"Why did he move now?"
The Doctor's voice was tight, edged with frustration as he watched the chaos unfold through the collapsing window.
"He knew the plan. He gave me the impression he was an amicable fellow, someone who understood efficiency."
Kal'tsit's voice, as calm as always, cut cleanly through the comm channel.
"Your plans are flawless, Doctor."
The Doctor's brow furrowed.
"But?"
"But Fang is not here to execute perfection."
The drone shifted slightly, giving them a clearer view of the rooftop where Fang had stood moments ago.
"He is here to save lives," Kal'tsit continued evenly. "Even if it means risking his own."
The Doctor exhaled sharply through his nose, the tension in his jaw not loosening.
"That's not strategy," he muttered.
"No," Kal'tsit replied. "But it's what we need."
The battlefield below was in full motion.
Fang and Kharon stood back-to-back amidst a swarm of Black Roots operators, their segmented glaives whirling through the air like metallic serpents. Every strike came at exact angles meant to sever tendons or arteries, but Fang's robes fluttered between each arc, his body weaving gracefully between blades.
His incense rods struck with surgical precision—not shattering bones, but deflecting weapons, redirecting momentum, twisting an opponent's arm until they collapsed under their own weight.
Kharon, by contrast, was a storm given life.
His twin spears spun in brutal efficiency, sweeping through soldiers like scythes harvesting crops. Armor cracked, helmets split, and bodies fell as he surged forward with each relentless step.
From atop the platform, the Black Root executive's distorted laugh rang out over the clamor of steel.
"Ah… we meet again!"
His voice boomed unnaturally, carried by speakers embedded in his armor.
"My master was right about you, Ember Priest. So long as we play by your principles, you will offer yourself willingly!"
His helmet tilted as if in admiration.
"How merciful. How predictable."
A single gunshot cracked through the noise.
BANG.
The executive flinched back, his gauntleted hand jerking as a bullet punched clean through it, sending sparks and fragments scattering.
"Tch—!"
He twisted his head upward just in time to see Rosa's muzzle flare again from the northern balcony.
The second shot whistled past his visor, grazing the edge of his helmet before he ducked behind the podium.
It was the signal.
The Ursus students sprang from their hiding spots all at once.
Rosa reloaded in one fluid motion, while Leto dashed down the stairwell with her training spear ready. Zima and Istina burst from the eastern flank, moving to intercept one of the patrol squads that had been circling the civilians.
Burngear, still crouched behind the shattered statue, slammed his palm against the cracked pavement. The ground split slightly as a charge built within his arm, arcs of blue light flickering along its seams.
All remaining Black Root units converged on the center of the park.
The crumbling trees and stone benches became barricades and cover as glaives snapped outward in unison, glowing crimson with embedded charge nodes that traced between soldiers like threads on a loom.
The entire park became a kill zone.
Fang's eyes opened fully, the faint orange glow of his Hearthglow flaring subtly along his sleeves.
He moved.
His body blurred across the uneven stone paths, weaving seamlessly between swings and thrusts, each step measured like a dance. His rods lashed out—not striking flesh, but knocking blades askew, redirecting lunges into Kharon's waiting spears.
Kharon followed Fang's flow with brutal precision, each kill executed without wasted motion. One soldier's arm was pinned against the ground as the other spear split his weapon in half; another found himself hurled backward after Fang pivoted him into Kharon's strike path.
The battle unfolded like a practiced dance—Fang guiding, Kharon cutting.
Not a single drop of blood spilled from Fang's strikes.
He knocked an enemy upward with a rising swing, spun, and pushed the soldier into the arc of Leto's halberd just as she arrived from behind the cover. She hesitated only a fraction before driving the point into the enemy's chest.
Above, Rosa provided cover fire, each shot perfectly timed to suppress squads trying to flank from the civilians.
Istina's arts ignited the air in controlled bursts, creating brief walls of kinetic force that redirected incoming glaives away from the students.
Zima barked orders to coordinate their movements with Fang's flow, guiding them to strike where he opened opportunities.
For a moment—amid the chaos, the screams, the flashing of segmented blades—it almost felt like a single entity moving together.
The battle began to thin as the Black Root formation faltered under the coordinated assault. Operators stumbled back, their precision unraveling into frantic defense as Fang redirected their every strike into a trap for his allies to exploit.
Kharon's spears left a path of broken weapons and shattered armor in his wake, while Burngear's charged fists tore through what remained of their defensive line.
And then—
The deep chop of rotor blades split the air above the park.
Everyone's eyes darted skyward as a sleek, ashen-gray helicopter emerged from behind the scorched ruins of the western buildings. Its hull carried the same branching emblem as the operators' armor, but its sides were lined with retractable panels and gleaming segmented cables that swayed faintly in the wind.
The helicopter drifted low, its hum smooth and controlled, like an extension of the speech that began again almost as soon as it appeared.
A rope ladder uncoiled from its side.
The Black Root executive stepped calmly onto the platform, reached upward, and grasped the ladder with one gauntleted hand.
"Please, open your eyes, Ember Priest!" his voice boomed, amplified through the helicopter's speakers. "We are not destroyers. We are caretakers—pruning this beautiful garden so that Terra blooms again!"
BANG.
A gunshot cracked through the park as Rosa fired from her balcony perch, aiming clean for his head.
The executive tilted his wrist mid-ascent, and the segmented glaive snapped into a perfect shield above his shoulder.
The bullet ricocheted harmlessly into the rubble below.
"Persistent," he mused lightly, his tone infuriatingly casual.
"If this is your idea of a garden," Kharon roared, launching into a sprint toward the helicopter, "then I'll burn it down myself!"
He leapt onto the platform, his spear slamming through the steel edge where the executive had been moments ago, but the helicopter was already rising, the ladder swaying just out of reach.
The executive waved leisurely with his free hand as the aircraft gained altitude.
"By all means," he called down, voice ringing with mocking cheer. "But when you do… remember who planted the seeds first."
The remaining Black Root operators scattered immediately, retreating through the streets in precise formation, abandoning their fallen without hesitation.
Kharon landed hard, teeth gritted, his grip on his spears tight enough to creak the wood.
Burngear slammed his fist into the ground with a frustrated snarl, sparks scattering from his mechanical arm.
Before they could pursue, Kal'tsit's drone descended sharply into their field of view, its lens turning to lock on Fang and the Doctor.
Kal'tsit's voice came through, unusually clipped and urgent.
"We have a situation."