99: Chapter 100 Dawn broke, but there was no sun.

The gunfire stopped around three in the morning.

The Sun Warriors halted their offensive and retreated to the warehouse's perimeter, establishing positions behind ruins and collapsed Gantry Cranes, then remained motionless.

TW-078 leaned against a pile of sheet metal, watching the direction of the warehouse entrance.

The door was gone; after being blown open, it had endured several rounds of crossfire from Bolters, leaving only a twisted metal frame.

Outside the door was the pre-dawn darkness.

Several points of light could be seen moving in the distance.

Sun Warrior soldiers were adjusting their positions.

They weren't in a hurry.

They knew the people inside the warehouse couldn't escape.

TW-078 looked down at his Bolter.

The magazine indicator showed eleven rounds remaining.

He ejected the magazine and weighed it in his hand. It was very light.

"Ammo count," he said in a low voice.

Responses came from various corners of the warehouse.

"Seven rounds."

"Fourteen rounds."

"Three rounds."

"Empty. Nine rounds left in the spare magazine."

"Six rounds."

One after another, each of the twenty-nine people reported their remaining ammunition. TW-078 added them up in his head.

Less than two hundred rounds in total.

Two hundred Bolter rounds to deal with over forty enemies behind cover.

It wouldn't even last through a single proper round of suppressive fire.

TW-188 crawled over from the other end of the warehouse.

The wound on his face, sliced by a piece of scrap metal, had already scabbed over; the black blood scab extended from his cheekbone all the way to his jaw.

"Less than two hundred rounds," TW-078 said.

TW-188 didn't speak. He leaned against the sheet metal, took off his helmet, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

The cooling system of the power armor's lining had been running at overload all night, and the heat seeping from the armor's joints carried a smell of burnt rubber.

"What about grenades?" he asked.

"Four left. Two with me, two with TW-290."

"Four grenades, two hundred rounds," TW-188 put his helmet back on. "How long will that last?"

"Depends on how they fight," TW-078 said. "If they keep surrounding us without moving, we can hold out until dark. If they charge..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

Two hundred rounds would last about three minutes.

TW-188 stared into the darkness outside the warehouse door.

"The signal was sent out," he said.

"It was sent."

"Did they receive it?"

"I don't know."

Silence for a few seconds.

"What if they didn't?"

TW-078 glanced at him.

"Then we'll figure something out ourselves."

"What way?"

There was no answer. Because for now, there was no way.

It began to get light.

The sky over Manila Fortress was covered by thick clouds; sunlight couldn't penetrate, only slowly diluting the darkness into a murky grey.

Looking out through the warehouse door frame, TW-078 saw the full view outside for the first time.

The Sun Warriors' positions were more complete than he had imagined.

Three defensive lines were constructed in the ruins fifty meters from the front of the warehouse: the first was a low wall made of sandbags and broken bricks, the second was two overturned trucks, and the third was the steel beams of a collapsed Gantry Crane.

There were people behind every defensive line, their deep red armor exceptionally prominent in the grey light.

He counted.

At least twenty people in front.

There were side doors for loading and unloading cargo on both the left and right sides of the warehouse.

People had been sent to check; Sun Warrior soldiers were guarding both side doors.

Surrounded on three sides.

The only direction without enemies was the back wall of the warehouse.

But the back wall was solid concrete with no door, only a row of half-meter-square vents.

No way to retreat.

While observing the enemy positions, TW-078 saw someone.

That person stepped out from behind the third defensive line.

Not an ordinary soldier.

It was a woman.

Of medium build, wearing deep red armor.

The style of the armor was different from the other Sun Warriors—more form-fitting and refined, with an insignia TW-078 didn't recognize engraved on the shoulder plates.

She wasn't wearing a helmet, revealing a head of short-cropped grey hair. Her face was thin, her cheekbones high, and her eye sockets deep.

She stood behind the low wall of the first defensive line, looking toward the warehouse.

Just looking.

No weapon in hand. No shouting. No threatening gestures. Just standing there, watching.

TW-078 raised his binoculars.

Her left hand rested on the low wall. She was missing two fingers, the ring and pinky. The cross-section was clean, cut by a sharp weapon. An old injury, the wound had long since healed, and a layer of smooth scar tissue had grown over where the fingers used to be.

She watched for about thirty seconds.

Then she turned and left, returning behind the third defensive line and disappearing into the shadows of the steel beams.

TW-188 also saw her.

"Who?"

"I don't know. But there's an insignia on her armor; she's no ordinary soldier."

"Commander?"

"Possibly."

The corner of TW-188's mouth twitched.

"She came out to look at us like she's looking at things in a cage."

TW-078 didn't respond.

The morning passed slowly.

The Sun Warriors did not attack.

They just kept the perimeter, occasionally changing guards, occasionally someone eating behind the defensive lines.

TW-078 could smell the food carried by the wind—some kind of heated military rations with a salty, fishy meat scent.

No one in the warehouse ate.

Thunder Warriors could maintain a combat state for seventy-two hours without eating, but that didn't mean they weren't hungry.

It was just that being hungry was useless; they hadn't brought anything.

The Sun Warriors were waiting.

Waiting for what?

TW-078 didn't know.

But he had a bad premonition.

This premonition became a reality around ten in the morning.

The floor began to vibrate.

At first, it was very light.

TW-078 thought it was movement outside, but soon realized something was wrong—the vibration was coming from below.

From underground.

He crouched down and pressed his palm against the concrete floor.

The vibration was rhythmic.

Thump, thump, thump.

There was an interval of about two seconds between each one.

It wasn't a simple impact; the vibration conducted through the concrete was mixed with a high-frequency hum, a sound characteristic of Thermal Weapons during continuous output.

That walking vehicle was using Thermal Weapons to melt the ceiling of the Underground Workshop while using its metal legs to strike the loosened structure.

TW-078 stood up and glanced at the ground beneath his feet.

A thin crack had appeared on the concrete floor.

The crack extended from the center of the warehouse toward the back wall, about three meters long.

Tiny concrete fragments were falling from the edges of the crack.

It was directly underneath.

"Everyone leave the center of the warehouse," TW-078 said, his voice suddenly becoming urgent. "Get to the walls. Stand by the walls."

The twenty-nine people began to move.

With every step their power armor boots took on the concrete floor, they could feel the vibration beneath them growing stronger.

The crack was widening.

It turned from a single line into a web.

Concrete chunks began to fall from the cracks, exposing the rebar underneath.

The rebar was bending and deforming, letting out sharp creaks.

The concrete surface at the edges of the cracks began to discolor, turning from greyish-white to dark red—the heat rising from below was baking the floor.

TW-290 stood in the corner of the warehouse, clutching two grenades, his knuckles turning white.

"It's coming up," he said.

TW-078 looked at the growing network of cracks on the floor.

Yes. It was coming up.

And they only had two hundred rounds and four grenades left.

Movement came from the Sun Warriors' positions outside the warehouse.

The sound of metal clashing, boots on gravel, and low-voiced commands.

They were preparing to attack.

They had been waiting for the walking vehicle to dig its way out from underground so they could strike together from inside and out.

TW-078 took a deep breath.

He looked around at the twenty-eight faces in the warehouse.

There were veterans and recruits. Some faces showed calmness, some showed fear, and some showed something indescribable—not resignation, but more like a strange curiosity, wondering what they could still do before they died.

TW-112 leaned against the side door; he had been out of the factory for a week, a B-Class Standard Soldier.

His Bolter magazine was empty, and he only had a Combat Knife in his hand.

There were several new nicks on the blade, left from the close-quarters combat last night.

He was repeatedly rubbing the anti-slip patterns on the hilt with his thumb, over and over, very slowly.

TW-078 recognized this action. When recruits were afraid, they would find a small repetitive motion to soothe themselves.

Some checked their magazines repeatedly, some adjusted their armor buckles; TW-112 chose to stroke his knife hilt.

"Listen up," TW-078 said. "Ammo distribution. Everyone keep five rounds. Pool the rest for the five best marksmen. Give me the grenades."

No one asked why.

They began passing magazines. The sound of metal magazines passing from hand to hand was light, but exceptionally clear in the quiet warehouse.

TW-290's fingers were trembling when he handed the two grenades to TW-078, and the grenades almost fell to the floor. TW-078 caught them and said nothing.

The cracks on the floor widened again. A fist-sized piece of concrete fell through a crack; it took nearly two seconds before they heard it hit the ground.

Six meters. It was about six meters from the ceiling of the Underground Workshop to its floor.

The walking vehicle had already dug through most of it. The concrete at the edges of the cracks had turned dark red, and some places even began to emit a faint orange glow, the result of continuous scorching from the Thermal Weapon below.

The air was filled with the smell of lime, exactly the same as what they had smelled in the Underground Workshop last night.

TW-078 took the four grenades, tucked them into his belt, and walked to the edge of the largest crack.

He crouched down and looked through the crack.

Two points of light were flickering in the darkness.

Dark red points of light.

The charging indicator lights of the Thermal Weapon.

It was looking at him.