Chapter 195: First Mission

High above, five sleek transport vessels, unique to the Praetoriani Order, sliced through the stratosphere at Mach 10, their normal cruising speed for quick deployment. Each vessel was shaped with the predatory elegance of an eagle’s beak at the front, the cockpit nestled above, within the "eyes" of the avian design.

Their hulls, a dark, burnished alloy, shimmered faintly against the nascent light. Within their reinforced bays, internal inertial dampeners effortlessly offset the crushing G-forces, ensuring the sixty Spartans within each vessel remained utterly unaffected, poised and ready.

These were not just transports; they were also designed as boarding vessels. Should an enemy ship be lucky enough to survive the sheer force of a Mach 20 impact, the beak-shaped front would pressurize the enemy hull upon collision, destroying the crew from the inside "like a poison," before the Spartans advanced through the breached hull, knocking at their ships. A terrifying dual purpose, a promise of swift, brutal ingress.

Two hours later, the eagle-shaped vessels were rapidly approaching the skies of St. Petersburg, their descent a graceful, silent plunge towards Staraya Maluksa, just above the UEDC base. Their passage was a dark, avian shadow against the morning sky, casting an imposing silhouette over the concrete structures below.

The comms notified the ground forces below of TRC’s imminent arrival, and soldiers from various UEDC units – US Rangers, Russian Spetsnaz, and regular infantry – craned their necks, their formations breaking slightly as they gazed up, equally stunned at the sight to behold. A low, collective murmur of awe rippled through the ranks, a mix of fear and desperate hope.

"Did you see that?" whispered Private Anya Volkova, a young Russian infantrywoman, nudging her comrade. "They’re so... huge."

"Like something out of a dream," her comrade, Corporal Sergei Ivanov, breathed, his eyes wide. "But real."

The transport vessels hovered above the Staraya Maluksa UEDC base, their massive forms blotting out the rising sun, before gently settling onto designated landing pads with a soft, almost imperceptible thud that nevertheless vibrated through the earth. Ramps extended with a hydraulic hiss, a metallic whisper in the crisp morning air, and the hulking figures of the Praetoriani Siderum began to disembark.

Ciano, in his imposing commander armor, stepped forward first, his every movement radiating an almost palpable authority. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, his armored form casting a long shadow over the concrete.

He addressed the highest-ranking officer present, a grizzled Russian General, General Dmitri Volkov, whose uniform bore the scars of recent combat and whose face was etched with exhaustion.



General Volkov, already an impressive figure with a powerful build, looked up at Ciano’s towering form, which stood almost a foot taller than his own height. A flicker of raw, undisguised awe crossed his face, quickly followed by a grim smile spreading across his lips. He nodded slowly, a mix of profound relief and a healthy dose of apprehension. "Commander. We welcome you. The tunnels await." He extended a hand, calloused and strong, which Ciano met with a gauntleted grip.

As the Spartans marched through the base, their heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoing through the concrete structures, a deep, resonant thud that vibrated in the chests of observers, soldiers from various UEDC units gazed at them. Their eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and admiration, followed every synchronized movement. The Spartans moved in perfect unison, a silent, disciplined force, their golden eagles glinting under the base’s lights, symbols of a new, fierce pride. Their sheer presence alone seemed to instill a new, grim determination in the weary human forces, a spark of hope in a war that had, until recently, felt utterly unwinnable.

"Look at them," muttered a US Ranger, his voice barely audible. "They’re like... walking tanks."

"More than tanks, comrade," a Russian Spetsnaz replied, his gaze fixed on the golden eagles. "They’re something else entirely."

The commanding Russian officer, a grim-faced Major Anya Petrova, stepped forward, her expression resolute. "Commander Ciano," she addressed him, her voice firm. "My unit has been operating in these tunnels for weeks. We know their layout, their traps. I request permission to accompany your lead squad." Her request was bold, driven by a desperate need to understand this new force, to learn from them.

Ciano’s visor remained impassive for a moment, then he gave a curt nod. "Understood, Major. Your experience will be valuable. You may accompany the lead element. Follow closely, and do not interfere unless explicitly ordered." He knew the UEDC wanted to observe, to gauge the true capabilities of the Praetoriani Siderum. It was a necessary step towards full integration and trust.

Major Petrova led Ciano and a Spartan battalion through a dense, snow-dusted forest, the crunch of their boots on frozen leaves the only sound. Ahead, a dark, jagged maw opened in the earth – a gaping hole that descended underground, exhaling a cold, damp air that carried a faint, metallic tang.

"This is it, Commander," Major Petrova said, her voice grim, gesturing to the opening. "The primary Krill entrance. These tunnels are extensive, narrow in places, but large enough for the Krill. They’ve used guerrilla tactics. Ambushes, traps... we’ve lost many teams down there." She pointed to fresh scorch marks on the rough rock face, still smoking faintly from a recent skirmish.

"Be warned, these tunnels were accommodated for Krills, three times your size, ranging from 9 to 13 feet tall. Our sensors indicate a significant presence still."

Ciano just nodded, his visor reflecting the darkness of the hole, absorbing every detail, every nuance of her warning. He processed the data, cross-referencing it with the TRC’s own subterranean scans.

His voice boomed, amplified by his armor’s vox-caster, addressing the Spartans. "Spartans! Each battalion is tasked and assigned specific sectors. Each squad will clear its designated area. No Krill left alive. No quarter. No mercy. For Humanity! For Vengeance!" His words were a raw edge of command, cutting through the cold air.

Thirty Spartans were called forward by their CO, their heavy footsteps a synchronized rhythm. Only Hoplites, the close-quarters combat specialists equipped with heavier combat blades and plasma gauntlets, and a few Stratos Infantry, the ranged support carrying compact railguns, were allowed inside. It was a strategic choice for the confined, treacherous space.

Ana Clara, a Hoplite, felt the surge of readiness, a cold, focused calm, as she stepped forward. The darkness of the maw swallowed them whole. Their power armor’s internal lights cut through the gloom, illuminating rough-hewn rock, strange alien markings, and the chilling glint of discarded human equipment – a grim testament to those who had gone before. The oppressive atmosphere of the underground pressed in, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else, something alien and foreboding, a silent promise of the horrors within.

Ten minutes into the labyrinthine cave system, the tunnel narrowed into a tight, winding passage, forcing the Spartans to move in single file. The air grew thick with the acrid scent of alien biology, a sickly sweet odor that clung to the rock and the very air. Then, abruptly, the passage opened into a damp, echoing cavern.

Suddenly, from hidden crevices, narrow side passages, and even from the ceiling, Krill warriors, armed with their energy blades, ambushed the Spartans. They moved with surprising agility in the cramped space, their reptilian eyes glowing with a desperate, feral cunning, attempting to use the terrain to their advantage, just as they had against the UEDC forces.

Guerrilla tactics. Primitive. We’ve done this a thousand times. Their movements are predictable, Ana Clara’s thoughts flowed, cold and analytical, her mind processing the incoming threat with detached precision.

A massive Krill, easily 10 feet tall, its blade shimmering with energy, lunged at her, its guttural roar echoing in the confined space. Her armor’s internal systems registered the incoming attack, but her reflexes, honed by 24 subjective years of simulated combat, were faster, almost prescient. She sidestepped fluidly, her Hoplite armor barely scraping the rough rock, the Krill’s blade slicing through the air where she had been a millisecond before.

Two Hoplites, moving as a single, perfectly synchronized unit, engaged the Krill. One Spartan drew its heavy combat blade, its plasma edge flaring with a vicious hum, engaging the Krill’s energy shield, forcing it to flicker violently. The second Spartan, using the distraction, thrusts its own plasma-edged gauntlet into the Krill’s unshielded side, the plasma sizzling through scales and flesh. The Krill roared, a guttural sound of pain and disbelief, and collapsed, its life extinguished. Blood, black and viscous, pooled on the cavern floor.

Stratos Infantry, positioned at the rear of the formation, their visors glowing with targeting data, unleashed precise railgun shots. The intense kinetic pressure from their rounds easily pierced the Krill’s energy shields, sending alien bodies flying and splattering against the cave walls in gruesome impacts. The crack of the railguns echoed deafeningly through the cavern, a percussive beat of destruction.

The Krills, equipped only with crude melee weapons and relying on their shields and brute force, were strange and easy for the Spartans to counter, who had faced far more complex and varied threats in their simulations. They were simply meat for the grinder.



The Spartans moved with a terrifying, unstoppable efficiency. Their actions were brutal, precise, and utterly devoid of hesitation or fear. They were humanity’s finest, an unstoppable force of retribution. Their thoughts reflected a cold, almost detached analysis of the Krill’s "weakness" compared to their simulated foes, a grim satisfaction in their own overwhelming power. They were the instruments of humanity’s wrath, and the Krill are simply obstacles to be purged.

Meanwhile, back at the UEDC base, a small group of UEDC soldiers, including Sergeant Petrov, watched the live feed from Major Petrova’s helmet cam, projected onto a large tactical screen. The image, though slightly grainy, showed the Spartans’ relentless advance, their internal lights cutting through the subterranean gloom.

"Holy... mother of God," Sergeant Petrov breathed, his eyes wide, as he watched a Hoplite effortlessly deflect a Krill blade, then counter with a plasma gauntlet that turned the alien into smoking ash. "They’re just butchering them."

Corporal Ivanov, usually stoic, whistled softly. "Our boys barely lasted minutes in there. These soldiers... it’s like watching a different species entirely."

"What exactly am I seeing?" Private Volkova added, her voice hushed with awe. "They’re... perfect."

The screen showed a Stratos Infantry Spartan calmly lining up a shot, a railgun slug tearing through a Krill’s shield and sending it careening into the cavern wall. The UEDC soldiers exchanged glances, a mix of profound relief and a dawning understanding of the sheer power the TRC had unleashed. This wasn’t just a new unit; it was a new paradigm of warfare.

The cavern, moments ago a scene of desperate combat, was now eerily silent, save for the faint hum of the Spartans’ armor and the dripping of water from the stalactites. It was littered with dead Krill, their grotesque forms sprawled amidst shattered rock and alien debris.

Ana Clara stepped over a fallen Krill, its energy shield generator sparking faintly before dying. She observed its crude blade, its reptilian features, a flicker of something akin to pity, quickly suppressed, in her conditioned mind.

This was easier compared to the simulation. The Krills were so weak in reality, her thoughts concluded, a sense of almost disappointment, quickly replaced by grim satisfaction. Her training had prepared her for far worse, for enemies that adapted, that learned, that wielded psychic might or devastating ranged weapons. These Krill were simply... meat.

The Spartans swept through the cavern, their movements fluid and practiced, clearing every nook and cranny. Their internal sensors meticulously mapped the subterranean environment, detecting every hidden passage, every potential ambush point.