28. Jax
JAX
T he western corridor is still breathing when we hit it.
Barely.
Smoke rolls low across the stone like something alive, thick and metallic on the back of my tongue. Sirens fracture the air in uneven bursts—some dying mid-wail, others kicking back on with a mechanical shriek. The citadel’s outer gates are half-sealed, steel ribs grinding down out of sync.
“Now,” I say.
We don’t slow.
Charges detonate against the locking pistons in three sharp concussions. Not flashy. Focused. The gates shudder, stall, freeze halfway down.
“Move!” I bark.
Our first wave floods through the opening before gravity can finish its argument.
Elite guards are already forming inside.
Not patrol soldiers.
Not ration-line enforcers.
These ones wear segmented black armor etched with anti-Dragon sigils, pulse-shield nodes glowing faintly at collar and wrist. Their stances are tight. Controlled. They’ve trained for us specifically.
One raises a weapon.
I don’t give him the chance.
I hit him at full force.
The impact reverberates up my spine, armor plates cracking under the collision. He flies backward into two more, and we go down together in a snarl of metal and bone. My fist caves through the shield emitter at his chest. Sparks explode outward. He gasps once and goes limp.
To my right, Ragon slides low beneath a sweeping blade, drives something small and precise into a guard’s knee joint, twists, and the man collapses screaming.
“Left!” he snaps.
I pivot just in time to catch a stun-rod strike against my forearm. It sends a shock up my shoulder, white-hot and numbing. I grit my teeth and headbutt the bastard hard enough to split his visor.
Behind us, fighters surge in waves.
The air fills with shouts.
“Push!”
“Clear that stair!”
“Seal point’s re-engaging!”
I grab a fallen shield and ram it into a second guard as he tries to flank. My shoulder protests. I ignore it.
We don’t have time for finesse.
We have time for violence.
A blade skims across my ribs. Pain flares sharp and immediate. I feel warmth spreading under my armor.
“Still standing?” Ragon calls, breath tight.
“Unfortunately,” I grunt.
He smirks, even now.
He slams a control panel with a shaped charge, steps back, and the inner seal blows outward in a controlled burst. Steel fragments rain down. Fighters pour through.
The citadel’s interior corridors are chaos.
Elite units regroup in disciplined formations, rotating in tight arcs designed to contain Dragon warriors. Two lock shields high while a third aims low, trying to force me off balance.
Clever.
I break the formation by sheer momentum.
I take the low strike deliberately, absorb it into my thigh, let the shock travel instead of fighting it. The guard expects me to stagger.
I don’t.
I grab his arm mid-swing and hurl him into his own shield wall. It collapses in a clatter of metal.
Ragon’s voice cuts through comms. “Security nodes ahead. Ten seconds.”
“Take them,” I say.
“I am.”
He disappears sideways through a maintenance arch while I hold the corridor.
Another wave hits.
These ones are faster. Coordinated. One drops low and sweeps for my knee while another goes high with a blade designed to split Dragon plating.
I catch the blade with my gauntlet.
It bites deep.
I feel the grind of metal against reinforced bone.
“Yield,” the guard hisses through his visor.
I smile at him.
“Not today.”
I wrench the blade free and drive my forehead into his mask hard enough to spiderweb the plating. He stumbles. I finish it with an elbow that caves his chest inward.
Blood hits the air.
Sharp. Copper-heavy.
Behind me, a roar erupts as one of our fighters goes down.
“Hold!” I shout.
The corridor narrows. Bodies pile. Smoke thickens.
Then—
The lights flicker.
Pulse-shields across the remaining elite guards sputter.
Ragon’s voice comes through, tight with satisfaction. “Inner defense grid’s blind.”
“Good,” I say.
We push.
Through fractured doors. Over broken armor. Past fighters dragging wounded back without slowing the forward line.
The throne chamber doors loom ahead—massive, seamless, carved from dark alloy veined with faint alien glow.
They’re open.
I don’t like that.
“Trap?” one of the rebels whispers.
“Probably,” I reply.
Ragon steps beside me, breathing hard, face streaked with dust and blood.
“Together,” he says.
We enter.
The chamber is vast, ceiling arching high enough to swallow sound. The field hums here—deep and resonant, vibrating in my teeth, in my sternum.
Dzu stands alone at the center.
No guards.
No shield wall.
Armor black as night, segmented and heavy, sigils etched across the plating in faint silver lines that pulse in rhythm with the field.
He doesn’t look surprised.
He looks… unsurprised.
“You’re late,” he says.
No anger.
No panic.
Just observation.
I don’t answer.
I charge.
The distance between us closes in a heartbeat.
I swing with everything I have.
He steps aside.
Not fast.
Not frantic.
Efficient.
My fist passes through air.
He pivots and drives a fist into my side with surgical precision.
The impact steals breath. I stagger.
Ragon strikes from the left—blade flashing for the joint seam at Dzu’s shoulder.
Dzu catches his wrist mid-strike.
Just catches it.
Twists.
Ragon hits the ground hard.
I recover and tackle Dzu at the waist.
We crash into the stone with a crack that echoes up the chamber walls.
He’s stronger than he should be.
Not just armor. Not just training.
He hooks his leg behind mine and rolls, using my momentum against me. I slam into the floor hard enough to see stars.
“You fight well,” he says calmly as he rises.
Ragon lunges again, this time aiming low.
Dzu backhands him across the jaw so hard it snaps his head sideways and sends him skidding across the chamber.
I force myself up.
Blood fills my mouth.
“Stand down,” Dzu says. “You’ve proven your point.”
“Not even close,” I growl.
I charge again.
This time he doesn’t dodge.
He meets me head-on.
The collision is catastrophic.
Armor plates grind. Bone protests. The field hum spikes violently as if reacting to the impact.
He drives an elbow into my collar joint. Something pops.
I swing through the pain.
He catches the strike again and slams me backward into a pillar hard enough to crack it.
Stone dust rains down.
Ragon comes in from behind, wrapping an arm around Dzu’s throat.
For a heartbeat, it looks possible.
Then Dzu drops his weight and flips him clean over his shoulder like he weighs nothing.
Ragon hits the ground and doesn’t get up immediately.
Dzu turns back to me.
“You refuse to retreat,” he says.
“Yeah,” I spit blood at his boots. “Funny how that works.”
He steps forward.
So do I.
Even as my vision narrows.
Even as my body screams.
We don’t retreat.
Not today.