Dragonian Imperium, Low-Ridge Jungle

  Date: 25 November 2510, daytime

  The Tartarus Legion had been at war for centuries; they’d seen every kind of fighter there was. But who had ever seen mech pilots who drive junked machines to bludgeon people, strike from the shadows, and you can’t even tell whether they’re gutter-trash or outright thugs?

  Lieutenant Colonel Slade and his Warhounds Special Forces trailed behind the 16th Special Recon’s ragged “beggar” squad, watching in stunned disbelief as those rogues used tactics no one expected to carve the Tartarus pursuers to pieces.

  What was impossible to believe was how terrifyingly reckless those “rogue mechs” were. They belched black smoke and sparks—their internal circuit boards shorting out in blue-white arcs, hydraulic fluid spraying from ruptured lines and giving off that acrid, scorched-oil smell. Mechs that had been knocked to the ground still had cockpits that creaked with the grinding of damaged servos. Steam masked the heat, and in less than a minute, they would be upright again, like phoenixes from the flames: the torso plates re-clamped with clattering clicks; cooling fins on the back fanned open and spat scalding steam; optical sensors flared red, and they charged back into combat.

  They weren’t great at hand-to-hand, but their dodging and “playing dead” routines put any Federation unit to shame. When a Paladin was hit, it would immediately run an emergency routine: outer armor panels folded in to simulate a catastrophic breach; thrusters cut out, causing the mech to crumple heavily; and optical sensors went dark to simulate a total system blackout. When an enemy came close, hidden weapons inside the armor would suddenly fire, delivering a killing blow.

  The Tartarus Legion was not a god. Facing those packs of hoodlum mechs, they were helpless. Hakon realized the mission had failed and, decisive as ever, ordered no more entanglements—he rallied the surviving Kong and Wraith units and punched out.

  The Tartarus column broke into scattered fragments; getting out wasn’t easy. The only force that managed to stay together was the Kongs, and under Hakon’s leadership, they relied on sheer shock and blinding speed to bulldoze through—each step thundered the ground; fifteen-meter-tall giants crushed forward like iron mountains. Their armor reconfigured dynamically during the charge: torso plates splayed open to reveal built-in multi-barrel energy cannons; inertia dampeners pulsed to cancel G-forces and keep barrels rock-steady; shoulder plates flipped up to form extra defenses as nano-carbon sheeting slithered and locked around the joints; tactical visors slid aside to expose dense sensor arrays that scanned the battlefield like demon eyes.

  In the end, that mixed Tartarus force—some companies of Kongs and a company of Wraiths—paid with heavy losses to secure a successful breakout. Destroyed mechs disintegrated in explosions; great hunks of metal rained down like shrapnel and punched deep craters into the earth. A few core reactors detonated in chain reactions—BOOM!—the consecutive explosions rolling like thunder, fireballs reaching skyward and turning the battlefield into daylight. Officers and troops fled into the jungle in chaos.

  This was the first time a Federation special-mech strike had broken the Tartarus Legion in a frontal clash and destroyed half their strength. The mission objective—Cyril—had been rescued. The rogue mechs whooped and celebrated, their mechanical arms thrown high, with guttural metallic roars and garish onboard speakers blasting abrasive electronic music. They’d earned bragging rights for the trip back.

  On the ridge, a fat man had gone half-mad with fury; he keyed the local com and swore at the top of his lungs, “You idiots—hundreds of mechs and you still have to play dead? And what the hell—after surrounding them, you let them run? Fine, they ran, just don’t let their route come near my flank!”

  As Tartarus mechs came charging up toward the ridge, the fat man cut his swearing short and screamed, “Help! Cyril’s with me! Somebody get the hell up here! They’re killing people!”

  The rogues who’d been celebrating suddenly went slack-jawed. Only after the captain ordered pursuit did they snap awake and race after the Tartarus column.

  But long-range help couldn’t save the moment: Tartarus mechs were far faster than the Paladin-series. The Wraiths shifted form while running, changing from humanoid to beast in an instant—spine plates rearranged into streamlined curves, joints reversed to let them run on all fours, thrusters reconfigured to the limb tips so each footfall gouged deep claw marks in the earth; they moved with the speed and menace of actual predators. The fat man wailed—by the time those idiots got here, it would all be over.

  Panicked, he eyed a cluster of huge overhanging rocks along the ridge. He piloted his Thor around one of the cliff-high boulders—Thor’s geoscaners whirred to life, probes extending from chest armor, emitting ultrasonic pings that mapped the rock’s interior. The HUD provided a geological analysis, including density, fracture lines, and stress points—everything. He laughed like a lunatic. This choke point led to the ridge; if the Tartarus column took that turn, fine—but if they came this way, he thought, bring those boulders down with the cliff and the ensuing mudslide in the monsoon would probably take out a few more of them.

  He quickly picked blast points with Thor’s manipulator. Thor’s right forearm separated, exposing a high-frequency drilling rig; after ten seconds of screaming metal-on-rock, sparks and shards flew. Thor’s sensors monitored depth and angle to ensure maximum collapse. He planted a set of engineer charges—each one a high-tech quantum-timed demolition device capable of precise delayed detonations—and waited with an almost obscene glee.

  The Tartarus mechs thundered into the trap, leaving deep tracks and throwing up mud and debris with every stride. They didn’t understand why the Federation rogues who had been partying were suddenly in relentless pursuit like they’d drunk stardust whiskey. Even hardened soldiers break psychologically during routs: Tartarus pilots had been taught never to be captured. Seeing a gang of scavenger mechs snapping at their heels—the engine howls like thunder, the smoke-streaked trails cutting black lines through the rain—only increased their panic.

  In their headlong flight, they practically ran into the fat man’s ambush. With a few thunderous booms—KRAKOOM!—consecutive explosions ripped the jutting cliff to pieces. Millions of cubic meters of rock mixed with rain and mud tore down in a roaring wall like an enraged dragon. Boulders smashed into mechs with metallic thuds; armor buckled under the weight, internal supports snapped with horrible tearing noises. Some mechs tried to claw free, limbs flailing under debris, but more rock toppled on them, and they were pinned and crushed while the Federation mechs swarmed in.

  Slade gaped at the Thor on the ridge, the junky mech dancing with ridiculous, broken jerks—its joints squeaked and ground, making its victory celebration look almost ludicrous. Its optical sensors blinked with smug lights, and its onboard speaker carried the fat man’s manic laughter. Slade ground his teeth and spat, “You… you! Finally found you! Loki—prepare to be judged!”

  A whole company of Kongs and a company of Wraiths were buried alive. Hakon, who’d survived, saw red—his Kong shifted into combat configuration: chest plates unfolded to expose a white-hot reactor core that hummed menacingly; shoulder armor rose into jagged spikes; the combat shroud dropped to reveal dense red sensors, demon-eye lights flashing; Hakon pushed the stick and the Kong lunged toward the gloating Thor like a maddened tiger.

  The Kong’s charge was an unstoppable flood of steel—each step trembled the ground; giant metal footpads gouged deep furrows and sent stones flying. Its armor reconfigured on the move: leg plating expanded for impact, arms morphed into weapons, and every built-in system spun up. Hakon wanted to tear that despicable bastard to pieces.

  The Wraiths and Kongs behind him surged after Thor—their coordination in the charge was terrifying. The Wraiths shifted form, flowing between human and beast with clacks and whirs; the Kongs kept humanoid stances but deployed all their weapons: the chest multi-barrel cannons began to charge, bathing the battlefield in an ever-brighter blue-white glow.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Fatty’s joy turned to horror. The landsliding gorge had cut off the approach to his ridge; nobody could relieve him now. A score of mechs bore down on him. He had no choice but to gun his Thor forward.

  Thor’s 18-megawatt, neutron-free micro-fusion core p–B11 poured most of its output into the thrusters. Back plates splayed to reveal four main nozzles—each a meter across—igniting to produce a dragon-like roar. Plasma tail flamed behind him in comet-like trails, scorching the rocks red where it passed.

  He shook off dozens of pursuers, but Hakon’s Kong and a few elite Wraiths kept up the chase—these were the crème de la crème of the Legion. Their propulsion systems were no joke; they shaped their forms mid-stride to squeeze maximum aero performance and keep up.

  A Wraith leapt to Thor’s right—transformed mid-run from beast to humanoid with liquid smoothness. Fatty’s APS read 32. Thor leapt and collided with the Wraith in midair—two tons of metal collided with a thunderous clang. Sparks flew like fireworks. Before the Wraith could revert fully to beast mode, Thor’s left fist smashed into its abdomen like a demolition hammer. Armor crumpled inward, energy lines shorted in blue-white arcs, and Thor’s right fist smashed into the cockpit—armor tore, glass shattered, and blood sprayed into the air in a crimson mist. The Wraith tumbled and exploded into a fireball on impact.

  Another Wraith shifted to beast and came in for a slashing blade: spine plates unfolded, joints reconfigured, a wolf-like skull extended forward. The forearm plates slid back and exposed vibrating blades humming with a terrifying energy field—a single sweep toward Thor’s cockpit.

  Fatty went pale; sweat trickled down his forehead. “Damn—sneak attack. No honor.” He cranked APS to 34. Thor’s reaction systems kicked into overdrive: a rolling evasive maneuver—Thor flipped its body in midair with an impossible contortion. Joints squealed and armor panels slid to protect vital areas. He just barely avoided the killing slash, then the right arm unfolded into a sniper cannon—Thor’s forearm split and revealed a high-energy marksman beam. BANG! A screaming column of high-energy particles punched through the sneaking Wraith’s armor—its hull melted into a perfect circular hole; the reactor cooked, detonated in a ball of fire, and debris rained down in a hail of shrapnel.

  At that instant, Hakon’s Kong was across from him: a mountain of metal bearing down. In close combat, the Kong’s final reconfiguration made it even more terrifying—chest armor peeled back to reveal a dangerous red core; the right arm became a five-meter ionic blade threaded in hot energy; the left a heavy warhammer carved with grotesque skulls.

  The ionic blade arced for Thor’s vital back panels—the blade ionized the air as it sliced, making the metal sing and warp.（The blue sphere behind Thor shattered under the ionic blade and disappeared.） Fatty had barely an instant to curse when the blade bit into Thor’s rear shell, showering sparks. At the same time, Thor’s AMS responded.

  [AMS_SYSTEM: ACTIVE // LATTICE_DENSITY_FORTIFICATION: 300%]

  At a microscopic level, Thor’s SiC-graphene composite lattice restructured and instantaneously tripled in density, forming a near-perfect protective skin. The Kong’s ionic blade only carved a searing gash on Thor’s back—an orange-red scar that the swarm of nanobots immediately swarmed and began to repair. Tiny nanites clustered like ants and rebuilt the damaged lattice until the wound healed before their eyes.

  “Nova… you damn genius,” Jack whispered inside.

  Angered at being denied his murder, Fatty ordered Thor’s rear leg to kick at Kong’s wrist—Thor’s right leg armor shifted and exposed internal impact gear. That ionic blade was too dangerous; it had to be disarmed.

  Hakon wasn’t about to let the junk mech succeed. He withdrew the sword and launched a counter-kick—the Kong’s thigh armor unfolded, revealing hydraulic thrusters. The Kong’s stubby legs shot straight at Thor’s leg. The two massive mechanical legs collided midair with a thunderous clang; sparks and shockwaves cracked the surrounding rocks.

  “This one’s tougher than the last Kong I smashed to pieces,” Fatty muttered through clenched teeth. He pushed Thor’s systems to the limit: servos overclocked, whining; hydraulics pinned hard in the red; coolers at full blast, steam hissing from armor seams. Thor’s speed increased with every dodge—two mechs on the ridge danced a death tango while Paladins at the valley’s edge laid suppressing fire. The Paladins’ SF-modified Trone I VII medium pulse lasers cut through fleeing Wraiths with brutal efficiency—laser beams burned holes and sent mechs into combustive deaths.

  Hakon’s ionic blade was terrifying—every swing cut hot tracks through the air like a sun-streak. Fatty’s fingers cramped as he pounded hundreds of inputs per second. Nova Carter’s bio-bimetal instant-deformation tech couldn’t fully compensate for such furious manual speed.

  The duel accelerated—the ridge was two streaks of motion weaving in and out. Thor and Kong spun like twin cyclones of steel; armor plates sang, mechanical sounds building into a symphony of impacts—clang clang clang! Each blow showered sparks.

  Kong accelerated again: its power plant driven to the brink, cooling fins spread and steamed, the ionic blade swung toward Thor’s lower limbs—then Kong’s left hand reconfigured into five serrated claws, each glowing with dangerous red light.

  A deathly moment arrived. Fatty’s forehead beaded with sweat, cockpit lights strobing red emergency. For a split second, he felt something like clarity: his hands moved faster than thought—every mechanical limb on Thor smashing and parrying in a blur—just enough to block the lethal strike. Then he juked a kick at the Kong’s chest; Thor’s leg thrust fired, and the impact was amplified by leg thrusters.

  In that flash, his mind replayed the “Furnace Arena” matchups—Loki vs. Hawk—learning the opponent’s tricks in the simulated net. Tactics flickered: “You’re not a pilot—a mechanic. You know every joint and wire. Stop using canned command sequences. Use your hands. Mech fighting isn’t preprogrammed combos; it’s making micro-moves from basic commands and exploiting the enemy’s construction. You trained for hand speed by drilling fundamentals—use that to invent new mech maneuvers.” It hit him like lightning.

  So he switched style mid-duel—the Thor would become a device to test a Kong’s weakest points.

  He nearly got himself killed for it. Thor’s movements briefly went haywire—left arm clashed awkwardly with the right; joints ground and squealed—Kong’s blade nearly tore it in half. All the canned-combo thinking in his head didn’t always match real-time physical control. He scrambled, and but for reflexes, he would have been gutted several times. Each narrowly missed slash left blistering scorches on Thor’s armor.

  Calm descended. Jack circled the Kong, probing. Gradually, Thor’s movements synced—servos responded more precisely, hydraulics smoothed, the armored plates working like a single creature. Fatty’s improvised, filthy-fighting style left its trademark on every move.

  Hakon grew more enraged as the fight dragged on.

  An hour had passed; that junker showed no sign of tiring—its cooling ran so efficiently the surface temperature stayed in the optimal band. Its behavior had changed from the start; its filthy, shameless style was bizarre and uncanny.

  Thor bounded and flipped around the Kong like an agile ape—thrusters vectoring to provide three-dimensional mobility—lunging to the chest, kicking low, and butt-grabbing for the rear. Each move targeted structural weak points: chest strikes to assault the reactor core, groin kicks to destabilize balance, and yes—grabbing the rear to seek thin armor.

  Hakon’s eyes flashed. Kong’s optics burned red; systems overloaded—but Thor only moved faster. The Kong’s blade could never land cleanly; Fatty’s evasion made the blade cut air.

  “Hahahaha… take that, I’m flipping you the biggest middle finger,” came Fatty’s brazen laugh across the Federation comm channel.

  The Warhound recon team froze. There they were: two high-speed silhouettes that suddenly stopped—the junk Thor’s middle finger jammed into Kong’s posterior. The sight was ludicrous: Thor’s right hand extended its middle finger like a steel spear and shoved it into a seam in Kong’s rear armor.

  Click—something in the Kong’s systems seized. Its articulation stuttered; servos clacked and locked; electronics began to short; sensors flickered and died. The giant machine convulsed and toppled in a slow, shuddering collapse, spraying a wave of mud and debris as its fifteen-meter hulking mass hit the ridge. The whole ridge quaked.

  On Thor’s middle finger was a tiny component—some complex electronic device covered in precision circuitry: the Kong’s sensor-actuator driver. That small unit controlled its balance and motion; without it, even a mighty Kong was just a hunk of dead metal.

  The Warhounds stared at each other in stunned silence. They’d been routed—now this fat man had won.

  That turnaround was absurdly fast. Did that middle-finger trick actually work?

  Hakon shoved the energy pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled explosion from the Kong’s cockpit, then dead silence.

  He would never figure it out.

  How in hell did that ridiculous, obscene little dance-mobile manage to slip open a multi-ton protective plate that should have taken tons of force to pry? How did it remove a sensor-driver lodged deep beneath layered armor—something only a skilled mechanic with special tools could reach?

  The fighting down the ridge had ended. The Tartarus Kongs and Wraiths were all dead—twisted metal, burning fragments, and shredded armor littered the battlefield. Some reactors still smoked, sizzling dangerously. There were no prisoners.

  The special forces were speechless. They’d heard rumors: this fat guy once smashed a Kong to bits with another Kong, they’d said it was impossible—but now they’d seen it with their own eyes. Damn: a pervert who wins by sticking a middle finger into an enemy’s butt—what else could he do?

  The one most frustrated was Slade. He couldn’t match the fat man’s piloting technique. Judgment day seemed far off; if justice called, he’d have to consider whether he could even bear being humiliated by such a filthy little trick.

  “Bah!” Slade spat and thought, “God strike me dead, I’ll never bother to provoke a bastard like that. That fat man isn’t human.”