A month later, Anthony arrived at his temporary Command HQ on newly discovered continent with clean air and forests untouched by industry.

The new continent smelled like rain and pine and a clean ocean you could actually trust. No smog. No burn pits. Just a temporary city of tan canvas, satellite dishes, and steel matting hammered into loam.

A red "XO's wrath" line was chalked across the gravel outside the command tent. Anybody who crossed it without a reason got to low-crawl the length of the motor pool, and everyone knew David Fernandes would make sure it happened.

Inside, Anthony Towson—field jacket open, sleeves rolled—leaned over a folding table that had become his world: topo prints, drone imagery, and a taped hand-drawn sketch that said "CAVE SYSTEMS? —> DON'T BE DUMB". His laptop chimed.

WIVES—GROUP CALL (9)

He sighed, straightened his collar, and clicked.

Nine faces bloomed into a grid: Dar in a sleeveless tunic, already grinning like a wolf; Volet by a sunlit window, regal as ever; Reata in an orc-forged apron dusted with flour; Yoa's amber eyes soft in the lamplight; Miliy upside down at first ("Dammit, how do I—oh, got it"); Flit with a kitten tail batting her cheek; Farly perched beside a window, wings tucked; Vem in silk, children's sketches pinned behind her like a battle mural; Geert in a tool shed full of goblin contraptions that probably should've been illegal.

"Alright," Anthony said, raising a hand, "ground rules: I've got ten minutes, one coffee, and a colonel waiting to chew my ass about logistics."

"Then start talking, Papa," Flit purred. "How's the air?"

"Clean enough to bottle," he said. "Good for lungs. Bad for slackers—no excuse not to run."

Dar barked a laugh. "You making our kids do the full run?"

"Full run, full ruck. No wobbly reps. They're officers now—no one will tell them 'no' but me." He leaned closer. "And I did not promote them. That was D.C. nonsense. They'll earn it out here."

Yoa's voice was soft. "You've put them in uniforms with targets on their backs."

"I put everyone in uniforms," Anthony said. "Princesses, maids, butlers, knights, the whole damn circus. Nobody gets singled out by some asshole with a scope because they're wearing lace or bronze. Out here, we're one unit."

Reata crossed her arms, tusk glinting. "Anya understands?"

"Princess Anya showed up in Dragon Kingdom ceremonial and Russian marine braid," he said. "We compromised. Plate carrier under a ceremonial half-cape. She saluted; I saluted back. She's squared away."

Vem adjusted her spectacles. "And your... maids?"

"Amazona's in a PT shirt and crying because sleeves hide her biceps," Anthony said dryly. "Maria and Amaiya passed Maid/Butler Corps training—good on them—but they've got USO-adjacent billets here: admin, med bay, and a quick-reaction sanitation detail. They still call me 'sir' loud enough to embarrass half the battalion."

Geert leaned forward, eyes shining. "You eating? Pooping? Hydrating? I made you a gut tonic that—"

"Geert, I am pooping fine," he said, deadpan. "Next question."

Miliy's ears flicked. "Do they swear as much as you?"

"Worse," he said. "You'd be proud. Love you all. I gotta hop—"

"Anthony," Volet said gently, "be kind to yourself."

He nodded, throat tight for a beat. "Always." He killed the call, rolled his shoulders, and stepped back into the weather.

Outside, the camp breathed: generators thumped, mess line rattled, a dragonborn lance corporal in USMC flight deck cranials trotted across with a case of hydraulic fluid like it weighed nothing.

"ATTEN-TION ON DECK!" someone roared.

"Relax," Anthony said. "If you yell that every time I sneeze, I'll make you run until your shadow pukes."

A chorus of "Aye, sir" and stifled grins.

David Fernandes, sleeves bloused razor-sharp, appeared with a clipboard and a coffee that wasn't terrible. "Morning, boss. We're green on comms, amber on spares, red on dumbasses."

"How red?"

David jerked a thumb. "Two knights tried to oil a 7-ton's brake pads with bear fat 'cause they thought it was 'blessed.' Bear fat works great... if you want to fucking die. We're re-bleeding the lines and making them do the safety brief to every company."

"Perfect," Anthony said. "Public shaming builds character. What about PT?"

"0730: company PT. 0830: weapons condition checks and optics zero—the old-fashioned way. No magic crutches. Noon: heat index spikes, so we go classroom. I'll teach 'Why your rifle hates you and how to make it love you.'"

Aleksandr Kravchuk jogged up, tanker boots dusty, tank commander's headset around his neck. "Sir. My T-84 platoon's staged in the tree line. We've got an intermittent tick in Bravo-2's gun drive."

"David?"

"I've got a warrant from the Polish det dropping by your line with a motor geek from the Canadians. We'll make the tick go away."

"Thanks, Chief," Aleksandr said, then lowered his voice. "Also... thanks for keeping me on a leash for Dad. He'll pretend he didn't ask."

Anthony smirked. "I'll pretend I didn't hear."

A shadow crossed the berm—a winged silhouette. One of Jacob's kids, a dragon demi-human captain in a bespoke Marine flight harness, flared and landed with a whump.

"Sir," she said, visor up, pupils slit against the light. "Captain Ryoko Rawlins, Dragons-1. Your frag order said reconnaissance by air within two klicks. The updrafts here are weird—thermal columns like chimneys, unpredictable. Recommend you keep winged units in pairs with belay lines for ridge work."

"Good catch, Captain," Anthony said. "Write it up. You and Zulu Flight are now the 'Skyhooks.' Congratulations on your terrible call sign. Move."

She grinned. "Aye, sir."

Princess Anya appeared next, polished half-cape tucked, helmet under her arm. The mix of Russian marine cadence and Dragon Kingdom grace was weirdly natural on her.

"General," she said with a crisp nod. "Perimeter Segment Delta is manned. Your order about uniforms caused... grumbling. My honor guard would like to know if they can wear ceremonial tassels."

"They can paint the tassels on their camo after we secure the L-shape ambush lanes," Anthony said. "Stow the gold, keep the plates, wear your rank. Anyone who has a problem can do burpees until my watch rusts."

She blinked—and smiled. "Burpees it is."

He turned, voice up. "ALRIGHT! LISTEN UP!"

Conversations died. Heads pivoted. A hundred nationalities and a dozen species went still.

"This is not a garrison," Anthony said. "This is a forward-edge schoolhouse with teeth. You will PT until your legs sing, you will shoot until your groups kiss, you will clean your gear until it loves you back. Knights, your swords are wonderful—don't bring them to a gun fight unless you mean to break someone's soul. Maids and butlers, you're on med, supply, and sanitation plus you're our quiet professionals—if something needs doing between the lines, you'll do it. Winged Marines, you're eyes and hooks. Tankers, if I can see grease on your hands and not your tracks, I'll slap you with a torque wrench. Questions?"

A goblin private raised a hand. "Sir! Can we cuss in formation?"

Anthony didn't blink. "If you cuss with volume, verve, and correct terminology. Now move out. Company PT in five. If you're late, David will adopt you."

"NO ONE WANTS THAT," David boomed. "MOVE!"

Boots thundered. Wings beat. The camp exhaled into motion.

0730 PT, Airstrip Perimeter

"DOWN—UP—DOWN—UP—HOLD!"

Amazona, in a green PT shirt two sizes too small, was demolishing pushups so fast her Amazon braid became a metronome.

"Amazon, that's not a push-up," the platoon sergeant barked. "That's a seismic event. Slow. Chest to deck. The earth did nothing to you."

"Sorry, Sergeant!" she puffed, and slowed... slightly.

Twenty meters away, Henry and Aiden were side by side; Amaiya and Maria were on the med cart handing out salt tabs, trying to "not look" while absolutely looking. Maria offered water to Aiden with both hands like an offering to a shrine.

"Hydrate, sir," she said, way too formal for a field.

"Thank you, Maria," Aiden said, deadpan, then wheezed, "Jesus, who programmed this run?"

"Your father," Amaiya said, eyes flicking to Henry—and staying. "Of course."

"Of course," Henry echoed, and picked up the pace.

At the far end, Princess Anya and Captain Ryoko were anchor-pairing a lamellar-vested private through the last hundred meters. "Breathe with your feet," Anya coached. "Land soft. There's no glory in shin splints."

"God I hate how wise you are," the private croaked.

"Shut up and run," Ryoko said cheerfully.

0900 Weapons/Kit

"SAFETY. CLEAR. FUNCTION. LUBE." David sang, walking the line like a grim choir director. "If the only thing you lubed this week is your ego, your rifle's gonna jam and I'm going to put it in my memoir."

A knight captain with a USMC name tape crooked on his plate carrier raised a hand. "Chief Warrant—this iron sight... no glow?"

"No batteries," David said. "Welcome to the world before your great-great-granddad. Set front post, rear aperture, focus on front sight, squeeze—squeeze—don't yank it like it owes you money."

Two benches over, an elf armorer and a Canadian warrant hunched over Bravo-2's gun drive with Aleksandr, arguing in three languages about end-play and brush chatter.

"Look," Aleksandr said, tapping a waveform on a tablet, "you hear the flutter at 40 cycles? That's a brush seating problem."

"Si, seating," the Canadian said. "Or it's the gear lash. Either way, we shim, we test. And we don't pray. We measure."

"Copy," Aleksandr said, grinning. "We measure."

1200 Classroom Tent

Whiteboard: UNKNOWN CONTINENT 101

Anthony drew three bullets.

You don't know the wildlife.
You don't know the soil.
You think you know the enemy because you've met men before. Don't.

He pointed with a marker. "Rule one: No solo hero shit. Buddy teams everywhere. Rule two: If it sparkles, don't touch it. Rule three: Drones first, boots second. And if your gut says 'Nope,' it's not cowardice—it's your ancestors trying to keep your dumb ass alive."

Hand up—Princess Anya. "General, what about cultural contacts?"

"Same rules," Anthony said. "Start far, go slow, speak plain. You only get to make a first impression once. Anyone acts like a conqueror, I'll make you dig latrines until you can smell colors."

Light laughter. Pens scratched.

A runner ducked in, breathless. "Sir—Skyhooks reports a stone causeway five klicks north. Looks ancient. Looks... maintained."

The tent went quiet. Eyes slid to Anthony.

He capped the marker. "Alright. We play this by the book. Captain Ryoko, Princess Anya, take a mixed recon: two winged, one tank scout, one infantry squad, one maid/butler pair for med/log... and a linguist. No cowboying. Radios up, drones up, weapons at the low ready. If someone waves, you wave back. If someone points a spear, you smile and back away. Got it?"

A chorus: "Aye, sir."

He looked around the room—at his kids, at borrowed sons and daughters, at dragons and goblins and humans who had chosen to stand shoulder to shoulder under a dozen flags and one standard.

"Final note," he said. "Out here, we're not just the pointy end. We're the first page someone's going to read about us. So be professional. Be kind. Be dangerous only when you must."

He slung his helmet, voice dropping. "Mount up."

Outside, engine starters whined, rotors beat the air, wings stretched, tracks clanked. A maid snapped a med kit shut. A butler racked a shotgun with elegant contempt. Someone in the back muttered, "Let's go make friends and not incidents."

Anthony stepped into the sun as the first patrol rolled. Clean air filled his lungs. The radio hissed to life in his ear.

"Skyhooks to Watchtower. Off the deck."

"Watchtower copies. Godspeed."

He glanced at David. "How much trouble do you think they can find in two hours?"

David didn't look up from his clipboard. "With this crew? Enough to keep you interesting, sir."

Anthony grinned. "Good." He checked his watch, then the horizon, then the camp. "Let's go earn this patch of earth."

The new world waited. The expedition moved—cussing, sweating, squared away—and together.

Farther ahead of the main force.

"Damn... we are at what again? Two miles away from the main expedition?" Said Ven'di of the forward scout recon comprise of company of IFVs and infantry mechanize with MRAPs to do recon and have been split up for more ground and would return soon enough.

Ven'di is a Mexican Army Major and a first generation goblin man born in Mexico City, he is 5'1" ft tall and was riding on top of a M4 Bradley.

Ven'di shook his head as he has orders and has to finish it before returning back. Good thing the General made several months worth of supplies for the 40k+ expedition as he is good at appointing certain people for logistics that which his troops appreciate his efforts as they rarely go on an empty stomach, still have high morale, and doesn't so easily surrender.

And all of them are highly motivated and cooperate with each other as many drilled all troops regardless of their nationality or statues to be cooperative and have earn each others respect that which made a more effective force that even other generals and world leaders saw it's merits and have to change military policy and enforce it to have more cooperation of all troops.

He then orders to stop his vehicles and infantry, "Thirty minute break people, inspect our vics if you found anything that would be troublesome." Said Tom.

He heard a collective of 'Yes, sir!' as he sat on top of the turret of his IFV, at least they are not in a heavily forested area where a IFV or MBT would struggle to push through without the right modification to use. As soon as they were deployed here, Anthony immediately ordered for bulldozers to be installed to the MBTs.

The troops sigh in relief and everyone hop off from the MRAPs and transport vehicles. Some are only sitting to chat with one around and some are reporting back to the main force just in case.

After the 30min mark hit, Ven'di was about to order his troops to move when he suddenly heard a girl cry. "Lock it up!" He ordered his men as all of them stop their activities and looking at the direction where he is looking at.

"Some girl is crying for help." Said one of the American Army Rangers.

"Ladies and Gents go to your vehicles. 1st LT. Henderson I want your platoon to scout that area of that direction and radio us for whatever you find." Said Ven'di ordering the American Army Ranger.

"Yes, sir." Said 75th Ranger Andy J. Henderson, He is a caucasian man of average height and athletic body, "Sgt Foley, you and the rest of Hunter 2-1 come with me." He called his men as they follow him while others would be waiting.

Henderson walk towards the direction of where the scream originated from and it's getting louder as they came closer to it's source.

He nod to his men as they cocked their respective weapons as well as the radioman who is prepared to relay a message as soon as they know what the problem is.

Henderson takes a deep breath as they advance forward and they push through the bushes.

When they arrive, they all look in horror.

In front of them is what could be described as an orgy feast. They look to the girls who appear no more than 12-15 years old and appeared to be raped by degenerate men who took the pleasure into the girl's young body and not to mention they are not stopping as the girls are begging them to stop.

The US 75th Rangers were quite horrified at the sight that the Machine Gunner's newly lit cigarette dropped at what they were witnessing.

"What the fuck?" Muttered of Henderson as he look at the war crime of what he is seeing.

But what shock them the most are the creatures who are raping the girls besides the men, these are creatures that even their counterparts are disgusted by.

Henderson could list at least Goblins, an Orc, and a few ogres in the mix.

Some of the men saw them, "SHIT!! THERE'S INTRUDERS OVER THERE!" Shouted one of the men clad in black. Hearing his voice they all turn towards the Rangers as they all stood, put their clothes on, and grab their weapons. Thankfully, they were melee weapons.

Henderson cursed, "Motherfuckers, boys let's shower them with lead, leave some few alive and the rest treat them as how you treat FUCKING RAPIST PEDOFILES!!" He ordered them in a cold tone.

He then aimed his M5A1 before firing as his platoon soon followed killing the men and the creatures in the dozen at the first voley of their rounds.

He then takes the phone from the radioman and radios in Ven'di, "Major! This is Henderson, we got trouble here!" He called.

<"What's the trouble? We heard gunshots from here!">

"We're fighting fucking medieval men with a fucking Goblins, orcs, and Ogres! We need some reinforcements here now!!" Said Henderson.

<"You know little that narrows—"> Before Ven'di could finish Henderson cut him off.

"I'm Goddamn serious major! And these fucking bastards are raping minor girls! Send the reinforcements!"

Back with the recon company, Ven'di looked at the radio in a mix of shock and disgust. "Dammit..." He growled, "Alright people! It appears our Ranger boys need some help, move on full speed!" He said as the IFV and other vehicles roll out towards their comrades. Ven'di then sat down on the Bradley and looked at one of the Japanese soldiers who has a radio, "Private, get me a line to the main force." He said as the Radio Operator begun to call them.

With the main force slowly moving and Anthony in his Mobile Command Vehicle, he grabs the phone from the Technician and answered, "This is Towson, I hope this is not some kind of sick joke." He said even though he is open minded, he isn't dumb.

<This is serious General. My LT here found some bastards raping some poor underage girls not more 15 years old and yes there is a—wait oh shit... he's not joking there is indeed creatures like some of us here and by—JESUS FUCKIN' CHRIST!! THERE'S HUNDREDS OF GIRLS LITTERED ON THE GROUND!!! Waste them all!!> Said Ven'di who stop mid sentence and only to have a tone of horror to what he witness is many girls littered on the ground with blood and other bodily fluids on the ground and that which made his blood boil.

Anthony's eyes darken at the mention of rape and the clear horror on the tone of his men, "Send them reinforcement and leave few alive. I want some information about of whatever fucked up contient we're in. And after that, kill them. I won't waste our supplies on pedo rapist scumbags." He said darkly.

Back with the Rangers, the treeline erupted the second Henderson's men broke the brush.

"CONTACT FRONT!" he barked, shouldering his M5A1. "Guns up—WATCH YOUR FUCKING LANE! Survivors in the killbox—check your shots!"

First volley shredded the black-clad bastards who'd grabbed weapons; two ogres tried to bull-rush and ate a curtain of 5.56 and 7.62. Henderson cut right with Hunter 2-1, popped smoke to screen the closest cluster of kids, then hurled a flashbang into a knot of hostiles still scrambling for blades.

"FLASH OUT!"

White boom. Screams. "PUSH! ZIP TIES OUT—ALIVE ALIVE ALIVE!" he snapped, stabbing a finger at three who'd dropped to their knees. "Those three. Everyone else that moves like a threat? Drop 'em."

"Radioman—handset," Henderson said, already keying his PTT. "Ven'di, Henderson. SALTA: ~40 pax ENY, mixed human/nonhuman, melee-heavy. Location grid 11S PT 297 441. Time now. Equipment: blades, clubs, a few shields—no firearms seen yet. We've got multiple survivors, mostly teens. We need CASEVAC and FET/med now."

Back on the road, Ven'di slammed his palm twice on the Bradley's roof. "DRIVER—GO! GUNNER—H.E. AIRBURST ON TREELINE, RIGHT OF SMOKE, DANGER CLOSE—TWO ROUNDS THEN SHIFT!"

WHUMP-WHUMP!! Airbursts walked the far edge, shredding a second wave sprinting in from the shadows.

Ven'di grabbed the long whip antenna, eyes hard. "Main, this is Ven'di. Confirmed mass atrocity. Henderson's engaged, survivors on scene. Requesting immediate QRF, MPs, FET, linguists, med, forensic team. Recommend formalize as Task Force Mercy. Over."

"Copy all, Ven'di," came Anthony's voice, flat and dark. "Mercy is a go. Echo QRF wheels up. MPs, S2, Civil Affairs, FET-One, and med stack rolling. Drones overhead in 5. Hold the cordon, keep a few breathing for S2. Everyone else who fights—ends here. Watch your fire around the kids. Towson out."

"YOU HEARD THE BOSS," Ven'di roared to the net. "Cordon left and right. Dismounts, buttonhook behind smoke, no blue-on-blue. I want detainees marked and separated. Anyone points a weapon at you—vent 'em."

Hunter 2-1 pushed. Rangers flowed around the crying clusters, rifles out, bodies between survivors and the last diehards. A black-clad thug lunged with a spear—Henderson tagged him twice center-mass, a third to drop him for good.

"MED! MED to me!" Henderson yelled, ripping his aid kit open. "Tape and blankets—nobody videotapes shit except Evidence Team. Shields up!"

Female medics and a mixed-gender stabilization team sprinted in—two Filipino Army combat medics, a URK lamia corpsman, and a goblin nurse with a trauma roll bigger than she was.

They dropped opaque tarps, threw up screens, and started triage: "Green to the trucks, yellow here, red with me. Heat packs, fluids, no questions right now—safe, safe, you're safe."

A maid/butler pair from the Corps—badges swapped for red-cross armbands—slid in behind them like ghosts, stacking blankets and setting up a clean lane to the CASEVAC point.

Overwatch popped: "Tree line, three movers, north-northwest—trying to flank!" A Bradley coax hammered, chewing bark and ambition at once. The movement died.

"MPs on site!" a squad leader shouted, storming in with flex cuffs and body cams. "Detainees—hands where I can see 'em! Down! Cross ankles! Hands over head!"

One captive spat and reached; an MP baton cracked his wrist and he hit the dirt gagging.

A quad-rotor buzzed high; the drone feed went straight to the Mobile Command Vehicle. Anthony watched without blinking: tarps up, medics working, Henderson's men forming a human wall as the QRF built a cordon in depth.

David stepped up beside him, jaw set. "Mercy elements on scene. FET-One establishing survivor lanes. Civil Affairs is setting a soft rally by the IFVs with heaters and water. S2 is inbound with a linguist and a hard drive of intake scripts."

Anthony nodded, never taking his eyes off the feed. "Good. New FRAGO: No cell phones, no gawkers. Every photo is evidence chain or it doesn't exist. Detainees: blindfolds, earplugs, search, seated, knees up, separated. No hero speeches, no extra kicks. We'll get what we need clean."

David keyed his mic. "All Mercy elements, be advised, your ROE is rescue-first. Evidence Team owns the scene. MPs own bodies. If your body cam is off, you are wrong. Fernandes out."

On the ground, Ven'di hopped off the Bradley, boots thumping. He took one look at the rows of kids under blankets, then the zip-tied shapes lined up face-down.

One of his sergeants spat, voice shaking. "Sir... with respect... these fuckers—"

Ven'di cut him off, voice like ice. "We do this right. You want payback? You put it into security, not war crimes. We'll zero these animals the right way."

He turned to Henderson. "Status."

"Site secure," Henderson said, voice sandpaper. "We've got eight detainees breathing. One's got a symbol on his collar—looks like an eclipse or some cult shit. S2's gonna love it. Survivors are getting packaged. CASEVAC birds two mikes out."

"Copy," Ven'di said. He looked at the nearest tarp, swallowed, and forced his stare back to the perimeter. "Hold until relief. Then we burn this place out of our map."

The first V-22 roared overhead, kicking dust and leaves. Crew chiefs waved medics in; litter teams hustled, heads down. A Civil Affairs lieutenant with a face made for kindness shepherded the steady ones to MRAPs stripped to benches and blankets. A Ranger private handed out heat packs with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

A tiny voice from under a blanket: "Are you the soldiers?"

Henderson crouched, helmet off so she could see his eyes. "Yeah," he said softly. "We're the good ones."

She stared at his patch, then his boots, then nodded once—minuscule but real.

He stood, rage banked behind the visor as he pulled it back on. "Hunter 2-1, check ammo, check each other. We're not done until Mercy signs this scene over."

Back at HQ, Anthony finally exhaled. "David—spin up S2 and Legal. I want a war-crimes packet stood up by COB. We're going to roll these stains up by the roots."

David nodded. "Already drafting. Also... media's gonna smell this."

"They'll get the line we give them," Anthony said. "Survivors first. No names, no faces. We protect them. We hunt the rest."

He keyed the net one more time, voice steady over the storm.

"All callsigns: You did it right today. Hold your fire, hold your temper, hold the line. Mercy will take it from here. We're not here for revenge. We're here for justice. Towson out."

In the tree line, the last echo of gunfire faded. Engines idled. The wind rose and carried the smoke away.

They'd come to explore a continent.

Instead, on day one, they'd found the worst part of the old world waiting in the new.

So they did what professionals do: locked it down, lifted the broken, and got ready to go hunting.