Black Ironclad Assault
"..."
The black ironclad crumpled inward at the chest and flew backward, while Jin-cheol stood tall in its place, staring him down. The Lavitos there could only blink in stunned silence, their gazes shifting back and forth between the two.
Just as Jin-cheol opened his mouth to say something to him—
A grinding screech echoed as the fallen black ironclad stirred again. Steam hissed from the gaps in its armor, and its sprawled limbs shuddered as it forced itself upright. It was like a corpse rising from a hellish pit.
The black ironclad's gaze locked onto Jin-cheol. Black plates encased its entire body, including the face. But there was a single round eye-hole. The iris of that lone eye whirred and tightened on him with a click-clack.
"What the fuck is this shit now?"
The next instant, its barrel swung toward Jin-cheol, who raised his right arm to activate a translucent shield. A low drrrrr rumble sounded, followed by a hail of bullets slamming into his front—thud-thud-thud—stopping dead. Fresh rounds collided with the halted ones, sparking brilliant bursts of fire. It was as if a flower of pure flame and embers bloomed right on Jin-cheol's arm.
Shield forward, Jin-cheol charged straight at it. The barrier wouldn't last long. He couldn't outlast its ammo dump.
In a flash, he closed the distance. A white blade erupted from the back of his right hand. Lightning-quick, it sheared through the middle of the machine gun blasting away. A chambered round detonated, flames erupting from the ironclad's grip. Amid the scattering sparks, Jin-cheol's extended right arm thrust for the eye.
Surprisingly, the ironclad twisted aside just enough to dodge. But its follow-up was off— it flailed, unable to keep up with its own motion in that split second. Jin-cheol stepped in deeper, smashing his left elbow into its temple.
It couldn't evade this time. A sharp clang, and the thing staggered sideways.
Yet, like when it first rose, a whirring hum emanated from joints across its armor. Steam hissed, and it righted itself with mechanical precision.
"What the fuck. Steam-punk robot or some shit?"
[KRAAAAAH!]
Not a real robot, apparently—a guttural roar echoed from inside the helmet. It lunged at Jin-cheol with clawing hands, as if to seize and rip him apart.
Jin-cheol simply backpedaled a couple steps, maintaining distance. That earlier dodge was impressive, but their reaction speeds and agility weren't even comparable now.
The ironclad's hands clutched at empty air repeatedly. Fast, but not fast enough to tag him. Retracting his white sword, Jin-cheol weaved aside from three or four more grabs, then—from a back-bent stance—snapped a left jab.
Another clang, and it reeled. Jin-cheol flexed his left fist, eyeing the dented helmet. The plate was crumpled in the exact shape of his hand, the round eye shattered and shedding glass shards.
The impact must've been severe; it couldn't steady itself. Steam leaked from its joints with faint hisses as the armor tried to force posture, but the body wobbled without balance. Then—clunk—it locked up like something jammed, arms dropping limp.
Dark red fluid oozed from the mangled faceplate. Thick stuff, blood mixed with oil.
"..."
"Playing dead, huh? I can hear you breathing, asshole."
As he said, it had gone rigid like a corpse, but Jin-cheol heard the ragged breaths. He reached for its face. His powerful grip tore away the half-crumpled helmet front.
Inside: a blood-soaked Lavito face. Blood streamed from nose and mouth, eyes rolled back blankly at nothing.
Jin-cheol stepped closer, hand extended. "What? Actually croaked?"
Suddenly, a hand clamped his arm. The vacant eyes refocused; a grin split the bloody face.
"Got you...!"
A mechanical whine rose from the black ironclad. Crushing pressure gripped Jin-cheol's left wrist—like it meant to pulverize and tear it off. The Lavito flashed a triumphant smirk through the gore.
"...?"
But his expression froze. Jin-cheol's face was too damn calm for a mangled wrist.
Then—clamp—Jin-cheol's other hand seized the ironclad's forearm. The Lavito gripped his left wrist; now Jin-cheol's right gripped that arm in turn.
The Lavito's face twisted.
"Grraaah..."
A crunching crack, and the armored forearm crumpled like putty in a vice. Something pinged and burst inside; faint steam puffed out.
It desperately swung its free hand to block, but Jin-cheol didn't budge—like an iron tower. Flesh tore with a wet squelch, bone ground to powder.
The Lavito's face went slack, eyes truly rolling as half its soul fled.
Jin-cheol regarded it flatly. "If you're gonna show off strength, this is the baseline."
His foot lashed out, slamming the chest again. Clang—the black ironclad hurtled back meters, crashing into leaf litter amid sprays of blood, screws, and oil.
Steam hissed long from the wreckage in the duff, then nothing.
But Jin-cheol still held its arm—from the shoulder socket, ripped clean off. He examined it, then tossed it aside like trash and turned.
Dumbfounded Lavitos and kids stared back.
*
"Two days ago, three medium airships appeared from the sky. Uratta's ships. And out came swarms of those black ironclads. They opened fire without warning. The camp fought back, but our firepower was no match..."
The Lavito who'd shielded the kids was named Domichi. Back with the group, he slumped like his strength had fled. When asked what happened, that's how he started.
Jin-cheol frowned. "So those black bastards rolled in and massacred the camp?"
"No, not quite. The dead were those who resisted first—and the one you just killed... yeah, they all had issues. Sick, old like me, or..."
Domichi's eyes flicked sideways. There, the three kids he'd brought gawked up at Dol Jumeok, Maro, and the baby in his arms, wide-eyed with wonder. Innate optimism, or just too young to grasp their plight?
Jin-cheol scratched his head, glancing at them. Cull the old, kids, sick into the woods? Kill 'em off and sort the young and healthy? Bad news all around—for dead or survivors.
Lamien spoke up, voice trembling. "Was there... someone named Epani in the camp?"
"Epani?" Domichi pondered. "Oh, the woman with black fur tufts by her ears? Pretty face made her kinda famous around camp."
"Yes! Black ear tufts! That's Epani!"
Lamien lit up; he stayed grim. "...Last I saw, her and the young ones were stripped naked, lined up in the square. Loaded onto the airships like cargo."
"..."
Lamien's face fell. She muttered, dazed. "Why? Why take people like that...?"
Jin-cheol's eyes darkened. Reasons aplenty. Healthy labor stock? Mad human experiments? Or just purging Jaso Lavitos. Crazed acts had crazed motives.
Lamien whipped around from the ground, strode to the vehicle, yanked a rifle from the back seat.
Jin-cheol guessed her mind. "Hold up. Charging in blind's fine, but we need more intel first."
"..."
She glared, face taut. Epani worry eating her alive. Hard to argue.
Quickly, to Domichi: "There was a white Esai in camp."
"Snow? You here for her?"
"Yeah. What happened to her?"
Domichi groaned thoughtfully. "...The black ironclads asked the same. Where's the white Esai...?"
"What? She wasn't there?"
"She'd gone deep-forest hunting before the raid. Often bagged big game and small over a day or two. Kept camp from starving..."
Why's the chick investigating Lavito mass kidnappings out hunting here? Jin-cheol connected dots: Uratta snatching Jaso Lavitos en masse? Culling the useless? Then why hunt Snow? Smash the Pig Doctor's revolutionaries—take out symbols and leaders. Unlike Solka-in intel, Uratta aimed to swallow Jaso lands whole.
Mind made up, Jin-cheol armed up like Lamien: grenades from Pig Doc's crew, big-bore rifle (still small to him), Sandesiya revolver.
Dol Jumeok spoke watching. "Call reinforcements from the city?"
"You go fetch 'em. I'll scout the situation firsthand."
Dol blinked. "Me?"
"Who else?"
He eyed Lamien. But she was geared up, eyes murderous. Rabbit scowl wasn't scarier than his deadpan, but her resolve shone.
"...I'm her bodyguard."
"Heh. Quit bitching—load these folks and go. Need witnesses to sway the revolutionaries."
Dol scratched his bald dome, glanced at Lamien. "Boss. Really me?"
"...I'll pay today's wage. Don't worry."
That did it. Dol moved—like he'd waited for it.
Dol, Maro, baby in truck; elder Domichi, three Lavito kids aboard. Odd crew: cartoon bunnies and monster-movie gorilla. Jin-cheol stifled a chuckle at them crammed together.
Dol fired up before leaving. "Bringing cleanup bunnies. Wrap it quick."
"Wrap what."
"Know you'll smoke 'em all. Don't get hurt."
"..."
Jin-cheol eyed him surprised; Dol turned the wheel nonchalantly. Truck rattled down the mountain path.
To Lamien beside him: "Let's go."
"...Yeah."
Their steps led into the forest. Dusk lingered in the sky, but undergrowth was pitch-black. Dense conifers blocked all light.
Jin-cheol's honed senses pierced the dark like day; Lamien charged ahead blind, strides bold. Not navigating—half-mad with worry, blind to peril.
Lover's panic, huh?
Luck held; before she hurt herself, they spotted a small saddle where ridges met—lone glow in the darkening woods.
They belly-flopped into leaves, peering. Camp buildings of rough timber, docked airship first in view. Size like the Siafo scout Jin-cheol'd crashed long ago—not Donchaba's flagship or Comintern.
Crates stacked nearby; black ironclads clanked about. Heavy patrols everywhere. Maybe alert from the one he'd scrapped.
"That's a lot..."
Jin-cheol muttered, frowning. Dozens visible—thirty-plus easy. Hidden ones? Fifty at least. Too many for a solo blade rush. All packing heavy MGs.
Even super soldiers from his era died perforated. Plus, camp folk location unknown. Grenade in a holding pen? Disaster.
Then—his sharp ears caught a faint rustle. Tiny, trivial.
But he snapped eyes that way. Narrowed.
"...Who the hell're you?"
Offside, 20-30 meters from their prone spot—another figure bellied down. Camo so good, leaf-and-grass crawl; soundless till now.
Jin-cheol tilted his head; it froze. Then—leaves rose fluidly.
His eyes widened. Ghillie-suit camo, owl-like mask peeking. It shed the suit like molting, shadow-slid toward camp.
Seamless leap. A patrolling ironclad turned—missed it.
Owl-mask vaulted, spun midair, landed silent on a roof. No sound.
Then—a long spear materialized in its grip. Thrust—shunk—into a scanning ironclad's skull. Tip punched through to the face.
Run, land, strike—flawless, awe-inspiring.
Jin-cheol whistled low. "Whoa... damn?"
Problem: Owl-mask whipped toward the sound, as if hearing him.