At the other side of the celebration center, countless tourists and local residents were basking in the lingering warmth of summer, enjoying food, laughter, and music. Amid the crowd, Meteorite was working with another group of adventurers to dismantle a bomb.
She wasn't exactly an expert in explosives—her first thought had been to simply destroy the device outright—but one of the adventurers stopped her, explaining that this particular bomb could only be disarmed manually.
Meteorite had been curious how he could tell. As it turned out, the man profession is a mechanic. He knew his way around machinery well enough, and assembling or disassembling a device like this was hardly a problem for him.
While he worked, Meteorite stood watch, her sharp eyes sweeping over every corner of the street. They had already eliminated the Bolivarian operatives guarding the bomb, and reinforcements were likely on their way. Still, this was the city center—surely no one would be reckless enough to open fire here… right?
A glint flashed in her vision. Meteorite twisted her body to the side just in time—an arrow streaked past where her chest had been a heartbeat ago and embedded itself deep in the wall behind her. Her expression darkened. This wasn't a common crossbow bolt—it came from a high-powered sniper ballista, a weapon strong enough to punch through solid walls.
"How much longer?" she called out.
"Five minutes!" the mechanic shouted back, focused on his task. "You can't rush this, okay? Even defusing a bomb has rules!"
Meteorite cursed under her breath. She glanced around at the crowd of stunned civilians and shouted for them to evacuate immediately. Her hand reached for the longbow stashed under the stage curtain. The festival grounds had descended into chaos, and as fear rippled through the air, a cold fury burned within her chest.
Yes, she was a Sarkaz—and yes, she cared for Kazdel—but she also had her own sense of justice. And to her, the so-called "true Bolivarians" who orchestrated this were no different from terrorists.
The adventurers behind her understood the enemy's tactics all too well. The Bolivarians intended to stage a terror attack in Dossoles, then shift all the blame onto Candela Sanchez, Leithanien, and Columbia—branding them as the culprits to justify "restoring order" by occupying the city.
The plan might have been clever. But the method was unforgivable.
Meteorite's eyes went icy. She aimed at a shadowed figure wearing a hood and squeezed the trigger. Her arrow tore through the air with a crack. Around her, other Sarkaz mercenaries raised their weapons and returned fire, cutting down the incoming volleys of bolts raining from the darkness.
The soldiers didn't rush them directly; instead, they kept up a steady barrage of long-range shots, harassing from cover. Meteorite couldn't tell if they were afraid to close the distance or biding their time for something worse.
Moments later, the mechanic's voice rang out joyfully.
"Bomb disarmed!"
"Good. We're pulling out."
"Understood—but we're surrounded! There's no clear exit!"
Meteorite's jaw tightened. The celebration center was wide open—too exposed. Under the constant barrage, it was a miracle only a few of their mercenaries had suffered light injuries so far. Trying to break through under sniper fire would be suicide. Even with her mechanical armor, she wasn't sure it could withstand a direct hit from one of those massive bolts.
"The outpost's been attacked too," another adventurer reported grimly. "We can't go back there… Captain Meteorite, let's head for the southern slums. I heard there are agents from Columbia and Leithanien operating there. The Bolivarians won't risk going all out in that area."
Meteorite gave a curt nod. "Fine. Lead the way."
She raised her bow, took aim at a rooftop in the distance, and fired. The arrow streaked through the night like a comet, bursting into flame midair before slamming into the building with a roaring explosion.
"Move!" she barked. She grabbed the still-stunned mechanic by the arm, dragging him into motion. The group broke into a run, darting into the maze of narrow, shadowed alleys.
"After them! Don't let them escape!"
"Contact the forward team—we'll trap them like rats in a cage!"
"No need—they've already been alerted. They won't get far."
The soldiers who'd survived the earlier blast looked shaken, but the others raised their communication devices, reporting their pursuit. Moments later, one of them frowned, face paling.
"What do you mean, 'no contact'?"
He slammed the device down. The others stared at him, then followed his lead down the same path the mercenaries had fled—a narrow one-way street lined with tightly packed buildings. There were no signs of forced entry, no footprints, no noise.
Before long, they ran into another Bolivarian unit coming from the opposite direction.
The looks on their faces were grim.
"Where are they?"
———
Five minutes earlier.
Meteorite and her team were sprinting down a dark alley, lungs burning, the dim streetlights barely illuminating the path ahead. None of them knew the terrain, and if enemies appeared in front of them, there would be only one option left—
to fight their way through.
"No one's hurt, right?"
As captain, Meteorite was thorough and responsible, always the last to retreat. During their withdrawal, she had been struck twice by sniper bolts—both hits landing on her torso. Yet her skin wasn't even scratched. The mechanical armor that covered her body had absorbed the impact completely, not a single dent left behind.
"No injuries," one of the mercenaries replied.
"My ankle's twisted. Does that count?" another muttered.
"Use Originium Arts to treat it later," Meteorite ordered. "For now, endure it."
They were still catching their breath when the Sarkaz mercenary leading the group suddenly halted. His gaze fixed on the figure standing silently ahead of them—a young Perro man. His tone was calm but cautious.
"Who are you?"
"There's a government blockade up ahead," the young man said evenly.
He wore a disarming smile, one that might have lowered the guard of ordinary people. But these mercenaries were hardened veterans; no one among them relaxed their stance.
Seeing their suspicion, the young man gave a wry smile and scratched the back of his head. "If you don't believe me, there's not much I can do. I just want to help you, that's all."
Meteorite stepped forward, studying him carefully. The young Perro's short golden hair gleamed faintly under the dim light.
"We're just hired mercenaries," she said coldly. "Why would you help us?"
He didn't hesitate. With a shrug, he replied, "Because I'm a citizen of Dossoles—and I don't want to see the city's future turned into a nightmare."
"Ah, and you can call me Ernesto. My codename is… Tequila. Just came up with it."
If there had been any players around, they might've joked about finding 'Gin' and 'Vodka' next.
Ernesto's attempt at humor fell flat among the grim-faced mercenaries. Realizing that, he gave a helpless chuckle and gestured toward the wall beside him.
"There's a hidden passage here," he explained. "It used to be used for… certain illegal trades. But after the Dossoles police shut it down last year, it's been abandoned. If you trust me, follow my lead."
Meteorite hesitated for a moment before nodding. Escaping their current predicament was the priority.
At this point, trusting him was their only real option. Of course, she wasn't reckless—if this young man was leading them into a trap, she was ready to strike him down and carve a path out by force.
Ernesto clearly noticed her vigilance but said nothing. With a quiet sigh, he twisted what appeared to be a broken metal pipe. A faint grinding sound echoed as a hidden brick door slowly slid open, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond.
Meteorite entered first, followed by the other mercenaries. Ernesto came last, scanning the empty alley one final time before shutting the door behind him.
They found themselves on a stairway lined with torches on either side. The flames looked freshly lit, their light flickering off the thick dust coating the floor. Aside from Ernesto's fresh footprints, the place had clearly been abandoned for some time.
"Where exactly is this?" Meteorite asked.
Ernesto smiled slightly. "Like I said, it's an exit from Dossoles' underground trade network. In other words, it used to be one of the black market's access points. But once the authorities cracked down, this place was left to rot. Nothing more."
He continued, his voice calm but resolute. "The government troops won't dare follow us in here. Even they know better than to stir up the black market."
Meteorite nodded slowly. "So that's your reason for helping us—you don't want the government to succeed."
"That's all there is to it," Ernesto replied.
She didn't question him further. There was no point in asking why a Bolivarian would choose not to aid his fellow Bolivarians. The Sarkaz had their own share of contradictions, too. After all, wasn't it a Sankta who had once carried news to Kazdel, despite years of enmity between their peoples?
Gradually, the mercenaries and adventurers lowered their weapons. Under Ernesto's guidance, they descended the steps and soon blended into the bustling crowd. With their hoods up, they looked like just another band of rough-looking outsiders.
No one connected them to the chaos that had the government troops raging helplessly these past few days. And even if some did suspect it, they wisely chose to mind their own business.
Ernesto led the group through winding backstreets until they reached a lively bar. After a brief exchange with the bartender—just enough to confirm his identity—he easily ushered all twenty-some people into a private room.
" You don't look much like a good citizen of Dossoles."
" I'm not," Ernesto admitted with a helpless smile. "Dossoles holds the tears and the sweat of so many Bolivarians. I can't stand to see this city burned in factional fights. I think most people who live here—Bolivarians who call this place home—feel the same way."
" I won't pretend to judge all Bolivarians. In the short time I've been contracted here, I've already felt this city's charm. That's why so many choose to live here."
He bowed once, modest and polite, then slipped back into the easygoing manner he'd had when they first met. One by one he went to the mercenaries and asked what they wanted to drink. For himself he ordered juice.
" You're not underage, are you?" someone teased.
" I am," he said, with a little grin. "But if I drink at night my father will scold me."
Ernesto's Perro ears twitched. "I've checked—your comrades are at a deserted stretch of beach, facing thirty-odd government troops."
At that number Meteorite relaxed. The anxiety on her face smoothed out.
Ernesto, curious, pressed: "Those soldiers—trained, battle-hardened fighters. Aren't you worried for your comrades?"
" If it were a hundred or more, perhaps," Meteorite replied calmly. "We aren't good at large-scale coordinated warfare. But we are mercenaries. One-on-one, we live for this. Thirty men won't break our lines."
Most of the mercenaries sipped soft drinks rather than alcohol. They needed clear heads during the contract; rest was rare and precious. Some closed their eyes and dozed, saving energy for whatever might come. Others clustered together and replayed the previous engagement—who mispositioned, who should change tactics next time.
Ernesto looked around, impressed. Polite, disciplined, well-equipped elite mercenaries—where had such a force appeared from? In his mind mercenaries were rough brutes who drank and laughed away their wounds. These people were sharper, more professional.
" Miss Meteorite—what's your unit called?" Ernesto asked, curiosity sharpened.
" We belong to a company," she answered. "Its name is Tomorrow's Development—there's a mercenary wing that handles contracts." She added, "Most of Tomorrow's Development's mercenaries now are Sarkaz."
" Tomorrow's Development…" Ernesto repeated the name slowly. He'd heard it somewhere before—maybe from a passerby in the street—but he couldn't place it.
Just then Meteorite's comm pinged. It was a message from Sorlesar: the thirty-odd government troops had been eliminated. Meteorite didn't react theatrically; she felt no surprise. Their employer had authorized action against government forces if necessary. In her own judgment this mission was righteous.
Would the festival be able to go on as planned? Meteorite didn't know. Sorlesar's message also warned that the government forces had reinforcements—an imposing Perro Captain. If she showed up, the job would be harder than expected.
Still, she had no intention of letting it fail.
She made a decision then.
" What's your next move, Miss Meteorite?" Ernesto asked.
" Ernesto—do you have any suggestions?" Meteorite replied, looking at the young man, who resembles a playboy, and leveling her voice at him as an equal. "If you were them, where would you hide the bombs?"