Number 0 ran his hand over a large door welded shut with iron plates, carefully sensing the activity on the other side.
The other grenadiers followed behind him. Grenadier 19 spoke up, asking what might be beyond the door.
"...At least I don't sense any enemies."
"That's enough."
The monomolecular shovels had no trouble cutting through the welded plates, which were little better than scrap steel bars. Before long, they had removed every last one.
"This door's badly rusted..."
A harsh creaking rang out, echoing through the entire area. The sound of metal grinding against metal made Grenadier 19 feel uncomfortable all over.
The door opened. In the distance, a figure shone a flashlight toward them. "Who are you? That door isn't allowed to be opened!"
Grenadier 19 swiftly raised his hellgun, ready to fire and kill the shadow in the distance, but Number 0 pressed down the barrel he had raised.
"There are no red lines on him. He isn't an enemy."
"Fine."
The grenadiers raised their weapons, placing their fingers along the sides of the guns to prevent accidental discharge while ensuring they could pull the triggers at once.
"We are Imperial troops."
The figure seemed startled upon hearing Number 0's voice. Holding the flashlight carefully, he slowly approached. "You're Imperial troops? Really?"
"See this? The Aquila."
"Oh, throne above! You finally came!"
Once the figure drew close, they saw that he was a small, filthy old man. His head had been shaved clean, and he had a grizzled beard. One of his eyes was likely blind. He looked lifeless.
The old man saw the Aquilas on their helmets. Though scratched and damaged, they were clearly different from the ones altered with knives and paint.
Number 0 gestured for the old man to calm down first, so they