE front became a thing of the past; now it was the IA front that fell into ruin.
America fell silent. The world watched in awe.
As the White House received the grim news and its official website went dark, across the ocean, hidden currents began to stir.
Tokyo, at Yorinobu's residence.
"...Lord Yorinobu, expending such precious forces on Vela Russell is not worth it. That ambitious woman may not even be grateful."
"Yamero (Enough)! My mind is made up. Leave me."
At this, the elderly Edo-born retainer—still loyal to the old ways—sighed helplessly, sliding the shoji door shut before quietly withdrawing.
Alone in the room, Yorinobu slowly opened his eyes. Determination gleamed within them.
"The day has finally come."
"Don't blame me, Vela. You've walked too far down Saburo's path."
He glanced at the PDA on his desk. The Foreign Affairs Ministry's Night City Administrative Briefing—detailing Vela's inspection of the NE front—was still open.
Expressionless, he swiped the screen and tapped [Commence Operation] on a secure channel. Then he returned to the main interface.
No farewell. No parting toast. No photo of his mother and sister for comfort. He simply rose to his feet in silence.
As he slid open the door, the turbulent emotions in his eyes faded, replaced by calm resolve.
By the time he left his residence, no trace of hesitation remained on his face.
A gust of wind stirred the courtyard. Fallen cherry blossoms brushed his shoulders as the spring sunlight cast a long, thin shadow behind him.
He walked steadily toward the towering black Arasaka Tower—toward the battle that fate had long prepared for him. There, he would abandon the Arasaka name. The will he had forged, the path he had chosen, and the beliefs he had upheld for decades—all would be tested to their limit.
Foolish or not, prodigal or not—this battle would decide everything.
He walked toward death, but he walked without regret.