Back to the present moment—in the trembling cargo bay, thick with the stench of metal, Fujisawa staggered. One knee touched the floor, his hand pressed against the deep wound in his side that continued to spill warm blood. His breathing was labored, and from time to time, he coughed—splattering crimson onto the steel floor. In front of him, Ultro stood like a metal god of judgment, its visor glowing a deep, ominous red.
From Ultro’s right palm, the metal shifted and transformed—shaping into the barrel of a long weapon. The surface of the gun glowed, signaling its energy activation.
[Target locked. Execution initiated.]
The barrel pointed directly at Fujisawa’s forehead. In a split second, nothing human would remain.
The plane suddenly jolted violently, as if struck by a massive force from outside. The plasma shot that should have pierced through Fujisawa’s skull veered off, slamming into the pilot cabin. One of the pilots was thrown across the room, his body crashing into the control panel, sending the system into chaos. The aircraft lost its stability, and warning sirens began blaring throughout the interior.
That was the opening Fujisawa needed.
Though he was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, his combat reflexes were still alive. With the last of his strength, he drew a backup dagger from his ankle and threw himself to the side, dodging Ultro’s delayed counterattack caused by its sudden imbalance.
A few minutes earlier...
Ren shot through the sky, the roar of his Techno armor’s jet propulsion at maximum thrust. Ahead, the heavy-type military transport aircraft—with its large gray body and the Ares Sparta insignia on the side—flew steadily toward civilian airspace.
"This is bad... too steady," Ren muttered, activating his infrared vision. His HUD displayed thermal silhouettes from inside the plane. He saw it: the battle in the cargo hold. Two heat signatures—one human, the other... not.
[Ren, what’s going on in there!?] Kiriya’s voice rang through the comm.
Ren didn’t answer right away. His eyes narrowed, calculating, analyzing. Then he asked, "By the way, Kiriya... How heavy is a regular commercial airliner?"
[Huh? I dunno... over a hundred tons maybe?]
"Yeah... so how about a military transport?"
[...Two hundred tons. Wait, no—you’re not seriously—]
Communication cut off immediately. Kiriya could only scream from the other end, but it was already too late.
Ren dived straight down at full speed, angling his body like a bullet—and slammed into the aircraft’s tail section with the back of his armor. A thunderous crash exploded through the sky, and the entire aircraft lurched.
The massive jolt from the aircraft’s side impact gave Fujisawa exactly what he needed: an opening. In that fleeting moment, he dove low and slipped between Ultro’s legs, his left hand brushing against the inner thigh of the robot—searching for a vital cable.
He twisted his wrist, angled the tip of his dagger, and stabbed with precision. Instantly, Ultro’s body jolted. A crackle of electricity burst from its inner frame. Its right arm—the one that had become a plasma cannon—went completely dead. The metallic petals around its wrist opened in vain, with no energy flowing to them.
But Ultro was no biological being. It felt no pain. And the loss of a limb was no obstacle.
From its left forearm, a panel opened, revealing a gleaming black titanium blade. Ultro retaliated immediately—slicing toward Fujisawa’s neck.
The battle shifted. Now it was a brutal knife duel—one fought between a bloodied human and a tireless killing machine. Blade clashed against blade, sparks flying each time steel met steel.
Fujisawa was fading. Blood poured from wounds in his stomach and arm. His breath grew heavier, his vision blurred. He had been fighting too long—against squads of Ares Sparta soldiers, against his former commander David, and now... standing above the skies, inside a flying steel coffin, facing humanity’s most advanced killing machine.
On paper, Fujisawa had already lost. His body was failing. And he knew it.
But he also knew one thing: he couldn’t lose now.
Not because of pride, or vengeance. But because down there, beneath the clouds, were innocent civilians. Children, mothers, families who never chose this hell.
And more than anything else—there was one face that lingered in his memory. A small face with a warm smile... his younger sister, once gripping his finger tightly on a hospital bed.
"I’m sorry... looks like I won’t be coming home this time."
But if he died today, Fujisawa wanted to die not as a victim—but with pride, as a warrior, a brother, a man.
His eyes sharpened. His grip on the blade tightened.
(This... is the endgame.)
Blood dripped from Fujisawa’s fingers. The knife in his hand had long lost its sheen, dark with dried stains. His breathing came in short, fragmented bursts, as if his lungs had to negotiate with his body each time they tried to keep him alive.
Before him, Ultro stood like a god of death. Even with one arm disabled and its armor scarred with damage, the machine stared down at him with that burning red visor, blinking in a rhythmic pulse like an artificial heartbeat.
No words. No threats. Just the sound of heavy, mechanical footsteps echoing across the cargo deck—metal against metal.
Fujisawa clutched his chest, pain surging with every breath. Blood trickled from his mouth. He knew—his ribs were broken, maybe even a punctured lung. But there was no time to give in.
The blade in its left hand slashed toward Fujisawa’s waist at incredible speed. Fujisawa ducked, crossing his knife upward in defense, but the mechanical force behind the strike pushed him back until his spine slammed against a container wall.
He bounced off the wall, slid sideways, and countered with a slash toward Ultro’s shoulder. The strike landed, but barely—its armor was too thick. Ultro spun into a deadly horizontal arc, its blade sweeping through the air.
Fujisawa’s back was torn open. He collapsed, but didn’t let go of his weapon. He knew this would be the end—not just of the fight, but of his life.
In that split-second, as his body staggered and Ultro’s sensors began calculating his weakness as a "final sequence," Fujisawa made a choice.
He dropped the knife in his right hand—a classic feint. Ultro instantly aimed for center mass, going for the heart with a single, fatal thrust.
And that was what he had waited for.
With his still-strong left hand, Fujisawa welcomed the blow. The blade pierced his gut—hot, agonizing, reaching his spine. But before Ultro could withdraw—
His left hand, now gripping the knife once more, arced upward in a spiral motion and plunged the blade deep beneath Ultro’s chin—into the robot’s neck, right where he guessed the main chip and central coordination system were housed.
Sparks flew. The robot shuddered. Electricity burst from its neck. The red visor flickered wildly. Fujisawa’s knife was buried to the hilt.
Both man and machine were locked together—pierced through each other.
Ultro didn’t move. Then, it began to stutter, its systems showing errors across the board. Lights all over its body blinked erratically, then faded one by one. Its shoulders sagged. The blade in Fujisawa’s stomach was pulled out as the robot collapsed backward with a crash that shook the deck.
But Fujisawa didn’t stand.
Blood spilled from his stomach and mouth. His hands trembled. He dropped to his knees, strength drained from his limbs.
And yet—he smiled... faintly. Exhausted. But at peace.
"...Got it," he whispered.
A small explosion sounded as the front cargo door was kicked open from outside. Wind and smoke rushed in. In the burst of light, Ren appeared—his Techno armor glowing in silhouette, bright blue visor cutting through the haze.
Ren sprinted across the deck, past Ultro’s now-lifeless body. He knelt and caught Fujisawa just as he collapsed fully.
"Hey—hey! Stay with me! It’s me, Ren! I’m here!"
Fujisawa smiled weakly. He couldn’t even lift his hand anymore. But his eyes were still open, still watching.
"...You finally made it, kid... You’re late," he muttered jokingly, though his voice came with a trickle of blood.
Ren bit down, his lips trembling. "Don’t talk like that. I’m getting you out of here. We’re going home!"
But Fujisawa only shook his head slowly. His eyes were blank, yet still open, staring at the aircraft’s ceiling—now cracking under the orange glow of dusk.
"No, no, NO! I’m not letting you raise a death flag right now!" Ren shouted. He quickly reached for the side of his armor, pressing a small panel on his wrist. A nozzle opened and sprayed high-pressure auto-sealant onto Fujisawa’s abdomen. The fluid hissed as it hit the open wound, sealing it temporarily with a layer of antiseptic and tissue-hardening gel.
"Ugh... Kid..." Fujisawa tried to speak again, but Ren cut him off immediately.
"SHUT UP! Don’t talk! You’re still alive, and I’m going to make damn sure you stay that way!"
But the atmosphere shifted abruptly when a sharp mechanical crack came from the direction of the cockpit. Ren turned quickly—and there stood the one man he hadn’t expected to still be alive.
The man stood amid the shattered control panels. The two pilots lay lifeless on the floor, while Xavier’s hand gripped the flight control lever—calm, yet threatening.
With a satisfied smile, Xavier looked straight at Ren. "You won... but I’m not letting you walk away with a happy ending."
Then he slammed the throttle down.
The aircraft lurched violently. Gravity yanked everything to the floor as the plane began a sharp nosedive. Emergency sirens screamed, red lights flashing erratically. Ren held Fujisawa tightly, preventing him from sliding toward the open cargo door, as wild air howled into the cabin.
Xavier bolted toward the opposite side, yanking open the auto-hatch. Wind howled through the interior like a monster’s roar. He strapped on a parachute, ready to leap out like a conniving hero saving only himself.
But Ren wasn’t about to let that happen.
With one arm cradling Fujisawa, his other aimed the mini-missile launcher built into his armor. "You’re not getting away!" he shouted—and fired.
The small rocket streaked through the air, slamming into the wall right next to Xavier’s escape point. The explosion was instant.
Xavier was blown back. His parachute caught fire, partially destroyed. He was sucked out of the plane in a flaming spiral, his scream vanishing into the roar of the wind and open sky.
But there was no time for Ren to breathe.
The aircraft was still diving—faster, steeper. On the radar, Ren could see the land closing in fast—and below them, a residential district. If this plane crashed, hundreds of lives would go with it.
In his arms, Fujisawa drew a strained breath—forcing his near-dead body to speak.