Graves was holed up in his cramped quarters, deeply engrossed in a mountain of tedious administrative paperwork his senior had piled onto his desk. Despite the cooling vent humming loudly and desperately circulating chilled air, the sheer volume of the logistics files left him completely drenched in sweat. Suddenly, a violent, rhythmic knock rattled his metal door.
"Leave a message!" Graves yelled out without looking up, his fingers flying across his datapad.
"It's a mobilization order!" a harsh, authoritative voice barked back through the steel panel. "All officers have been called to active duty. We are deploying for a live mission. You have exactly three minutes to kit up and get to the staging area!"
Before Graves could even respond, the heavy thud of combat boots faded down the corridor. He heard the exact same frantic knock hit the door immediately next to his, the messenger repeating the grim directive verbatim.
"Damn it," Graves muttered, tearing his eyes away from the screen.
He scrambled across the room, quickly pulling his heavy tactical medical vest over his shoulders and checking his trauma bag, ensuring it was tightly packed with cellular regenerators and field tourniquets. Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out his standard-issue military sidearm, checking the chamber before slapping it firmly into his thigh holster. In the NHF, medics were strictly authorized to carry sidearms for emergency self-defense; under active field protocols, a nearby combatant was even permitted to commandeer a medic's pistol if their primary weapon ran dry.
"This isn't the old world," Instructor Han's harsh voice echoed in Graves's memory from their academy days. "Back then, medics were strictly forbidden from carrying offensive arms under international laws. But guess what? Devils don't care about human war crimes, and they certainly don't respect military ethics. If you don't shoot, you get eaten."
Graves rushed out of his quarters, instantly merging into a chaotic sea of personnel flooding the hallways. He passed several high-ranking officers, but in the heat of the frantic mobilization, nobody cared about standard salutes or strict military etiquette. Every single face possessed a deeply focused, intensely concerned expression.
During the rapid pre-deployment debriefing, the grim reality of the situation finally set in. Long-range military surveillance had detected an unprecedented mass gathering of devils just outside the perimeter of Outskirt Sector C. Consequently, General Brownman had authorized a massive, immediate intervention to investigate the vanguard and utilize absolute lethal force to truncate whatever the monsters were plotting. But it was the whispered rumor floating among the senior staff that truly sent a violent, icy shiver straight down Graves's spine—the higher-ups strongly suspected that a gathering of this terrifying scale could only be organized by a highly intelligent, A-class devil. Looking around the briefing room, Graves could see that every single soldier, regardless of rank, looked utterly terrified by the news.
A short while later, Graves found himself tightly packed inside a heavily armored personnel vehicle (APV). Mounted directly onto the reinforced roof of the vehicle was a devastating HDK—a Heavy Devil Killer mechanized unit. These massive, armored exosuits were intentionally engineered to be bulky, allowing the specialized soldiers operating them from the inside to wield devastating, high-caliber heavy weaponry.
The soldiers who piloted these heavily armed rigs were known simply as Pilots, and certain high-tier variations of the HDK suits even possessed flight capabilities. Powered entirely by high-grade crystal cores harvested from slain devils, Instructor Han had once humorously likened the heavy bipedal weapons to a legendary piece of pre-fallout cinema called a "Hulkbuster," though Graves had long since forgotten the exact name of the movie. The actual HDK suits were far more menacing—bristling with sharp, jagged defensive edges and a brutal, utilitarian design. While Graves had never personally operated one, his year on the force had made him intensely familiar with their terrifying presence on the battlefield.
Inside the rattling hull of the APV, the troops sat in two rows, facing one another. An older officer sat directly across from Graves, staring intently at the young man's white hair and calm demeanor.
After a few minutes of agonizing silence, the officer leaned forward. "Hey, kid... how many live combat missions have you actually survived?"
The remaining soldiers in the transport immediately turned their heads, their eyes locking onto Graves. Graves slowly opened his eyes, letting out a quiet breath. "Seven."
A collective, sharp gasp echoed through the metal chassis of the APV. To Graves, it became instantly obvious that almost every other soldier crammed into this transport was a completely raw, uninitiated new intake.
"Do you... do you have any advice for us?" the officer paused slightly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "On how to survive out there long enough? To make it back... like you?"
Graves stared at the floor of the vehicle, completely unsure of what to tell them. He knew that offering them hollow, comforting platitudes or wrapping the brutal reality in a neat lie wouldn't do them any favors; in a war zone, false solace was could be a death sentence.
He let out a heavy sigh. "To be completely honest with you... I don't really know. The fact that my comrades have died right in front of me while I managed to survive doesn't mean I'm smarter or better than them. Most of the time, it just comes down to pure, unadulterated luck. If a situation becomes entirely impossible to work in, I don't try to play the hero I run. I prioritize staying alive."
An uncomfortable, heavy silence fell over the transport, Graves's stark words hanging in the air like a shroud. He wondered briefly if he had gone too far, if he had completely shattered whatever fragile confidence these rookies had left.
Suddenly, another young officer sitting beside him broke the tension. "Do you carry a lucky charm? Something you hold onto when you're caught in a dire situation?"
Graves offered a slow, silent shake of his head. "I don't carry anything like that. Personally, I don't think I'll ever believe in luck charms. If a person's designated day to die finally catches up to them, there isn't a single object on this planet that can stop it from happening. Relying on a lucky charm is just a desperate way to force yourself to hope. And out in the battlefield... hope can be a very dangerous thing."
He murmured the last sentence quietly, almost to himself, before looking back up at the anxious faces surrounding him. "Instead of a charm, I just keep people in my mind. My friends. Those are the people I want to survive for. I don't want them to have to cry over my ashes should incase my body was recovered from the field. Oh... and I also owe someone a significant amount of money, so I'm fundamentally forced to survive just to pay off my debts."
A few of the younger officers let out small, amused chuckles at his final line, the suffocating tension in the transport fracturing just a fraction as they lapsed back into quiet contemplation.
A short while later, the massive armored convoy of APVs violently ground to a halt.
"What's going on?" one of the rookies asked nervously, his hand instinctively gripping his rifle tighter. "Why are we stopping before the border?"
"Prayers," Graves responded flatly, popping the manual release lever of the transport door and jumping down onto the concrete.
The entire deployment force was ushered into a colossal, majestic structure defined by graceful, ancient architecture. In an inner-wall world where every single building was constructed out of stark, utilitarian concrete and glass, covered in flashing digital screens, this monolithic cathedral looked like a relic snatched directly from the medieval era, sporting a massive, gleaming cross at its absolute highest peak.
Stepping inside the vaulted sanctuary, Graves was greeted by the sight of multiple individuals clad in deep red hoods and flowing scarlet gowns that completely draped their bodies. They were rhythmically shaking silver censers from left to right, releasing a dense, chaotic, and heavily perfumed scent of burning incense into the air.
The cloaked figures sang in a booming, unified chorus. If a person listened closely to the echoing cadences, the ancient language was almost entirely incomprehensible to the modern ear. Along the soaring stone walls were intricate, primitive carvings of entities—some terrifyingly ugly, others blindingly beautiful—all possessing massive, outstretched wings.
"Welcome to the Church," Graves murmured beneath his breath.
Almost every citizen of the NHF was well aware of the institution's existence, though very few ever set foot inside its walls. Yet, whenever the shadow of war loomed, the entiire populace and soldiers turned their prayers toward it.... They paid to the church.
A senior commanding officer marched toward the front of the sanctuary, sinking to his knees before a towering marble altar. After a long moment of solemn silence, a tall, imposing figure draped in opulent purple and red robes emerged from the inner sanctum. His head was entirely concealed beneath a heavy hood, followed closely by two smaller hooded acolytes holding a pristine, stainless steel basin.
The central purple-robed figure raised a heavy, ornate cross high into the air, prompting every single red-hooded cultist in the chamber to instantly drop to their knees and bow their heads flat against the cold stone floor.
"Blessed be the Church... Blessed be the Church who saves us... Blessed be the Church, for our fragile lives are held within its grace... Blessed be the Church," they sang in a haunting, reverberating chorus.
The high priest traced a sacred geometric sign in the air with the heavy cross, his lips moving rapidly as he mumbled an ancient, esoteric blessing over the gathered soldiers.
The military of the NHF had long since grown accustomed to this ritual; it was an unwritten, mandatory protocol to always receive a formal blessing from the priest of the church before embarking on any major field deployment. Each independent sector within the wall housed its own dedicated cathedral. Because the NHF territory was divided into four distinct operational sectors, the overarching religious organization was known simply as the "Four Church." No one alive knew who had originally given it that name, but it was a title feared and respected by all.
Graves slowly closed his eyes as the rhythmic, low murmurs of the prayer continued to echo off the high stone ceilings.
He absolutely hated the pungent, suffocating smell of the Church's incense. He always had. But as a soldier of the NHF, he was bound by a strict chain of command—he had to follow his orders and fall in line without asking questions. He was a soldier through and through, even if he didn't stand on the front lines holding a rifle.