Clark stepped through the sliding doors into a spacious but quietly lit command room.
The walls were lined with interactive displays projecting holograms of humanoid ch units—sleek, heavily armored war machines mid-maneuver over different planetary terrain.
Dozens of data streams ran in real ti, and though the room was designed for business, its silence carried a certain gravity—like sothing important always lingered just beneath the surface.
And standing in the center of it all, facing one of the suspended holograms, was a woman.
She was striking—not just in beauty, but in presence.
Platinum blonde hair fell to her shoulders in silky waves, contrasting sharply against the deep navy of her fitted military uniform.
Though it followed regulation, the uniform’s skirt design did little to disguise her hourglass figure.
She moved with an effortless confidence, and her curves—well, nature had been unapologetically generous.
Yet there was nothing overt about her behavior. She wasn’t trying to be seductive.
She simply existed that way.
Her posture was upright and professional, her eyes fixed on a floating image of a Gundam-class unit deploying across a planetary canyon.
But the mont the door hissed shut behind Clark, she turned.
Their eyes t.
Electric-blue irises locked with his, and for a breath, nothing was said.
The woman studied him with subtle curiosity. Her gaze was cool but not cold, analytical yet playful—like soone used to being the center of attention but always looking for sothing... different.
"Well, that’s a surprise," she said, voice smooth and lilting.
"Most n walk through that door and forget how to speak for a few seconds. But you? You’re just standing there like you’ve already read my entire file."
Clark’s expression didn’t change, though a glint of amusent sparked in his eyes.
"You’re beautiful," he said matter-of-factly. "It’s only natural that people get distracted."
The woman’s lips curved slightly. "Flattery delivered without a hint of desperation. Impressive."
She stepped forward and extended her hand.
Her nails were short, well-maintained, painted a soft tallic silver that matched the stripes on her uniform’s shoulder.
"Makena Davis," she introduced. "Head of the Gundam Operations Division in this sector. I oversee our ch forces for five nearby systems."
Clark accepted her hand with a firm, steady grip.
"Clark Colter. Newly transferred to Strategic Coordination."
Makena raised an eyebrow as they shook. "Ah, the mysterious new strategist slash expert gundam operator from Earth’s inner circle. They say you were fast-tracked for clearance, no background on the standard net, and passed every psychological evaluation without a single red flag."
"I have a clean mind," Clark said with a faint smirk. "So find that unsettling."
She laughed—light, genuine. "Around here, that practically makes you an alien."
Then, with a playful sigh, she added, "And for the record, most n don’t bother looking in the eye. They get stuck... lower."
Clark’s smirk didn’t fade. "I’ve seen more dangerous curves than yours."
Makena blinked, then gave an amused, breathy chuckle. "Clever. I like you already."
There was a mont of charged silence between them—light tension, flirtation, but buried beneath it all, mutual calculation.
Clark could tell she wasn’t just so military poster girl.
She was sharp, fast, and had likely built a reputation of competence despite the distractions her looks invited.
And Makena, for her part, seed intrigued by Clark’s unnerving calm.
Most people were either intimidated or flustered. He was neither.
"Co," she said, turning back toward the room’s central platform. "Let give you a proper overview of our operations."
Clark followed her onto the elevated stage, where holographic screens adjusted to their presence.
With a few quick gestures, Makena brought up a projection of five planetary systems in full 3D.
Red, blue, and orange symbols marked various Gundam deploynts, space lanes, conflict zones, and unknown activity sectors.
"This is your playground now," she said. "The 20th Galaxy looks calm on paper, but it’s riddled with instability. Pirate factions. Post-war weapon caches. But the most troubling of them all is the imminent threat of our dear neighbours."
Clark’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"Hmmm..." he just nodded in reply.
"Tell , Clark," Makena said, her voice sharp but composed, betraying none of the weight she carried.
She stood tall at the edge of the command deck, her uniform immaculate, silver rank pins catching the dim light of the room’s inner do.
"What’s your opinion of the Centurions? Will they be a viable force in our war against the Demon Sword Race?"
Clark barely glanced at her. He remained hunched over a glowing tactical interface, fingers sliding across holographic maps of occupied territories and battlefronts.
His tone was clipped, indifferent, and honest.
"Highly unlikely," he said. "They’re outdated. They can’t survive in space without external support. No flight without propulsion suits, no breathing without tanks. Physically enhanced, sure—but that’s not enough. They’re good on land. Not against the top experts of the Demon Swords."
Makena nodded slowly, more to herself than in agreent.
"Yes... the world’s once-great hope reduced to a ceremonial rank and a na in a database." Her lips twisted in faint disdain.
"A failed experint that had cost us a lot."
Clark didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Everyone knew the truth now.
The Centurion Initiative had been humanity’s gamble to create super-soldiers, warriors that could dominate the physical plane without relying on machines or cultivation.
But the era of biology alone had passed. chs had outpaced them.
Cultivators—despite being the enemy—possessed strength that even Centurions could not match.
"They were supposed to be our answer," Makena murmured, almost to herself. "Our pride. But pride doesn’t win wars."
Clark looked up then, the dim lights reflecting in his eyes. "No. Power does."
There was a beat of silence.
Makena’s gaze darkened as she pivoted to the next uncomfortable topic.
"The hybrids... they’re more promising, don’t you think?"
Clark’s brow furrowed. "Depends what you an by promising."
"You know what I an," she said coolly. "The offspring. The ones bred from pure Earthling stock and cultivators. So of them show natural affinity to both tech and spirit. They’re rare. But given ti, they might beco the bridge we’ve been searching for."
There was a long pause. Clark set down the projection lens, folding his arms.
"If they’re given access to the right environnts," he said finally, "they could beco stronger than either side. But we don’t have access to the Demon Sword territories. Their soil, their spiritual veins, their relics. We’re still fighting blind while they bathe in their own divine arsenals."
Makena turned from the stars and walked slowly toward the center of the room, her heels clicking against the tallic floor.
She circled the tactical table, her fingers brushing across the edge, eyes never leaving the holographic map.
"Then we take it," she said softly.
Clark blinked. "Excuse ?"
"We stop holding the line," she said, her tone turning cold, calculated.
"We go on the offensive. Full incursion. If we control their worlds, their resources beco ours. We raise the next generation of hybrids in those lands, and we finally turn the tide."
Clark stared at her, silent. He studied her like one might study a weapon—beautiful, sharp, and dangerous in the wrong hands.
"That’s not a strategy," he said. "That’s desperation."
Makena smiled faintly. "Desperation is what wins wars when logic fails."
They spoke for another hour. Tactical assessnts. Projected losses.
Probability simulations.
They talked for a long ti and that was the start of Makena’s downfall.
Reviews
All reviews (0)