Chapter XXVI: Of Blood and Betrayal, or the Wound That Opens Both Sides
I didn't have to wait long for the last of the jungle fires to sputter into silence.
The oxygen-rich atmosphere—courtesy of the ancient trees breathing like titanic lungs—fed the inferno until it devoured itself. Smoke danced upward in pagan coils, and then… stillness. Cinders. No more flame. Just the ripe tension of before.
I stood atop a broken hillock, overlooking the field that would soon become a graveyard. The soil was moist. Hungry.
I monitored the formation from my psionic interface—a lattice of thought and holographic schema mapped across my augmented retina. The warrior caste would engage first, as planned: a 10 to 15 second blitz to provoke the defenders into their well-drilled, traditional response. They were creatures of habit, these Ker'Min—defenders of protocol and predictable desperation.
Then, when they felt secure in their rhythm, my shield wall would crash into their gut—elite caste moving at breakneck speed, thirty miles per hour if we pushed it—and even in my hulking powered exo-frame, I could match pace without strain. I didn't need Gyrokinesis to lighten my step. The planet's gravity kissed me gently. I was a god of mass and motion.
Behind me, the Psionic Agitator, shimmering with aurora-like static, gave the order.
And then—
A chorus of shrieks burst forth. Not cries of war, but music. Ritualistic. A sonic display of loyalty and lethal beauty, and I knew, with some twisted pride, that they were performing for me.
The horde charged.
I remained perfectly still—until stillness became unbearable. Adrenaline rolled through me in tidal convulsions, too ancient to be called fear. No. This was not terror. This was something primal—an echo of spear-hurling ancestors and fire-lit raids. This was the howl of the first hominid that realized it could take what others had, simply because it could.
I was an invader. A destroyer. A sovereign parasite wrapped in carbon-steel flesh.
And this was mine to consume.
My head snapped up just as the gene-fused warrior wall started to move. Like a continent uncoiling. The linked bodies surged forward—obsidian plates gleaming like stormclouds soaked in blood.
"TO WAR!" I screamed, and the jungle trembled in answer.
---
Ker'Min Defensive Line
Ker'Mon'Ard—veteran of seven star campaigns, father of 42, dreadnought of orbital drop and trench—was barking orders from the upper ramparts of the southern bulwark.
The moment the swarm crested the first ridge, he didn't hesitate.
"FIRE AT WILL! MAKE THEM PAY FOR EACH FUCKING METER!"
Salvos poured out in incandescent storms. Rail-rounds, thermals, plasma bursts, anti-chitin scatterblasts—every goddamn tool of civilized warfare was unleashed.
Swarm bodies hit the ground in twitching piles—but there were always more. Ten seconds in, they had already covered ten meters. By the time the minute hit, they were at twenty-five.
Ker'Mon'Ard's HUD stuttered with kill confirmations even as he held down the trigger on his arm-mounted plasma minigun. The whine of the rotation sounded like a child screaming. He didn't have to aim—just point. Strategy pulsed in his second brain, while his auxiliaries pumped liquid helium into his cooling rack.
And then—he saw it.
At first he thought it was a battle tank—a dark, metallic monolith barreling toward the center line with ludicrous velocity.
Then he realized something far more chilling:
It wasn't a tank.
It was a wall. A living, writhing, insectile wall of elite swarm bodies—perfectly locked together, gliding forward with impossible synchronicity. Bullets bounced off. Plasma vanished into absorption lattices. It was… new. An evolution in swarm doctrine.
And it terrified him.
"ALL WEAPONS ON THE GREY WALL! STOP THAT FUCKING THING!"
His soldiers obeyed—loyal, trained, doomed.
The heavy guns slowed it—barely. But focusing everything on the wall gave the rest of the swarm an open flank. Warrior drones poured in behind like an avalanche of legs and teeth.
The wall reached the defensive line—and didn't crash.
It stopped.
Then a hole opened at its center.
Ker'Mon'Ard raised his cannon, bracing for whatever horror lurked behind.
And then he saw me.
My armor. My stance. My blade.
And the look on his face twisted from confusion… into betrayal.
"TRAITOR!!" he screamed, the word echoing like a gunshot into the soul.
---
From my position, the defense line loomed like a dying god—flames, barricades, last hopes.
I could hear the hiss of projectiles slamming against the wall I stood behind—an orchestra of violence.
To my left: Kimchi, twin blades spinning like ritual fans of death.
To my right: Stalker, hunched, ready to leap.
Behind: twin Freethinkers, and a dozen elite caste ready to unleash generational vengeance.
The wall opened—two warriors peeling aside with insectile grace.
I didn't wait.
I lunged.
I flew over the barricade like a thrown spear. The first Ker'Min defender I saw had massive green eyes wide with unfiltered panic.
I didn't care. I couldn't. I wouldn't.
I swung Kiya—and its head was gone before it could scream.
Kimchi and Stalker tore through opposite flanks, one graceful, the other brutal. Blood and limbs filled the air like confetti for a cruel celebration.
Then I heard it—a voice woven with threads of Psionic static:
"TRAITOR!"
I turned. I understood enough Ker'Min to catch the rage. The betrayal. The hurt.
A commander—armored, taller than most, wielding a plasma minigun that looked like it had chewed through moons—locked eyes with me.
There was no time for monologues.
He fired.
I dove behind a hybrid vehicle, its frame part steel, part bone, part desperation.
The minigun's song ripped through the air, perforating my cover like paper. I couldn't stay.
I reached out, tore a door off the thing, and surged forward.
Shots pinged and seared—some found their mark. My armor hissed as pain registered, red warnings flooding my HUD. I didn't stop.
I zigged. I curved. I bled. I moved like a psionic tempest, and still he fired.
Ten meters.
Five.
Gone was the door, vaporized.
I pivoted, armor shielding my organs, and then—impact.
I tackled him like a meteor. He crashed backward, but recovered with shocking speed. The minigun started to rise—
Too slow.
Kiya roared through the air, severing his cannon-arm with clean, elegant hate.
He howled—not in pain, but insulted rage.
"You POUNOU! YOU CUNTING TRAITOR! You side with the enemy? With THEM?"
I didn't answer.
I just shoved Kiya through his visor. The scream died in static.