The Dockyard Square had become a warzone.
Steam hissed from ruptured conduits. Sirens screamed across the Vulcan skyline as terrified civilians scrambled for shelter. Amid the chaos, the air stank of scorched alloy and plasma residue.
Alien spectators watched from alleys and shattered plazas, wide-eyed and trembling. They had never seen anything like this.
The Iron Riders were everywhere.
Phase-shifting across rooftops, sprinting along gantries, diving through vertical shafts—the armored shock troopers moved like shadows cast from steel. Bullets couldn't touch them. Their movements were too fast, their trajectories too erratic.
Some ran straight up the sides of cargo freighters. Others dropped grenades with surgical precision into bunkered formations. Their presence turned every surface—wall, ship, or tower—into a weaponized path.
"I-Is this a Vulcan elite corps?" an alien whispered in awe, ducking behind a crate.
"No," said a nearby shipwright, shaking his head. "They're not ours. They're not anyone's. That's something else."
The air shimmered again.
A phase-jump blinked into being—and an Iron Rider appeared behind a cluster of Dark Elf soldiers. In a blur, he executed one with a knife to the throat and caught the other's falling rifle mid-motion.
The surviving elves turned to shoot.
Too slow.
The Iron Rider fired—once, twice. Two bodies hit the floor, armor punctured, blood hissing on Vulcan steel.
Their weapons were useless. Their targeting systems jammed. Even with thermal optics and precision augments, they were outmatched.
"Damn it!" Captain Velkhan of the Night Empire roared, watching his formation unravel. "This isn't a skirmish—it's an execution!"
From his command wristband, he activated a failsafe protocol.
"Alloy Armor Units—deploy!"
A roar echoed from the skies as a Night Empire landing ship descended over Dock 66.
The bay doors split open.
Five Dark Elf heavy mechs dropped into the fray—each three meters tall, plated in obsidian alloy, dual-mounted Gatling plasma cannons glowing in anticipation. They struck the deck like meteors, each landing with a thunderous crash that cratered the dock.
Vulcan civilians screamed and scattered as debris flew.
"Now," Velkhan hissed, "cleanse this scrap!"
The heavy armors powered up. Plasma rounds rained across Dock 66 in a hurricane of suppressive fire. Crates vaporized. A nearby freighter exploded in a bloom of white flame.
The Iron Riders fell back, retreating into cover and vanishing behind digital cloaks.
From afar, Celeste Vale gasped, gripping a guard rail as she watched the slaughter unfold. Her voice trembled.
"They'll be cut down."
Silas Vire stood beside her, calm as ever.
"They're not alone."
With a single command from his techband, the tide shifted.
The White Night's lower decks opened.
And out came the Titans.
Phase-transition effects cracked the air as hulking mechs dropped into the plaza—towering figures of alloy and fury, each one twice the size of a man, their armatures alive with power.
The first to land: Ronin—a warframe forged for close-quarters slaughter, its monomolecular blade already drawn.
Then came Northstar, thruster-fed and missile-laden, its flight systems glowing as it took to the air.
Twenty Titan-class units. Deployed without warning.
Velkhan's eyes widened.
"Impossible—what faction is this?!"
Ronin surged forward. A Night Empire mech raised its cannons to fire.
Too slow.
Steel met steel.
Ronin's blade cleaved straight through the weapon mount, severing both arms. Sparks flew. The heavy mech collapsed as Ronin's second strike decapitated the pilot cockpit.
Above, Northstar launched a spread of microcluster missiles into the remaining formation. Impact after impact lit the square in orange fire. One Dark Elf mech exploded mid-fall, its armor crumpling like paper.
The plaza trembled beneath the force.
In mere seconds, the Night Empire's vaunted siege armor was reduced to slag.
Silas stepped onto the square, Iron Riders forming ranks around him.
Velkhan—bloody, staggering—glared at him from across the smoldering wreckage.
"You—what are you?!"
Silas didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Behind him, Titans locked into formation, plasma cores still glowing, weapons primed.
Velkhan's wrist-comm screeched static. His reinforcements were gone. No answer. No escape.
Then came the final order.
"Disarm," Silas said. "Or vanish."
Velkhan snarled, raised his rifle—
And vanished in a railgun flash.
A Predator's slug tore through his chestplate and embedded itself in the wall behind him. He dropped without ceremony.
The remaining Dark Elf troops broke ranks and fled.
Dock 66 went silent.
Vulcan medics and drones emerged from emergency shelters. Scavenger bots began clearing the fallen. Civilians slowly returned, eyes still wide in disbelief.
Beside Silas, Celeste exhaled.
"Next time," she muttered, "I'm picking the docking station."
Silas said nothing. The war was over.
For now.