Part (1/4) Storm of Steel: Zekhtau's Speed Mode
Amidst the chaos of the battlefield, Akira's team scattered in every direction, dodging frantically as Zekhtau moved with unnatural speed. His movement pattern was clear—he charged in a straight line before switching to a rapid circling motion, closing in on them like a predator tightening its trap.
Osiris, quick to analyze the situation, shouted a warning.
"This is his Speed Mode! Watch out for both his direct charges and his circling attacks!"
Understanding his pattern was one thing, but avoiding the giant warrior barreling toward them with a massive halberd was another. It felt like trying to dodge a runaway freight train. The sound of the steel blade slicing through the air sent a shiver down their spines, a chilling reminder that even a single misstep could mean instant death.
Akira made a swift decision.
"Yue! Buff yourself with armor and boost everyone's speed!"
"Got it, big brother!" Yue replied, nimbly dodging an incoming strike. Her movements were swift and fluid, like a fox weaving effortlessly through the battlefield.
Akira turned toward Elina and Mirelle.
"Elina, cover Mirelle!"
"Leave it to me!" Elina responded confidently. Despite her high status, she had no hesitation in following Akira's commands. She stepped forward, reinforcing her barrier to absorb the brunt of Zekhtau's halberd strike. This time, she didn't get knocked back like before—a small victory, but one that made her smile.
Akira issued his next command.
"Mirelle! Watch his path and freeze the ground in front of him! Just don't block our allies!"
"I'll freeze his legs solid, just watch!" Mirelle replied, quickly chanting her spell. Spikes of ice erupted from the ground, forcing Zekhtau to jump over them. That split second in the air meant he couldn't attack—an opening they desperately needed.
Draco, using bursts of flame from his feet to propel himself midair, shouted,
"What do you want me to do, Akira?"
Akira's response was immediate.
"You and I will be the bait. We're the most agile here!"
"Hell yeah! Pissing off enemies is my specialty!" Draco grinned, his reckless confidence easing some of the tension in the team.
As the battle raged on, Akira glanced around, trying to locate Osiris, who had seemingly vanished. Meanwhile, Lunar was still effortlessly evading Zekhtau's attacks with an almost eerie calm.
"Lunar! Can you set traps where he lands after jumping?"
"Easy." Lunar smirked. With minimal movement, he weaved through the battlefield like a leaf carried by the wind, perfectly predicting Zekhtau's leap. As the warrior dodged Mirelle's ice, he landed right onto Lunar's hidden trap—a slick, adhesive surface that threw him off balance for the first time.
Zekhtau let out a booming laugh, eyes filled with excitement.
"Ha! Now THIS is fun! But don't get cocky! This is only my first mode! How do you like Speed Mode so far?"
His words confirmed what they had suspected—this was merely the beginning. Their strategy of using traps and terrain manipulation was working, but there was no telling what came next. A more brutal mode could be just around the corner.
Yet, despite the overwhelming odds, Akira's team stood firm, ready to push forward—for the future of Draft, and for the battle that had only just begun…
Part (2/4)"Storm of Steel: The Executioner's Judgement"
"What a shame. This mode is almost over."
Zekhtau's voice echoed across the battlefield, his words sending a wave of unease through the air. He came to a sudden halt, the silence that followed suffocating. Every gaze locked onto him, as if they all knew—whatever came next would be far from good.
"You all handled yourselves well. Quite entertaining, actually. But…" He paused, drawing out the tension like a blade poised to strike. Then, his next words cut deeper than any weapon.
"…those five over there—what a mess. No teamwork whatsoever. I suppose I'll have to eliminate one of them."
The battlefield grew heavier. Muscles tensed, hands tightened around weapons, and every fiber of their beings braced for what was coming. Yet, Zekhtau looked unfazed, completely indifferent to the hostility around him. His eyes swept across the group, cold and calculating, like a predator selecting its prey.
Then, he stopped.
His gaze locked onto Kelpy Kall.
"You."
The single word carried a weight that sent a shiver down Kall's spine. Zekhtau's massive halberd rose, its deadly tip pointing straight at the trembling boy.
Kall's breath hitched. His body tensed, legs shaking as if his entire being wanted to flee, but fear had frozen him in place. He took an instinctive step back, eyes darting wildly as if searching for an escape that wasn't there.
Zekhtau narrowed his eyes, his lips curling into a smirk laced with disdain.
"You don't belong among the Twelve." His voice was icy, merciless. "I saw everything. You're the only one who turned your back on me. You won't even look me in the eye. You refuse to face what's in front of you."
His words hit like a hammer. The rest of the team exchanged uneasy glances, stunned into silence. Kall stood there, trembling, his body betraying the fear he could no longer hide. And that fear—exposed for all to see—was something Zekhtau could not tolerate.
"Tell me, Castro," Zekhtau sneered, glancing at their commander, "what possessed you to pick someone like this? Do you take me for a fool? This is an insult to my honor."
Then, without another word, he moved.
Like a bullet fired from a gun, Zekhtau launched himself at Kall. The ground cracked beneath his feet, the force of his acceleration kicking up dust as he closed the distance in the blink of an eye.
The team reacted instantly, eyes widening in horror. But the gap between them and Kall was too great—no one could reach him in time.
Kall turned and ran.
His breathing was ragged, gasps mixing with terrified sobs as his vision blurred with tears. His mind screamed at him to move, faster, faster, FASTER—
But his feet failed him.
With a sharp cry, Kall slipped, crashing hard against the cold steel floor. Pain shot through his body, but there was no time to recover—he scrambled desperately to his feet, turning just in time to see Zekhtau closing in.
"No! Stay away!"
His plea was drowned out by the storm of war.
Kall leapt to the side in a last-ditch effort to escape—too late.
Zekhtau's halberd smashed into him with devastating force.
The impact sent Kall flying across the battlefield like a ragdoll. His body crashed into the rusted remains of an old grandstand, the metal shattering under the sheer force of the blow. A cloud of dust and debris exploded into the air, obscuring everything from sight.
Silence.
A suffocating stillness spread across the field.
As the dust settled, their eyes widened in horror.
Kall lay motionless, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles, his bones shattered beyond recognition. His torso—the only part of him spared—remained intact, faintly glowing with the remnants of an activated barrier. It had saved his life—but it hadn't saved his body.
"…My god."
A whisper broke the silence.
Everyone stood frozen, the weight of what they had just witnessed sinking in.
Yes, this battle had rules. Yes, there were measures in place to prevent death.
But now, looking at Kall's broken body, they all realized a bitter truth.
This wasn't just a fight.
This wasn't just a match.
This was an execution.
The battlefield remained eerily silent. The team stood frozen, the shock of what had just transpired still gripping them.
Zekhtau stood unmoving for a moment before slowly turning to face them. His expression was unreadable—calm, yet commanding.
"The eleven of you have passed the 'Rogue' test."
At that instant, the stadium's perimeter flickered as holographic displays materialized, revealing a scoreboard.
Each of their faces appeared on the board—twelve in total. But Kall's portrait had dimmed to gray, slashed through with a streak of red. A brutal yet undeniable mark—Disqualified.
Beneath each image, numerical evaluations and performance metrics scrolled across the screen, their results exposed for all to see.
Akira's leadership score towered over the rest, standing as the clear strategic force of the group.
Lunar's raw combat efficiency had skyrocketed to the highest rank, his precision unmatched.
Meanwhile, Osiris—who had spent most of the battle slipping into the shadows—barely had any data recorded at all.
The weight of the moment pressed down on them like an iron chain. The once-lively battlefield was now suffocated by tension.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Zekhtau's words still echoed in their minds.
Kall's broken body was burned into their vision.
They had survived the first mode. They had endured the trial.
But this was no mere game. No simple examination.
This was a battlefield where failure had a price.
Where strength alone was not enough.
Where every misstep came at a cost.
And this—this was only the beginning.
Part (3/4)"Storm of Steel: The Knight's Gambit"
"Now then. Entering the second mode. Prepare yourselves."
Zekhtau's voice rang out across the battlefield, calm yet exuding absolute confidence.
This time, he didn't charge forward like before. Instead, he walked.
Slow. Controlled.
Every step carried a weight that made the very air around them feel heavier. His towering, metal-clad form gleamed under the lights, casting an imposing figure that only added to the suffocating pressure. The team watched him with unwavering focus, but no one dared to move first.
Then, Uncle Pong made the first move.
With a swift motion, he fired an explosive soda-round straight at Zekhtau.
The moment the projectile was launched, the team's hopes soared—only to be crushed in an instant.
With a simple flick of his halberd, Zekhtau batted the projectile aside as if it were nothing more than an annoying fly. The canister detonated in midair, its blast nothing more than a harmless light show against his overwhelming presence.
Uncle Pong and Little Eve fired again, their shots coming from different angles, attempting to break through his defense.
It didn't matter.
Every attack was deflected.
No matter where they aimed, no matter how fast or unpredictable their shots were, Zekhtau's halberd intercepted everything, forming an impenetrable shield of pure skill and precision.
The calmness in his approach, the ease with which he dismissed their efforts—it made him all the more terrifying.
Akira made a quick decision.
"Keep your distance! Surround him and attack from all sides!"
The team moved immediately, spreading out to encircle Zekhtau, launching ranged attacks from every direction.
This time, some of their strikes landed. Scratches began appearing on his armor, minor signs of damage—but Zekhtau remained completely unfazed, his expression as unreadable as ever.
Akira's eyes darted up to the holographic display hovering above the arena—a twelve-sided energy gauge representing Zekhtau's remaining power.
He clenched his fists.
"Even with all these attacks, his energy barely dropped…"
Before he could formulate a new strategy, Zekhtau moved.
Gone was his slow, deliberate pace.
Now—he leapt.
His massive frame shot through the air, landing in unpredictable locations, his halberd slicing through the battlefield with terrifying precision. Each swing carved deep gashes into the metal floor, cleaving through reinforced steel as if it were paper.
Every strike carried devastating force—a single mistake, a single misstep, and it would tear them apart.
Osiris shouted a warning.
"He's changing his attack pattern! Stay sharp!"
Akira's sharp eyes tracked Zekhtau's movements. His mind raced. Then, suddenly—realization struck.
"He's moving like a knight piece in chess!"
A spark of insight lit up in his gaze.
"Osiris! Predict his movement based on knight jumps in chess! Feed the data to the team!"
"On it!" Osiris responded instantly.
Her mind worked fast, analyzing Zekhtau's leaping patterns. Within seconds, a Mixed Reality (MR) grid flickered to life through the team's contact lenses, mapping out the likely landing points of his next jumps.
With this data, they were no longer blindly dodging.
They were anticipating.
Every time Zekhtau prepared to leap, the team evacuated his target zones in advance, avoiding his devastating attacks with a newfound precision.
And more than that—they struck back.
As soon as he landed, coordinated attacks hammered into him before he could launch his next move.
Slowly but surely, the holographic gauge dropped.
1,100 energy remaining.
It wasn't much, but it was progress.
Then—Zekhtau stopped.
For the first time since the battle began, he stood completely still.
Straightening his posture, he exuded an eerie calm, his gaze sweeping over them like a judge preparing to deliver a sentence.
Then, in a chillingly indifferent tone, he spoke.
"This mode is boring."
A pause.
"…We're almost out of time, anyway. Might as well eliminate one more."
The battlefield turned to ice.
A sinking dread spread through the team as they realized—someone was about to be targeted.
And none of them knew who.
Part (4/4) "Storm of Steel: The Second Casualty"
"Might as well eliminate one more."
Zekhtau's chilling declaration sent a wave of dread through the team.
The silence that followed was suffocating—as if time itself had stopped.
But this time, it was different.
Unlike before, Zekhtau didn't single out a target. Instead, he continued his erratic, chess-knight movement—but faster.
Much faster.
The MR-generated safe zones that Osiris had mapped out began to shift wildly, flashing unpredictably like strobe lights. It was no longer a battle of tactics—it was a brutal test of raw reaction speed.
The battlefield felt like a cruel rhythm game, where every misstep meant destruction.
Osiris's calculations still tracked his movements, but his rapid acceleration made it impossible for anyone to respond in time. The once-reliable safe zones dissolved into confusion, and panic began to set in.
Then—
It happened.
Zekhtau materialized in a spot where someone hadn't moved fast enough.
A chorus of voices erupted in alarm—
"UNCLE PONG!!"
In a blur of motion, Zekhtau descended like a reaper, halberd raised high.
Uncle Pong barely had time to register what was happening before the massive weapon came crashing down.
The impact was cataclysmic.
The sheer force of the strike detonated the soda canisters stored within Uncle Pong's mechanical frame, triggering a violent chain reaction of explosions. The sound reverberated through the battlefield, a deafening BOOM that shook the arena.
His body was launched across the field, slamming into the far end of the grandstand.
A distant, crumpled figure.
Smoke and debris billowed into the air. The world felt as if it had gone eerily silent.
And when the dust settled—
Everyone froze.
The sight before them was soul-crushing.
The once-lively, ever-cheerful Uncle Pong lay among the wreckage, his frame barely recognizable. His limbs had been twisted and shattered, his once-sturdy chassis now a pile of mangled scrap.
Only his core remained intact—protected by the emergency barriers.
But he was gone.
"NOOOO!!"
Little Eve's scream tore through the air, raw with grief and fury.
She stood paralyzed, her small frame trembling as sheer rage and heartbreak overtook her.
The rest of the team stood motionless, their faces drained of color.
They had lost Uncle Pong.
The one who kept their spirits high.
The one who filled the battlefield with laughter, even in the darkest moments.
Now—he lay crushed beneath the weight of war.
Akira's fists clenched so tight they shook. A storm of emotions raged within him—anger, sorrow, helplessness.
And above all—a chilling realization.
This wasn't training.
This wasn't a game.
This was real combat.
A battlefield where every mistake had consequences.
Where there was no safety net.
If they failed again—if they allowed another misstep—
The next one to fall wouldn't just be injured.
They would be erased.
The weight of their reality pressed down on them like an iron vice.
But amidst the grief, the pain, and the fear—
One thought burned brightest in their hearts.
This cannot happen again.
They would not allow it.