The gigantic Brass Gate stood six degrees west of Dunwich's central square. More than two hundred meters tall, it was like a signpost, pointing the way for the storm of war.
Two hellish towers stood on either side of the gate. Multicolored flames burst from holes of every size along their surfaces, spreading a war-drum-like roar through the sky, like a blanket barrage falling every ten seconds.
Pharos, commander of the Dead Hand Battalion, watched the distant gate burn with delight.
It reminded him of the accident in Scrap City.
That night, in the military camp outside Scrap City, a Dead Hand bomb had been accidentally triggered. He had only joined the Dead Hand Battalion not long before.
In the end, he had been the sole survivor of the entire camp. Every guard, including the battalion commander, had turned to ash.
He was the only surviving member of the first generation of Dead Hand Guards.
Yet those memories no longer brought the nightmares they once had. His capacity for fear had long since vanished, leaving behind only fanaticism, a need for destruction, and a sense of emptiness. Fear should have tempered those desires.
But he knew he had been born for destruction.
Ever since he had come into contact with Dead Hand bombs, destruction had always fascinated him. It had become his habit, and he knew the tools of destruction inside and out.
Whoosh—!
A squadron of Skybreaker fighters bearing the Daifu Flight Squadron insignia thundered overhead. Bubbling rocket trails spiraled out from their underwing mounts, and a barrage flattened the remains of an entire row of buildings before the sound of the aircraft reached them.
They then broke away from the battle, shrieking into the sky as they prepared to dive-bomb.
"The Overlord's orders have been delivered!"
Whether Pharos