The Reikgon Cultists were dead...

Or at least, the ones that bled.

The battlefield beyond the interdimensional portal was a broken mosaic of cracked ground, blood slickened ruin, scorched holy cloth, and the remnants of twisted fanaticism. A low hum echoed in the stale air as the portal stabilized behind them.

The 20th Division had fought tooth and nail. And they survived. Barely.

Daniel Ivanov cocked his Caldwell 940 DB Shotgun with a tired grunt, blood on his gloves, grime on his sleeves. "That's the last of them," he muttered. "We'd be paste if Phoenix didn't pull that ghost-shit ritual."

He looked over at the man now kneeling over a fallen cultist, Akami's Kitsune Mask solemnly hooked to his belt no longer, but now worn, hiding his face like Akami. Phoenix had drawn her Cytherean Ritual Dagger, its obsidian edge still wet with corrupted vitae. As he plunged it into the heart of another downed zealot, a shimmer rippled across the corpse.

Then, it moved.

The cultist's recently-turned lifeless body convulsed... before its soul was yanked into servitude,  transfigured into a Thrall. A ghostlike puppet, a Sovereign's war-born revenant. One of many.

A few steps back, Holy Anvil, Asclepius, and Wild West were already gathered around the deployed TAC Ammo Container, restocking with muscle memory. The medevac drone above buzzed low, struggling to sort injuries from exhaustion.

"God damn..." Wild West wiped blood off his H-8 Divider. "I think I saw my grandpa in that last flashbang."

"Hallucinations from shellshock," Asclepius deadpanned. "Or the taint from Reikgon. Take your pick."

Holy Anvil didn't speak. She looked to Phoenix instead. Her Maternal Instincts has flared, praying to the Virgin Mary that he doesn't let it consume him...

He stood slowly. The Kitsune Mask's painted smile offered nothing but silence.

"I don't care what the mission says..." Wild West muttered, glancing sideways. "We should start calling him Kitsune now."

Ivanov turned his head toward them, resting the shotgun against his shoulder. "Fits him better than 'Phoenix'. He's not just surviving anymore. He's leading with ghosts."

"No," Empress corrected, walking past, visor cracked but eyes sharp. "He's reminding them why they should fear ghosts."

Ivanov scoffed a laugh, not entirely in humor.

Beyond the smoke, some of the Cultists still twitched, but Phoenix's, now Kitsune's Thralls finished them off, tearing through the stragglers with ethereal claws and hissing whispers. They fought not for salvation... but out of undying loyalty to the Sovereign's will channeled through the man in the mask.

And that man, Kitsune holstered his Ritual Dagger beside the Vytex ACAP 9.7 PDW. The PDW had barked like a demon in close quarters, but now it was silent. Sleek. Awaiting another nightmare.

He walked toward the rest of the squad.

"Ammo topped off?" Kitsune asked, voice colder.

"Locked and loaded," Asclepius nodded, checking his mags.

"I still want to vomit," Wild West muttered.

"We all do," Ivanov added. "But there's no time. Wattpadia's crawling with more than just Cultists."

"...Where's our next rally?" Empress asked, rechecking her HF Blade. Its edge was still sizzling.

Ivanov looked over his shoulder, toward the broken spires of a strange cathedral in the distance.

"North," he said. "Wattpadia's Hololive. Word is... the Sledge Queen is on the move again. And she's not happy you're alive."

Kitsune's hand instinctively brushed over the Kitsune Mask.

Akami's mask.

He didn't say anything.

Just walked.

And the others followed.

"Don't try to get lost or go alone, Kitsune. Sledge Queen is still pissed of Akami's turning her Raiders to her Thralls. You're next on her list, once you've put on that mask." Empress told Phoenix, whose Callsign is now Kitsune...

"I won't, Ma'am." Kitsune replied to Empress, as she's the Leader of the unit.

Holy Anvil, standing by the recharging station with a coil of cables over one shoulder and a field wrench in hand, gave Kitsune a long, soft-eyed look. Her armor might've been scorched from the battle, but her concern burned hotter.

She walked over after Empress finished her warning, her heavy boots thudding across the metal floor of the outpost corridor. Kitsune had just finished reloading his Vytex ACAP 9.7 PDW and was adjusting Akami's Kitsune Mask on his belt. His expression was hardened... stoic... trying not to show the weight behind that mask.

Holy Anvil didn't speak at first. She simply reached out, pulled a small pouch of fortified rations from her satchel, and pushed it into his hand.

"You didn't eat since before we crossed the veil," she murmured. "And don't give me that tough act. You might wear that mask now, but under it, you're still flesh and blood, my child. Akami wouldn't want her little brother walking into a killzone on an empty stomach."

Kitsune blinked. A flicker of something human crossed his features... Surprise, maybe guilt. He gave a sheepish nod and took the pouch.

"...Thanks, Anvil," he mumbled, eyes flicking away. "Just... trying to hold it together."

Holy Anvil put a gloved hand on his armored shoulder.

"Hold it together, but don't forget you've got this Holy and blessed squad at your back. You don't need to become a ghost to honor hers."

Her voice was soft but firm. Maternal, not commanding.

Empress gave a glance back toward them, then quietly turned away—she wouldn't stop Holy Anvil this time. Not after what Kitsune had just done. Not after seeing how many lives he saved with his Sister's blade.

Wild West, leaning on his H-8 Divider, smirked from his post. "Aw, you gonna hug him next?"

Holy Anvil shot him a side-eye glare, and Wild West raised both hands, grinning. "I'm just sayin', it's sweet."

Asclepius chuckled from across the room while topping off his med-kit. "She's right though. We survive this, you're buying dinner, Kitsune."

Kitsune, for the first time since Akami's fall, actually cracked a smile. Brief. Faint. But real.

"...Deal."

And so... They went into Wattpadia... And their first stop?

Hololive.