Sun-Hui stepped into the light after Harada. The catacombs behind him still seemed to breathe. He leaned against a stone wall, wiping sweat from his brow. Darkness behind him. The smell of damp rock. The dull, pale glow of morning. He had seen it all before.

  And he remembered.

  Flashback. War.

  I. Before Dawn

  The ornithopters flew low, their wings nearly brushing the crests of the waves. Metal creatures with segmented wings and a sound like rushing water. Ahead — the shoreline. A looming black blot: Fort Hizen.

  Inside the troop bay — the assault team. Tense faces. Gloved hands clutching musket grips. Each soldier carried a cuirass, a helmet, demolition charges, boarding hook, rope, a cutlass and a revolver. Outside — the wind roared. Inside — silence. Only the voice of command over the radio.

  Sun-Hui sat at the front. Commander. Eyes sharp. Breathing steady.

  “Rosa point. Drop in eight minutes.” “Positions. Stand by.”

  II. The Drop

  The ornithopter hovered over the fortress. Below — a flat black roof studded with turrets and sentry towers.

  “Go!”

  They jumped. Hooks screeched against stone. Ropes hissed. Assault ladders slammed onto concrete. In the first seconds, the strike overwhelmed the defenders — explosions, smoke, movement. The Japanese hadn’t expected an attack from above.

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  The first charges blew open vents and hatches. Topside batteries silenced. Sentries eliminated. Sun-Hui dashed across the roof, coordinating the breach.

  “Sweep’s done. We go in.”

  III. Inner Battle

  They went deeper.

  The fortress was a maze of stone corridors, iron staircases, pillboxes and gun pits. Grenades rolled down spiral staircases. Steel rang. Stone cracked. The assault pushed level by level. Every corridor had to be won by force.

  Sun-Hui led from the front. In one hand — a boarding sabre. In the other — a heavy revolver. He vaulted over bodies, shouted commands, fired, threw grenades — moving like he was born within these walls.

  The corridors narrowed. Smoke hung like curtains. Soldiers coughed. Wounded screamed. No one stopped.

  “Central shaft — three corners left!”

  Victory was close.

  IV. Strike from Below

  Then — a scream.

  Sun-Hui turned just in time to see the rearguard collapsing. From a flooded side tunnel — they emerged.

  Fukuryu — Japanese combat divers.

  Demons from the depths. In rubber suits. Armed with spears, mines fixed to poles. They surfaced without a sound. From the lower levels. From the water.

  The first soldier was dragged into darkness, into the flood. The second — impaled through the chest. A massacre unfolded in the rear.

  Panic hit the Chinese formation like a shockwave.

  Sun-Hui charged back — too late.

  One of his men — carrying a demolition pack — fell on the stairwell. The blast was instant. A metal shard punched through Sun-Hui’s armor and tore into his side. He was thrown into the water.

  He crawled to the dock with the last of his strength… and collapsed.

  V. The Dark

  He lay there, hearing the screams. Then — only ringing in his ears. And blackness.

  He awoke in a hospital.

  Everything white.

  His body wrapped in bandages. Chest compressed beneath gauze. A doctor with an indifferent face inserted a needle.

  Someone among the Japanese had saved his life. He never learned why.

  Later, he was exchanged via the Red Cross.

  Sun-Hui straightened. The catacombs were silent.

  But deep within him, he still heard the explosions. The screams. The clashing steel. The whisper of ornithopter wings.

  He knew: That war wasn’t over. It lived inside him.

  It had simply changed its shape.